Chapter 16
Thunder in the Air
Disclaimer: Oh, how I wish El and Sands belonged to me. Alas, they belong to Robert Rodriguez.
Rating: A very strong R for language and violence
Summary: They should have killed that woman. Sands meets Belinda Harrison one last time.
I think a quote from the man himself, Johnny Depp, sums up this chapter perfectly. "I kind of saw Agent Sands as this guy who was a danger to the agency. Obviously some kind of menace, you know, a guy who's probably got at least one or two or three imbalances." Thanks to Merrie for the quote.
Author's Note: Several people have asked me if I know what made Sands into the man he is today. The answer is yes. I do know. However, I don't think that kind of revelation belongs in this story. And please don't ask me what it is, because Sands would kill me for revealing his darkest secrets, and I happen to like my little fanfic writer's life. However, if I can find a way to work it into the story, I promise I will.
Also, this chapter got *really* long in the writing. I thought about splitting it into two chapters, but in the end I couldn't find a good place to put a chapter break, so I just decided to post it all in one go. Enjoy!
****
Christ, his head hurt. Wincing with the pain, he opened his eyes.
She was standing over him, a little blurry, but all there. "Sorry, baby. I told you I wasn't interested in your schemes."
Ajedrez.
Pure horror blasted through him. No! It wasn't possible.
But they were all there. One big, shiny, happy family. Barillo in the corner, covered in bloody bandages. The goons with their dark suits and sunglasses. Ajedrez, she of the big tits and the traitor's smile.
Dr. Guevara and his shiny tools.
"No," he moaned. Not again. Dear God, not again. He couldn't go through all that again.
"Fortunately for you," Barillo said, "you have only seen things. We must make sure that does not happen again."
"No," he pleaded. "Just shoot me. Please."
Dr. Guevara came forward. The drill whirred into life.
"No!" he cried in terror. "No!" He tossed his head wildly, but they grabbed him and held him down, so he could not move.
Ajedrez was laughing. He stared at her, pleading with her with his eyes -- while he still had them -- to stop it from happening.
And as he watched, she changed. She shrunk a little, filled out more in the waist and legs. Her hair shortened and became blond.
Belinda Harrison laughed down at him. "Smile, Sheldon! You've just won an all-expenses paid trip to hell. Congratulations."
Beside her, Boston was grinning. He was holding up a pistol. The barrel was slimed with blood. "Let me have him next," he said.
Belinda kissed his cheek. "Whatever you say, sugarbutt," she said. She turned back to Sands. "And look, I got you a going-away present." Laughing gaily, she gestured to Dr. Guevara.
The doctor leaned in. The drill touched his eye. His world exploded in pain and darkness.
Sands screamed himself awake. He clawed at his face for a little, until the smooth feel of the sunglasses beneath his fingers reassured him enough for his heart to stop racing.
He slumped back in his chair. Fuck.
"Señor?" Chiclet. He had forgotten the kid was there. "Esta bien?" The kid sounded worried.
"Yeah, yeah," he muttered.
The porch boards creaked as Chiclet got up and walked over to him. A hand was laid on his arm. "I'm sorry," the kid said.
The horror of the dream was still fresh, so Sands did not shake the hand off, as he normally would have. "It's all right, kid," he said. "Not your fault."
Chiclet sniffled, and now Sands did pull away, in alarm. He hated it when the kid cried. Most of the time he was responsible, somehow, and he hated the feelings of guilt that accompanied the kid's tears.
If El had been there, he would have found a way to blame the kid's tears on the mariachi. But right now he was alone at the house with Chiclet. Around mid-morning, El had taken Lorenzo and Fideo into the village to help him spy on Harrison. Sands did not miss them. He was glad they were gone. He didn't think he could have endured another hour with El's mariachi buddies. As for El... Well, El could go fuck himself, for all Sands cared. After the musicians had left the house, he had sat there for hours thinking of ways he could kill El without alerting the neighbors.
"Señor?"
It was late afternoon now, and they were sitting on the front porch. It was windy out, and the weather report was predicting rain and storms. A hurricane was off the coast, and while their tiny village was expected to receive only a glancing blow, the people were still worried. Sands thought El was a fool to go into town on a day like this, but he had kept his mouth shut -- his desire to see El gone had outweighed his need to make El feel like an idiot.
While he had been sleeping, the wind had grown stronger. The temperature had begun to drop. The storm was nearly here. It was time to go inside and start closing the windows and check on their supply of batteries for the radio.
