Chapter 9
A Change in Plan
Disclaimer: Robert Rodriguez owns El and Sands. I am not Robert Rodriguez. Therefore I do not own El and Sands.
Rating: R for language and mild violence
Summary: El takes matters into his own hands.
Author's Note: Time to get messy, folks. This chapter and the next three contain lots of angst and not-nice things. Consider this your fair warning.
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El stopped the car when they were still out of sight of the ranch. He had an idea that he would need the vehicle to make his escape, and he didn't want the soldiers to see it. He got out of the car and swung the door closed, but did not latch it. Again, he was thinking in terms of making a swift getaway.
They walked toward the ranch, Sands on his right, matching him step for step. The former CIA agent looked as tense as El felt.
It was like the Escalante cartel all over again, he thought. Stalking through the halls of the hacienda, preparing to deal out death. "I still say this is a bad idea," he said.
"If you say that again I'm going to pop you in the nose," Sands said irritably. "You had plenty of chances to come up with a better plan. It's too late now. Monty says you're stuck with what's behind door number two."
Like many of the American cliches Sands used, El had only the vaguest idea what this meant. He decided to ignore it.
They were coming up on the ranch. The road curved gently here, and just beyond the curve was the gate with the two soldiers. Without even being aware that he was doing it, El slowed his pace.
He couldn't go through with it. This plan was suicidal. He was never going to be able to escape from a group of soldiers and CIA agents. He had been insane himself to agree to this.
He needed an idea. Fast.
And then, just like that, the idea he was looking for was there. Beautifully formed in his mind, all ready to go. A way to get Sands inside without exposing himself to any danger. A selfish plan, to be sure, but a far better one than Sands' scheme.
He reached out and grabbed Sands' left arm. "Stop."
And Sands, because he trusted El now, stopped walking. "What?"
I'm sorry, El thought.
He punched Sands right in the face.
Sands never had a chance to defend himself. His head snapped back and he reeled backward. Before he could tear his arm free, and strike back, El hit him again.
Sands went sprawling in the dust. He raised his fists, but when he did not hear El approach, he stayed where he was. "What the fuck was that for?" he demanded. He sounded pissed, but mostly he just sounded bewildered.
"It's part of my plan," El said.
"Your plan? Oh my Christ." Sands got to his feet. El tensed, half-expecting the man to attack him, but Sands stayed still. "Fine," he snapped, spreading his hands in a curt gesture. "Tell me your plan, O Clever One."
"The CIA knows who you are," El said. "They don't know who I am."
"They know who you are," Sands said. He touched his fingers to his bleeding lip. "Believe me, they know who you are."
"But they do not know what I look like," El said.
Sands opened his mouth to retort, then shut it. He frowned. "Are you sure?" He spat blood into the dirt.
"How could they?" El said. "All they have is a description of me -- a man with dark hair and dark eyes, who plays guitar. Every man in Mexico fits that description."
"Your jacket," Sands said. "I don't think every man in Mexico wears a jacket with a scorpion on the back."
"I'll leave it in the car," El said. Part of him was amazed that Sands remembered something as insignificant as the design on his jacket. They had, after all, only met face to face twice before the coup. But Sands was CIA, trained to gather as much information as possible in a short time. When he remembered that, he supposed he shouldn't be surprised.
He wondered what else Sands knew about him.
"Your hand," Sands said.
Involuntarily El curled his left hand into a fist. It was true, the scar on his hand would always give him away, but the bracer he wore over his palm hid the mark. No one would see it.
"We go there," he said. "I turn you in. For the reward. I come back later for the money, and that's when I break you out." He paused long enough for Sands to absorb this, then added, "Savvy?"
Sands made a face. "Don't ever say that again," he said absently.
El waited while Sands considered the new plan. Every nerve in his body felt strung too tight. He didn't know what he would do if Sands refused to play along. He prayed he wouldn't have to find out.
At last the former CIA agent nodded. "All right, all right. You already bashed me in the face, so I guess we're going with your idea." He unbuckled his gunbelts and held them out. "Do not let anything happen to these."
El took them, nodding his consent. He knew Sands had taken the gunbelts off the first man he had killed after being blinded, and that they were a source of pride to his friend. "I'll keep them for you," he said.
"You better," Sands said. "So, we better get our stories straight. How did you catch me? And where?"
This made El pause. He had not thought of that. He raised one shoulder in a shrug. "Uhh."
Sands shook his head, and El got the impression of one of those non-existent eye rolls. "And you're supposed to be a big bad bounty hunter. Christ, El, how do you get out of bed in the morning without someone there to tell you how to do it?"
A bounty hunter. Madre de Dios. His plan, El began to realize, had as many holes in it as Sands' did. It was just as crazy. The only difference was, his plan was only putting one life in danger.
He stalked back toward the car. He opened the passenger side door and threw Sands' gunbelts inside, then took off his jacket and tossed that in as well. He leaned in and rummaged around in the glove department for a while before he found what he wanted. Then he went back the way he had come, glowering at the sight of the smirk on Sands' face. He was getting awfully sick and tired of all these insults slung his way at the expense of his intelligence.
