(AN): This is one of a couple possible outcomes to chapter two, so if it
sucks, or is to lame or something, tell me in a review and I can try
another, savvy?
Sands made it 10 feet away from the house before his injured leg gave out and he fell in the dust. The wound was pouring dark, scarlet blood, staining the dirt.
[I think that's the American.] Someone spoke nearby. Sands kept his hand on his guns, waiting for further noise to clarify the speaker's location.
[What should we do? I hear he has a small fortune on his head.] Another voice.
[He just killed Jose, do you think we should.] the first voice was further away than the second, and sounded weak and whiny.
The second didn't answer, but multiple footsteps were getting nearer. That was enough. Sands drew both guns and fired at the noise. Cries of pain, and falling bodies answered his bullets. He kept firing, not caring if he was hitting men, women, or children. Apparently there had been many of them, and none of them had been prepared for him to be able to defend himself, let alone kill them. In a few moments, their footsteps pounded in the opposite direction.
Sands smiled, the body count had to be at least 10 by now. He had proved it to himself, he was still Sheldon Jeffrey Sands, and he was still able to send Mexican sons-of-bitches to Hell.
He was interrupted in his gleeful musing by a gun barrel on the back of his head.
"Fuck!" He spat. "Ok, Senor, get it over with, I can't stand long, drawn out death scenes."
"So it is true. You are still alive Agent Sands" El.
"Fuck off, 'the' I'm busy at the moment."
"Doing what? Killing innocent people? I should kill you now and do my country a favor."
Sands laughed a dry, humorless laugh. "Peachy idea El. Go ahead. It'll be quicker than the cartels." El hesitated; this wasn't like the Sands he knew.
"Get up." He needed more time to think, he hadn't planned on Sands being alive, and if so, at least not in Mexico.
"Sure." Sands muttered, trying to get up without using his other leg, unsuccessfully. He had to choke back a cry of pain, at the shock waves coming from the wound. He stumbled backwards, losing his grip on his guns and dropping them in the dirt. He finally balanced himself and waited for El's voice, he still had one gun left.
El could tell something was wrong, besides Sands' leg injury. Sands wasn't even looking at him, he seemed to be staring off into space, but El couldn't tell through the agents sunglasses. El didn't move, but watched as Sands suddenly covered his face and clumsily backed away.
Just when he had been certain El was going to move, or make some sort of noise, Sands had felt a stream of blood leaking from one of his empty eye sockets. Sands covered his face with one hand, and felt around with his other.
[Mister!]
Sorry couldn't find any other way to end this chapter. R&R or else I'll cry! J/k, but seriously, review, or somethin, it makes my day.
Sands made it 10 feet away from the house before his injured leg gave out and he fell in the dust. The wound was pouring dark, scarlet blood, staining the dirt.
[I think that's the American.] Someone spoke nearby. Sands kept his hand on his guns, waiting for further noise to clarify the speaker's location.
[What should we do? I hear he has a small fortune on his head.] Another voice.
[He just killed Jose, do you think we should.] the first voice was further away than the second, and sounded weak and whiny.
The second didn't answer, but multiple footsteps were getting nearer. That was enough. Sands drew both guns and fired at the noise. Cries of pain, and falling bodies answered his bullets. He kept firing, not caring if he was hitting men, women, or children. Apparently there had been many of them, and none of them had been prepared for him to be able to defend himself, let alone kill them. In a few moments, their footsteps pounded in the opposite direction.
Sands smiled, the body count had to be at least 10 by now. He had proved it to himself, he was still Sheldon Jeffrey Sands, and he was still able to send Mexican sons-of-bitches to Hell.
He was interrupted in his gleeful musing by a gun barrel on the back of his head.
"Fuck!" He spat. "Ok, Senor, get it over with, I can't stand long, drawn out death scenes."
"So it is true. You are still alive Agent Sands" El.
"Fuck off, 'the' I'm busy at the moment."
"Doing what? Killing innocent people? I should kill you now and do my country a favor."
Sands laughed a dry, humorless laugh. "Peachy idea El. Go ahead. It'll be quicker than the cartels." El hesitated; this wasn't like the Sands he knew.
"Get up." He needed more time to think, he hadn't planned on Sands being alive, and if so, at least not in Mexico.
"Sure." Sands muttered, trying to get up without using his other leg, unsuccessfully. He had to choke back a cry of pain, at the shock waves coming from the wound. He stumbled backwards, losing his grip on his guns and dropping them in the dirt. He finally balanced himself and waited for El's voice, he still had one gun left.
El could tell something was wrong, besides Sands' leg injury. Sands wasn't even looking at him, he seemed to be staring off into space, but El couldn't tell through the agents sunglasses. El didn't move, but watched as Sands suddenly covered his face and clumsily backed away.
Just when he had been certain El was going to move, or make some sort of noise, Sands had felt a stream of blood leaking from one of his empty eye sockets. Sands covered his face with one hand, and felt around with his other.
[Mister!]
Sorry couldn't find any other way to end this chapter. R&R or else I'll cry! J/k, but seriously, review, or somethin, it makes my day.