He might have felt worried about being left alone at the house, but for Chiclet. The kid had arrived somewhere around lunchtime, and showed no signs of wanting to leave just yet.
Which was a good thing. The kid was the perfect early-warning system.
"Señor! There's a woman out there," the kid said urgently.
"Really?" Sands laid his hands on the guitar in his lap, frowning to feel it. He did not remember playing it earlier, and he wondered how it had gotten there. "What does she look like?"
"Rubia," said the kid. Blond.
"Is she alone?"
"Sí."
"Does she have a gun?"
"No se."
"Okay. Here's what I want you to do. I want you to get on your bike and ride into town. Rapido. Find El and tell him about the woman. Tell him..." Sands hesitated. "Tell him I'm still standing."
"Señor?"
"Just do it!" he snapped. "Ahora!" Now!
The kid took off.
Sands reached under the guitar and found the gun resting on his lap. He didn't remember putting that there, either, but that wasn't the point. He was just glad it was there. He slid it forward a little, but kept it hidden, beneath the guitar.
The wind gusted a little higher, blowing his hair – longer now, after the summer – into his face. Not that it mattered. He didn't have to worry about anything messing up his vision anymore, did he?
He aimed at the footsteps he could now hear, and put on a bright, sunny smile. "Hello, bitch."
Her step did not falter. "Did the kid tell you I was here?"
She was to his right, and ahead of him. Standing on the fourth step leading up to the porch, if he guessed correctly. He shook his head. "No. All blind people have extra-sensory sonar. Didn't you know that?" His heart was racing; every nerve felt alive. He had missed this, he realized. He might bitch and moan about having to keep running, but the truth was, he liked running. Staying in one place for too long just wasn't interesting.
Living la vida loca wasn't always fun, but it sure was exciting. This was what he had missed all summer. This, right here, right now.
Harrison mounted one of the steps. Sands slid the gun out a little more, so she could see it. "I think that's far enough," he said.
"Don't you want to know why I'm here?" she asked.
"Not really," he said. "The real question is, why I shouldn't kill you."
"Oh, come on," she scoffed. "You would have done the same thing, if you had been in my position."
This gave him pause. "Okay," he said. "I probably would have. What's your point?"
"I came to see you so we could talk," she said. The wooden porch creaked as she took another step up.
Sands cocked the gun. "Move again," he said, "and I will shoot."
"The CIA doesn't want to bring you in anymore," she said. "Did you know that?"
He was shocked. Of all the things he had expected her to say, this had not been one of them. "Why? Why not?
"Because." She was smiling – he could hear it in her voice. "They think you are dead."
A myriad of responses to this all went through his mind at once, ranging from jubilant to suspicious. "What? Why? Why would they think that?"
"Because I told them so," she said. Her voice became slower, a mournful dirge. "Poor Sheldon," she lamented. "He always was so unstable. We really should have seen it coming. But we felt so sorry for him once we had him back in custody that we didn't watch him as closely as we should have. He committed suicide, rather than be taken back home."
She giggled. "The last I heard, there was talk of giving you a medal posthumously."
Sands shook his head. "You've lost your mind," he said flatly.
He wondered when it had happened. Maybe those hours locked in the trunk of her car had done it. Or maybe she had already been on the slippery slope of insanity long before then. and her fury at his escape had pushed her over the edge.
Maybe, the voice in his head piped up, she knew all along about Barillo. She always did hate me. Maybe she knew what would happen to me if they got me, and that's why she didn't send help when I called her.
Maybe, she wanted this to happen to me.
He felt cold all over. No. No way. Even he wouldn't have condemned anyone to this dark hell. Surely she couldn't have.
But she had. He knew she had. It was there in her voice, the smug satisfaction of a job well done. She had thrown him to the wolves, and she had laughed as she did it – just like she had in his dream.
He wondered now why he had not seen it before. Belinda Harrison was the one who had told him about it all in the first place. Contrary to popular belief, he had not set up the coup. He had merely taken advantage of what had seemed like a golden opportunity.
He could remember it so clearly. She had refused to talk about it over the phone, so he had made the trip to Mexico City to see her, cursing the whole way. They had met for lunch at an expensive restaurant where the tablecloths were real linen and the pork tasted like shit. She had left early, sticking him with the check.
But first, over the meal, she told him everything he needed to know. "We've gotten word that something is going down in Culiacan later this year."