"I thought you were bailing on me," Sands said.
"Not a chance," El grunted. He grabbed Sands' hands and swiftly bound the man's wrists with the spare guitar string.
The wire was stiff, and didn't want to bend. Sands jerked back with a hiss. "What the fuck are you doing?" His voice rose with every word, heading swiftly towards panic.
"Big bad bounty hunter, remember?" El asked. He twisted the ends of the string and made a knot, frustration and nervous tension making him jerk it a little tighter than he normally would have.
Sands flinched, but did not say anything. The seriousness of what they were doing finally seemed to be sinking in.
"Let's go," El said. He took hold of Sands' elbow and started walking.
"Wait." Sands resisted, pulling back. "I need--"
El kept going, half-dragging Sands along behind him. "We're doing this my way now," he said.
"I never agreed to this!" Sands cried. "Let go of me!" He dug his heels in, refusing to take another step.
El stopped walking. Beneath his hand, he could feel Sands trembling. He suddenly realized that Sands had to be terrified. Unable to see, his hands bound, he was completely helpless and under someone else's control. For a man who valued personal freedom above all else, it had to be one of the worst moments in his life.
"Keep your voice down. We're almost there," he said. He wanted to say more, but he couldn't let himself. He could not give in to his sympathy for Sands. Now was not the time to go soft.
Yet even a pause as short as this one had been long enough. Sands took a deep breath, his poise regained. There was only the faintest hint of a tremor in his voice when he said, "I must say, El, when you put your mind to something, you don't fuck around."
"That is why I am still alive," El said. He started walking again.
They followed the road as it curved around on its way to the ranch. When the gate and the soldiers came into view, El muttered this fact to Sands. When they snapped to attention, he passed this on. But when they shouted out for him to halt, he went silent. From here on out, Sands would not need him to describe anything.
"What's going on?" demanded one of the soldiers.
"I have the American spy you are looking for," El said, deliberately thickening his accent so it was almost impossible to understand him. "I have come for the reward."
The two soldiers exchanged a skeptical glance. "Take me to see your commander," El demanded. "I must speak to him."
The soldiers looked at each other again. "We'll take him from here," one of them said.
"No!" El pulled back on Sands' arm, making the agent stumble. "He is my catch. I want to speak to your commander, and receive my reward."
The first soldier pulled his radio and spoke into it. A female voice answered it. Sands twitched, but El remained impassive. He was kicking himself for speaking in English. He should have spoken Spanish and let them think he didn't understand what they were saying.
Oh well. It was too late now.
"Step over here," said the soldier with the radio. The other one raised his rifle and aimed it at El's head.
El did as he was told. He stood there, unmoving, while the soldier frisked him thoroughly, even passing a hand between his legs. He just gritted his teeth and told himself he would be sure to kill this man when he came back to get Sands.
"All right." The soldier with the radio flicked his head tersely toward the ranchhouse. The second man opened the gate. "You can go on in. Slowly. We'll be watching you."
El took hold of Sands' arm again and began walking up the driveway. Halfway up, the driveway forked. The left path led to the front of the house, and the right went on for a bit before ending at a detached garage about one hundred yards back. The doors of the garage were open, and El could see at least two cars parked inside. Behind this building were the former stables, where the soldiers were staying.
As they neared the house, four people stepped out of the front door. The first two were obviously the junior CIA agents Sands had spoken of. They wore jeans and button-down shirts, and carried pistols in holsters at their hips. One was tall and blond, and the other was short and dark.
The third was a soldier in fatigues like his comrades at the gate. He carried an automatic rifle.
The fourth was a woman. She had short blond hair, and she was pretty. She wore jean shorts over her stocky legs, and a white denim shirt that showcased her ample chest. She was unarmed.
Moving his mouth as little as possible, El reported all this to Sands. The agent nodded his understanding, but said nothing.
They walked forward a little further, then El judged he had gone far enough. He stopped abruptly, giving Sands' elbow a hard yank to bring the man up short. Sands stumbled again, and cursed under his breath.
"Who are you?" asked the woman. She spoke with a bland American accent. She was probably from California, El thought.
"My name is not important," he said. "I have brought you the spy you wanted."
Belinda Harrison smiled. It was a thin, chilling smile. "So I see. Hello, Sheldon."
Sands made an abortive movement forward, as though he would like nothing better than to kill her. "I told you never to call me that."
"Oh that's right," she said, laughter in her voice. "I had forgotten." Her amusement died. She gestured to the soldier. "Take him."
El jerked Sands backward. "I want my reward."
"And you'll have it," Harrison promised. "Now hand him over."
Sands muttered something that El didn't catch. To cover what he was doing, he pulled the agent closer to him, as though he was reluctant to release his prize. "First, show me the reward."
"Barillo," Sands whispered. "Get her to say Barillo's name."
El's mind went blank. How was he supposed to do that?