"Really?" he drawled, utterly bored. He was adding up the miles he had traveled today in his head. Later tonight he would fill out an expense report, padding it with an extra 50 miles, and then e-mail it to Langley. With luck he would have a check within a week.
Belinda Harrison was wearing a white tank top that showed off her tanned arms and her breasts. "A coup d'etat," she said. She took a drink from her soda, and looked at him over the rim of the glass. "Arranged by one of the cartels."
This piqued his interest. He sat up a little. "Who?"
"Armando Barillo."
"No kidding." He had been following Barillo's operations for a year, ever since being posted to this godforsaken country. There had been vague promises made for his future, if he could bag a cartel. Bonuses and promotions -- possibly even the title of Station Chief. (He knew this would never happen – he was brilliant and a good spy, but he was too unstable. He knew it, and they knew it, but it still pleased him to hear the talk.)
More importantly, however, Belinda Harrison had heard the talk. He wondered why she was telling him about the coup, and the cartel's involvement. If he took down Barillo, he would have her job.
Maybe, he thought, she just wanted to leave Mexico. She bitched about the place often enough. Maybe she was ready to hand him her job.
He leaned back in his chair. "So you want me to stop it?"
"What the hell do you think?" she asked. "The current president has done more for this country than his last three predecessors combined. There's no way we can let him be assassinated."
Sands made up his mind right then and there that El Presidente would die.
"Who will take over?"
"General Marquez," Harrison said. She pushed a thin manila file across the table. "Everything we know about him is in there. We think Barillo is going to pay him twenty million pesos for the coup."
Twenty million pesos. A man with twenty million pesos could pretty much do what he pleased, Sands thought. He could disappear quite easily in a city like, say, Puerto Vallarta.
"Okay," he said. "I'll see what I can do."
She smiled. "I knew I could count on you."
But she had known, Sands thought now. She had known exactly what he would do when she told him about the coup. She had known he would get caught. She had set him up, right from the start. And he had fallen into her trap without even seeing the noose as it tightened about his neck.
She had planned it well, he had to give her credit. But she hadn't counted on one thing:
Barillo hadn't killed him.
He began to tremble with rage.
Oh, you bitch. You fucking bitch. I never deserved this!
You did this to me. I can't kill Ajedrez again, but you're the next best thing.
You should never have come here.
You're going to die today.
I'm going to fucking kill you.
"It bothers you that I'm insane?" she asked, laughing. "Why Sheldon, I thought you'd say, 'Welcome to the club.' Maybe offer me a gift basket or something."
"Not quite," he said.
He had never felt saner in all his life.
A gust of wind kicked up, sending dust and dirt into the walls of the house. Sands listened hard, and sure enough he heard Harrison take another step onto the porch, using the wind as a cover.
He put a bullet into the stair where he judged her foot to be. "Stop right there."
"I quit, you know," she said. "After your suicide. I went back to DC for my debriefing, and turned in my badge and my gun. It was a very sad occasion."
"Funny, you don't sound too broken up over it."
"That's because I've found something new to think about."
"Oh? What's that?" Sands asked.
"How much I'm going to enjoy killing you," said Belinda Harrison.
He heard the distinctive sound of a gun being drawn, and then, from far off, he heard the last thing in the world he had expected.
Chiclet.
"Señor!" the kid shouted. "Run! She has a gun!"
Christ. The kid had taken off, all right, but only as far as the end of the driveway. A ditch lined the edge of the property, running parallel to the street, for catching excess rainwater. The kid had run away like he had been told, but then he had hidden in the ditch, so he could see what was happening at the house. Stubborn as ever, he had stayed behind in order to help his friend.
That loyalty had just gotten him killed.
Sands heard Belinda Harrison turn. Before he could even start to cry out, a single gunshot split the afternoon. Chiclet let out a loud scream, then was silent.
She had shot Chiclet.
Sands threw the guitar to the floor and stood up. She had shot Chiclet. That single thought stood out above the panicky rage buzzing about in his mind. She had shot Chiclet.
"You bitch. He was just a kid." He gave her a thin smile. "I'm going to fucking kill you for that."
"Why, Sheldon," Belinda laughed. "Listen to you! Sounding like you actually give a damn about someone other than yourself. It's almost enough to make people think you've changed."
"Fuck you," he snarled, trying not to envision the kid with his brains blown out.
"But we know better, don't we?" she said sweetly. Then her voice hardened. "Put down your weapon."
"I don't think so," Sands said. He gave her a nasty grin. He began sidling toward the front door, keeping his gun aimed at her. "Because right now I know where you are. The only problem is, I can't see you and what you're doing. So if I even think I hear you getting up to no good, I will shoot you. And I won't miss. Savvy?"
He could feel the door at his back now. He reached behind him with his left hand, fumbling for the doorknob. "I'm going inside, Bel. If you follow me in, I guarantee you it will be the last thing you ever do."
Follow me in, you bitch! Come and get me. I'm gonna give you something you've never even dreamed of.
Chiclet liked ice cream. There was an ice cream scoop in the drawer next to the kitchen sink. It was cruder than the elegant tools Dr. Guevara had used on him, but it would do.
It would do quite well.
"There's nowhere for you to go, Sheldon," she said. "Drop your weapon."
"I don't think so," he said, and shot her, just as the first roll of thunder rumbled overhead.
He twisted the doorknob behind him and shoved the door open. He tumbled into the house, feeling a savage burst of pleasure at hearing Belinda Harrison cry out with pain and stagger back into the porch railing. Then he slammed the door shut, and he could not hear her anymore.
He turned to run, intending to head straight for the kitchen.
And tripped right over the outstretched foot of the man who had been inside the house the whole time, waiting for him.
He landed hard, facedown. The gun was knocked from his hand. He heard it skitter away from him, and immediately he reached out, trying to find it.
"Oh, no, you don't." The man who had tripped him dropped down, pinning him with a knee in the small of his back. Hands grabbed his arms, roughly wrenching them behind him. One hand twisted his wrists up behind him, and the other pushed down on the back of his head, grinding his face into the carpet.
The front door opened. Belinda Harrison walked in. "Get him," she snapped. "The fucker shot me."
"Oh, I got him," said the man.
Sands went very still. He knew that voice. It had a strong Boston accent, and it sounded very smug.
And here was the thing. He had never told El this, but all summer, he had wondered. He had remembered what happened in the tunnel under the ranchhouse in Durango, and he had wondered.
He had buried the scorpion dagger in Boston's chest. Boston had fallen. He had knelt down to retrieve the knife, and when he did, Boston had whispered, "You bastard."
He had heard the accent, and known immediately who it was. "Well, hello, Boston. You sick fuck."
He had pulled the knife free, taken Boston's gun, and shot the two soldiers. But he had never checked on Boston again, and made sure the man was dead. He had been having enough trouble staying upright and conscious at that point, without adding another problem to the list.
But he should have checked. All summer he had kicked himself for it. He had told himself he was just being paranoid, but the worry would not go away.
Now he knew why. On some level, he had known. Boston was still alive.
"Hey there, Boston," he said now, hoping he didn't sound as afraid as he felt. "So...didn't want to stay dead, huh?"
Boston leaned in. "You didn't come close to killing me, you asshole."
"Well, I won't make that mistake twice," Sands said, and was proud of himself for how steady his voice sounded.
Belinda Harrison knelt beside him. He heard a faintly plastic sound he could not identify, then a needle pierced his neck.
Terror shot through him. "No!" he yelled, thrashing under Boston's weight, fighting the hands that held him down. Needles meant unconsciousness, and waking up tied down and helpless.
And he remembered – hell, how could he forget? – that Boston had wanted to stick a needle in his ear, and trap him in a prison composed not only of blackness, but of silence, as well. "No!" he howled, panic lending him strength.
"Hold him still, damnit!" Harrison snapped.
Sands gave one last titanic heave, and managed to throw Boston off his back. The agent toppled sideways, into Harrison, knocking her away and sending them both sprawling off to Sands' left.
The syringe snapped, leaving the needle in Sands' neck. Uncaring, he rolled up to his knees. He wanted his gun, he needed his gun, but there was no time to find it. Instead he leaned down, and reached for his foot.
Technically, the scorpion dagger still belonged to El. If he had asked for it, Sands would have returned it, but the mariachi seemed to have forgotten all about it. Every morning as he got dressed Sands slipped that silver sheath down into his right boot. He would no more have thought to leave it behind than he would have thought to stop wearing his sunglasses. The dagger was a part of him now.
His hand closed over the hilt, and he yanked the dagger free. Still on his knees, he turned to face his attackers. He swung his arm in a short arc, and felt a shock travel all the way up to his shoulder as the blade slashed Boston.