Belinda Harrison was fast losing her patience. The two men on either side of her were tense with anticipation. The soldier looked bored.
"Sir, if you wish to live, then you will do as I tell you," she said.
"What if I demand more money?" With his free hand El grabbed Sands' hair and shook the agent's head like a rag doll, ignoring Sands' furious muttered threats involving the loss of his manhood. "He is worth a lot more to the cartels than he is to you. I could find some of Armando--"
He hesitated slightly, hoping she would take the bait, ready to keep talking if she did not.
She did.
"Armando Barillo is dead," Harrison said. "So is Ramon Escalante. The cartel is destroyed. There is--"
"Barillo?" Sands suddenly came to life. He turned his head as though to find the person who had spoken the name. "Barillo?"
El let go of his hair, wondering what his friend had in mind.
"Barillo," Sands whispered. He took a step forward. El let him. He suddenly had an idea what was going to happen, and while he applauded Sands' brilliance, he did not want to be nearby when it went off.
Sands doubled over, pressing his bound hands to his face. "Barillo," he moaned loudly. "Oh God. Barillo!"
Belinda Harrison frowned. "What's the matter with him?"
El looked at her and shrugged. "Esta loco," he said, and twirled his finger by his ear.
Sands suddenly straightened up. "I can't see!" he screamed, and launched himself at El.
Not expecting this, El staggered back as the man's weight struck him. Sands seized his collar, twisting, turning him around. "At her," Sands hissed in his ear, then threw back his head and screamed again. "I can't see! Barillo! Oh God, I can't see!"
El let Sands propel him backward, toward Belinda Harrison. The two men with her took a large step back, their eyes wide with horror.
The soldier did not look bored now.
When only a few steps separated them from Belinda Harrison, El grabbed Sands and spun around. "Get off me!" he shouted. "You're crazy!" He pushed Sands away from him, and the agent stumbled backward, ever closer to his target.
"Get him!" Harrison ordered, gesturing to the soldier.
Upon hearing her speak, Sands suddenly went still. He cocked his head. "I know that voice," he said, sounding completely normal. He turned toward Harrison.
The soldier, who had begun to approach Sands, stopped, waiting to see what would happen next.
"I know you," Sands said. He smiled, and held out his bound hands. "It's you."
El began to back away.
Belinda Harrison smiled tentatively, the type of smile reserved for the elderly and senile. "It's me," she said.
"You did this to me!" Sands shouted. "You're Barillo's daughter!" He ran at her. "I'm going to fucking kill you!" He collided with her, and they both went down in the dust.
El began moving a little faster.
The two junior CIA agents were frozen to the spot, although the taller of the two had the sense to draw his gun. The soldier dashed forward. The two soldiers at the gate abandoned their posts and began running for the house. Others heard the shouting in the front yard and emerged from the garage and the stables; every single one of them was armed.
Sands and Belinda Harrison wrestled on the ground. He had his hands about her throat and was screaming as he choked her. El couldn't be sure, but he thought that part of it wasn't fake.
She would have done all right on her own, though, he saw. She was obviously well-trained. She had just begun to throw Sands off her when the soldier with the rifle arrived on the scene. He slammed the stock of the weapon down on Sands' head, and the agent slumped forward.
Harrison rolled out from under him, her hands at her throat.
"Jesus!" one of the junior agents said.
Sands was not out, not yet. He tried to get up, snarling something at Harrison that El couldn't hear.
The soldier brought the rifle down again. Sands collapsed.
Harrison grabbed the gun from the soldier. "Do that again, and it'll be your skull on the receiving end," she snapped. She looked up and saw El edging away. "You still want your reward?" she asked snidely. Her throat was already beginning to bruise, and her voice was hoarse.
"I will come back for it," El said, trying to sound like a man who had decided discretion was the better part of valor. "Tomorrow."
"Fine, fine." She waved her hand at him, dismissing him. She turned away, her attention on Sands once more.
The former agent was lying face down in the dust. She put the toe of her hiking boot under his shoulder and rolled him over. She hunkered down beside him.
El knew what she meant to do, and he clenched his jaw. In all the time he had spent with Sands, he had not once been tempted to do what she was about to do. It seemed like a violation, something that Sands would have never have allowed had he been conscious.
Belinda Harrison removed Sands' sunglasses. The two junior agents made revolted noises and turned aside – although one of them, the taller of the two, looked back again almost right away, fascinated by the sight before him.
The soldier made a disgusted face and looked away.
Harrison stared at Sands for a long moment. Her face revealed nothing of what she was thinking. She cocked her head to one side. "You want to hear something scary?" she said. "I used to think he was cute." She stood up and tossed the sunglasses at Sands; they landed on his chest.
She started for the house. Over her shoulder she said, "Bring him in."
That was El's cue to go. He began walking quickly toward the open gate.
They had done it. Sands was inside, and he was free. There had been no shooting, and no one – well, almost no one – had gotten hurt.
Things weren't looking too bad, El mused. He walked out through the gate and turned left, heading back up the road toward the car.
After all, it could have been much worse.
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