The agent let out a shrill scream, and fell back. Sands heard him writhing on the floor, and he tensed for another attack, but for the time being Boston didn't seem too inclined to come at him again.
Which left only Harrison.
He could hear her moving about, trying to gather her wits about her. He wished he knew where he had shot her, and how badly she was injured. She didn't sound like she was dying, though, and that was not good. Not good at all.
"You bastard," she whispered, and fired her gun.
The moment she spoke, Sands ducked and threw the dagger at her. He had spent much of the summer practicing, throwing at targets El set up in the backyard, and he had gotten quite good. He heard the dagger strike her, and a moment later she screamed.
The bullet meant for his head tore a groove along the floor, missing him completely. She fired twice more as she fell, her finger pulling the trigger in reflex. These bullets went harmlessly into the ceiling. She landed on the floor, and was still.
Silence descended in the house. Outside, it thundered again. The wind howled through the windows. Sands turned around. The gun. The gun. Where was his fucking gun? It had been knocked from his hand when he went down, spinning across the floor. On his hands and knees, he groped for it, feeling his way along the floor, hating that he was reduced to this, to such blind-man behavior.
A hand closed over his ankle. He shouted in surprise and kicked out with his other foot, hearing the satisfying crunch of bone as Boston's nose broke.
The hand dropped away. He slapped faster at the floor, trying to find the gun. "Come on, come on, come on," he begged. "Where are you?"
"Oh, you fucker," Boston whispered. "You are so gonna wish you hadn't done that."
"Promises, promises," Sands muttered.
The hand grabbed his ankle again, and yanked back.
His fingers brushed solid metal, then the sensation was gone. His flailing hand had found the gun, just as Boston pulled him away from it.
"Goddamnit!" he shouted.
Boston dragged him backward. A fist hammered down on his legs, his lower back, his kidneys. The pain was excruciating. He yelled, kicking out again.
The hand about his ankle loosened, just a little.
It was enough. Sands gave one final desperate lunge forward on his belly, and his hand closed about the gun.
With a roar of triumph, he rolled over and threw himself at Boston. The agent fell backward, screaming in pain and rage, Sands on top of him.
Despite his injuries, Boston was strong. He thrashed around, hitting Sands on the head and shoulders with his fists. "Get off me, you fucker!"
Sands ignored the blows. He grabbed hold of Boston's hair in order to hold his head still. He jammed the gun into Boston's face as hard as he could.
Into Boston's eye.
"How do you like it, you fuck?" he snarled.
He pulled the trigger.
Blood and gore spattered onto his face and neck, making him flinch. Boston shuddered once, and then was still.
Sands fell back, breathing hard. He dragged his sleeve across his mouth, wiping the blood away, retching a little as he did so; he didn't want to taste any of it.
Boston was dead. One down, one to go. Where was That Bitch?
He forced himself to be still. He had heard her breathing earlier, but now he could hear nothing. He had shot her and stabbed her. Was she dead?
Cautiously he crawled toward the last place he had heard her. He held the gun in his right hand, and scooted his left hand along the floor, fingers spread, inching it slowly forward. If she was unconscious he did not want to rouse her. He would just find where she was, and tie her up so she couldn't fight back. He would go into the kitchen and get the ice cream scoop. Then the real fun would begin.
A wave of nausea swept over him. Drops of Boston's blood dripped from his face and landed on the carpet.
Then again, maybe not. He didn't seem to have the strength for a good torture session. Maybe he would just press the gun to her head, and pull the trigger. It was a cleaner death than she deserved, but it would be quick, and then this would all be over.
His hand slid forward. His fingertips brushed fabric. Denim. Jeans. Her leg.
Her leg twitched beneath his hand, and he jerked back instinctively but he was too slow. Something whistled through the air, and then the scorpion dagger buried itself in his left hand, all the way through, on into the floor.
Sands screamed. He couldn't help it.
Yet a part of him was laughing. Hey look, El! We're going to have matching scars!
"Got you," Belinda Harrison whispered. Outside, it thundered.
She pulled the gun from his other hand. She shoved the barrel against his temple, forcing him to lie down, his face pressed to the floor, his left arm stretched out at a painful angle, held by the knife through his hand. "You little fuck," she panted. "You really thought you could beat me?"
She sounded hurt, but she sounded strong. It occurred to Sands that he was in a very bad position right now.
Very bad.
Well, hell, he had been in worse situations. There really was nothing like waking up to find a drug lord standing over you while his evil doctor friend examined the shiny metal object he was holding.
"You have to give me credit for trying," Sands said. She was leaning over him, the better to jam the gun against his skull, and he could smell the madness on her. It was not a pleasant smell.
There, you see? said the voice in his head. If you had killed yourself yesterday, you would never have found out what insanity smells like. Aren't you glad you stayed alive for this?
A growl of frustrated rage escaped him. Most days he embraced the madness, just like he had told El, but sometimes, like now, he hated it. Times like this, he wanted to tell it to go away and leave him alone, and never hear from it again. "Shut up," he muttered. "Just shut up."
"What?" Harrison asked. Her voice was taut with fury; she thought he was defying her.
"Nothing," he said. "Not talking to you."
She laughed. "Oh, I get it. Who does your voice sound like?" Her anger had disappeared. Now she just sounded curious.
He couldn't believe this. She was moments away from killing him, and she wanted to compare insanities.
"Tell me," she insisted. The gun pressed painfully against his temple. "I want to know."
"It's no one you know," he gasped. Christ, in another minute she was going to break through his skin and just shove the gun inside his skull.
"Mine sounds like my mother," she said absently.
"Good for her," Sands said.
"Sheldon." The pressure at his temple eased slightly. "Come with me."
He started in surprise. "What?"
"You heard me. Come with me." Her voice took on a distant note. "We could rule this country, you and I."
It was the kind of line that belonged in a bad movie. He wanted to laugh – but he didn't dare, not with a gun jammed against his skull.
And she had no idea. As she talked on, telling him about her grand plans for Mexico, he realized she had absolutely no clue what she sounded like. Not that it would have mattered, even if she had, he supposed. She was insane. Tiny things like logic didn't matter to Belinda Harrison anymore.
"Think about it," she said coyly. "We could restore the balance. Isn't that what you've always wanted?"
He did think about it.
Would it really be so bad, to ride off into the sunset with her? They could be this generations's Bonnie and Clyde. El Presidente would have to die, of course, but after that it would be a case of anything goes. He would definitely be living la vida loca then, not just cooling his heels in some shitsplat town with a dour mariachi who thought he was Sigmund Freud as a roommate.
"No," he said. He wanted out of here all right, but not with her.
Her voice dipped down lower, but did not lose that coy note. "Oh, really?" She walked her fingers up the hilt of the dagger, making him gasp with pain. "I can make you say yes. And you know I can."
Hell, maybe it wouldn't be so bad. He shrugged, as much as he could. "All right."
"All right? You're not just telling me what I want to hear?"
"Nope," he said. He wished she would let go of the dagger. Even the slightest touch sent waves of pain crashing through his hand, all the way up his arm and neck, to settle in his brain. "I mean it. Let me up."
"Really?" She sounded delighted.
"Sure, why not?" He gave her a smile.
To his immense relief, she let go of the dagger. She shifted position. The gun barrel was dragged from his temple, down his cheek, to nestle under his jaw. She stroked his hair, tucking it behind his ear. He no longer wore it that way, but of course she would not know that, and he wasn't about to tell her.
"Did you know," she said, her voice suddenly dropping an octave, "I thought it was so sexy, seeing you sitting there at my house in Durango. I nearly came to visit you that night."
He felt ill. Trying to get him to side with her was one thing. Now she wanted to seduce him? "Did you now?" he drawled, hoping he sounded disinterested enough to piss her off, so she would get on with the real reason she had come here.
"Oh, yes. The only reason I didn't was because I couldn't find a way for us to be alone. I knew if I was in there too long, Rick would come looking for me. He didn't like me going in to see you."
"I bet he didn't," he said, trying not to remember what it felt like to have a gun shoved inside his eyesocket. "So you two were lovers?"
"Yeah," she said. She sounded bored. "All I needed was ten minutes alone with you. You were helpless, chained to that chair. I could have gotten what I wanted, with no one being any the wiser. But Rick wouldn't let me." She sighed. "Oh well."
She was absolutely insane. Well, he could respect that. "There'll be plenty of time for that later," Sands said, wondering what he was getting himself into. He had never done it with her, nor even tried. Her reputation had preceded her, even all the way down to Mexico. She was a cocktease of the worst kind, everyone said, leading men on and then turning cold and vindictive. Knowing he would fail if he tried to get her in bed, Sands had simply never even bothered. It was his first rule in life -- always play to win. He supposed that was one of the reasons she had hated him so much.
"Kiss me," she demanded.
"Christ, Bel. You're already making me regret my decision," he said. "Let me up."
"Your decision?" she snapped. "You think you had a choice in this?" She grabbed his jaw and turned his head up, then leaned in and kissed him.
Kissing her like kissing a snake. Her tongue darted into his mouth, hot and insistent. She twined her fingers in his hair, holding his head still as she ravaged his mouth. He forced himself to stay still, and wondered what she thought of Boston's blood all over his face, if she thought that was sexy, too.
She reached up and took off his sunglasses. He gritted his teeth and said nothing, hating his helplessness.
She stared at him for a long time, making him burn with shame and anger, while outside, thunder rumbled again and the wind gusted hard enough to rattle the windows. She touched him, outlining the hollow where his eye had been.
She was not gentle. He flinched back. "Jesus, Bel!"
"Does it hurt when I touch it?" she asked.
"What the fuck do you think?" he retorted.
Wrong answer. She pressed hard with two of her fingers right where the top of his cheek disappeared and the hole began. Sands cried out and tossed his head, trying to pull away from her.
She laughed, and removed her fingers. "Interesting." She leaned in and kissed him again.
"Bel." He tore his mouth away from hers. He wanted to spit her saliva out of his mouth. Even Boston's blood had been better than this. "My hand. Please?"
"Not yet. I want you to hear my plan first."
Oh God. She wasn't really going to let him up. She was just going to sit here and talk him to death, maybe give the dagger a little twist every now and then to keep things interesting. He tried to smile. "So tell me. I'm all ears," he said.
She chuckled. She put his sunglasses back on, patting them firmly onto his face. "You're all ears. I like that. Of course you are, Sheldon. What else have you got now?
"Anyway, here's how it goes. We wait here. When that mariachi and his buddies come back, I shoot them. Then we leave, you and I, together."
"That's it?" he asked in amazement, forgetting that this spring he had come up with the worst plan in all of history. "It's not much of a plan. What am I supposed to do while all this is going on?"
"Oh," she said, "didn't I tell you? You get to kill your friend."
"Ah," he said. Of course.
"I'll take the other two. They don't look very smart. But you can kill that big mariachi. I can't wait to see the look on his face when you shoot him. I bet you wish you could see it, too."
Bel, my dear, you have no idea.
"Sounds good to me," he said. "I've had it with his sanctimonious crap. I wanted to kill him last night, you know, but in the end I couldn't do it."
"Oh really?" she murmured. She sounded bored again.
"Yes, but I don't think I'll have that problem now. Listen, they should be back soon." Every word he spoke made the gun dig painfully into his jaw. "Let me up. You go sit on the couch, so they can't see you as they're walking up to the house. I'll wait by the window, and let you know when I hear them coming."
She was silent for a long moment. Then the gun was withdrawn. "All right."
Sands breathed a little easier.
She leaned back. "Sorry about this, Sheldon." She yanked the dagger back, pulling it free of the floor and his hand.
Powerless not to, he screamed. There had never been pain like this, not even when they took his eyes. He was glad he could not see the damage she had done to his hand. He was afraid if he saw it, he would never stop screaming.
Oh you bitch, you fucking bitch. What have you done to me?
"Shut up," she complained. "You stabbed me first, you know."
He staggered to his feet, cradling his maimed hand to his chest. Blood poured from the hole the dagger had made. He tried to wiggle his fingers and almost screamed again with the pain – but they did move, which was an encouraging sign.
She walked away, and he heard the couch sigh as she sank down. "How much longer will they be?"
He shook his head. "I don't know. Ah, Bel?"
"What?"
"Are you going to give me my gun back?"
She laughed. "Not hardly. How crazy do you think I am?"
"Well, how the hell do you expect me to kill El, then?" he demanded. "I can't shoot him with my finger."
"Use your hands," she said. "You're CIA. You know how."
"Oh my Christ," he sighed. "Fine. Whatever."
He started to walk toward the window, and then he had an idea. Carefully he lowered himself to one knee, and felt along the floor. When his exploring fingers found the dagger, he picked it up.
He went over to the window, and settled himself in to wait.
Outside, it began to rain.
*****
Author's Note: I am still working on chapter 17. If all goes well, it will be posted Saturday night, but I might not be able to get it done in time. Cross your fingers, guys!