Chapter 14

Gambling

Disclaimer: El and Sands are not mine. This story is written purely for my own amusement, not for money.

Rating: R for language and graphic violence.

Summary: Accusations are leveled, and something bad happens.

Author's Note: First, a stunned-speechless thank you to ElvenPirate41 for all your amazing reviews. Wow, girl! I would have e-mailed you back if I could, but ff.net doesn't list an e-mail for you. So thanks!

And thanks to Melody my beta reader. She knows why.

On another note...This chapter gets very dark as things progress. Please please please be warned for the ending.

And please don't hate me. It just...happened.

****

Sands knew they were there even before he heard them. He knew it in the way the people around him went suddenly quiet, the shuffling of their footsteps as they moved back, putting distance between themselves and him.

He finished his drink and set the glass down on the gaming table. "Let's do it," he muttered.

A hand fell on his shoulder. "Señor?"

"What?" he asked, speaking English, as he had done all evening.

"Señor, would you please come with us?" The man spoke in Spanish.

"I don't understand," he said. In a halting, bad accent, "No hablo español."

"Would you please come with us, sir?" the suit asked, now in English.

"Why?" he asked. There were at least two of them, possibly a third. It was hard to tell. They were very still, very good at what they did.

"Por favor, Señor," the man repeated. The hand on his shoulder tightened painfully, fingers digging into the tender area beneath his collarbone.

Sands winced and shrugged. "All right." He started to stand up.

Across the casino a woman screamed. People shouted in surprise and alarm. A man's voice rose over the others, ordering them to stand back, that there was no danger, they had everything under control.

"Shit," Sands muttered. He had heard the sound of a body hitting the floor. That would be El.

He stood up. One of the suits took hold of his upper arm, and while normally he would have angrily shaken off that unwanted touch, this time he allowed it. He needed the man to guide him through the casino.

Earlier in the night walking through the casino had been an exercise in patience. One had to know the skills of elbow-nudging, shin-barking, and just plain shouldering-out-of-the-way. But walking with the suits was an entirely different experience. People parted for them without hesitation, and the path suddenly became clear. Sands made a scornful noise under his breath.

As El had guessed, he had indeed been here before. The town was close enough to Vera Cruz to attract patrons, but far enough away to elude the notice of the police. He had come here several times, always seeking information. Twice he had killed his informant after getting what he had come for, but only twice. It was not good to be noticed, and he had not wanted to be known as the kind of man who came to gamble and talk, and who then left random murders in his wake.

So as the suits guided him through the casino, he knew where they were taking him. To one of the rooms in the back, near the offices. The rooms that were small and soundproofed.

They sat him on a stool. The door closed. Long minutes passed while he sat very still and bored, wondering how long this would take. Then the door opened again and a new set of footsteps entered the room. They walked past him and beyond, then a wheeled chair was pulled out, and the newcomer sat. At a desk, no doubt.

"Habla español?" asked the newcomer.

Sands shook his head. "No. What's this all about? Who are you?"

"My name is Luis Sandoval," said the man in perfect, if heavily accented, English. "My men have told me that you have played well tonight, won much money."

"Yeah," Sands said. "It's pretty neat. No one at home will believe me when I tell them."

"Yes, yes." The man sounded very friendly; Sands mistrusted him completely. "Quite a lot of money."

Sands said nothing. An innocent, ignorant American would start blustering at this point, crying that he hadn't cheated, honest! But even though he knew his role in this, he couldn't bring himself to play along. He had always hated playing by someone else's rules.

"You must understand," the man said again, "this is a business establishment. There are rules to be followed. If we believe someone has been trying to cheat us, we must make sure it does not happen again."

"I wasn't cheating," Sands said. He could hear one of the suits behind him shift position slightly, but that was all. He thought they were standing at his shoulders, but he couldn't tell for sure.

"Yes, I am sure your winnings tonight were entirely honorable. However, you understand the position I am in?"

"Sure," he said, trying very hard not to smile. "Heck, I'm a businessman myself."

"Then you understand," the man said.

"Absolutely," Sands said. That time he did smile. He couldn't help it. It really was too goddamn funny.

"Sir, would you be so kind as to remove your sunglasses? I must admit, I feel I am at a bit of a disadvantage here."

You think you're at a disadvantage? I could tell you a thing or two about that, buddy.

"I'd rather not," Sands said. "If it's all the same to you." The smile was gone from his face. He hated anyone to see him without his sunglasses. He even hated to be without them in front of El, although he had done it as proof of trust in Durango, letting the action speak for him when he could not bring himself to say the words.

"It is not the same to me," Luis Sandoval said. "Now take them off."

"No," Sands said. He tensed, waiting for the inevitable blow.

It came, not to the face as he had expected, but lower, a fist to the kidneys. His body jerked to the side involuntarily, and during those few seconds when he did not control his own actions, a large hand grabbed the sunglasses and pulled them off his face.

In the stunned silence that followed, he could hear each of the men gasp in horror and revulsion. Fury burned through him -- quit fucking staring at me! – but he forced himself to remain calm. "Well. As you can see, clearly I wasn't cheating. What do you think?"

Luis Sandoval cleared his throat. "No, I--I believe you are telling the truth. There was no cheating on your part."

The words were innocent enough, but Sands heard the slight stress on the your, and he stiffened. Shit. El. They still had El.

But did it really matter? He knew what was happening here. It probably happened several times a night. Some poor sap would get dragged back here, either deservedly or not. The casino owner would scare the sap with words, then the two goons would be turned loose. There would be a beating, probably a bad one, then the unfortunate fellow would be tossed out onto the street behind the casino with a stern admonishment to never return, on pain of death. Sands had seen it happen before. Hell, he had even caused it to happen to a few people, if they had pissed him off; just one quiet suggestion to one of the suits on the casino floor set it all in motion. He had known from the moment the suits approached him at the table what this was all about.

So did it matter? El could take a beating. The mariachi was made of stern stuff. A few bruises and a black eye would not affect him much.

Except, Sands suddenly thought, El did not deserve that. The mariachi had done nothing to warrant those bruises. He could be a bastard sometimes, he was maddeningly obtuse, and he had obvious emotional problems, as evidenced by his inability to let his dead wife go, but beneath all that, El Mariachi was a good man. He had to be. No one else put up with Sands and his shit. Only El.

If any of you fuckers lay a hand on him, he thought, I'm going to kill you.

Luis Sandoval was saying he was free to go. The suit who had taken his sunglasses thrust them into his hand, and he put them on absently. He was trying to think of a way to get El out, too.

He stood. "So this was all just one big misunderstanding, then."

"Sí," said Sandoval. "You may go."

"What about--"

He did not get to finish. One of the suits suddenly drew in a sharp breath. "Señor," he said urgently.

Sands felt his heart sink.

"Es el," said the suit. Fabric rustled; he was pointing to Sands.

"Que?" asked Sandoval, clearly puzzled.

"Es el," the man repeated. It's him. "CIA." He said it the Spanish way, so it came out, Say-ee-ah. A hand grabbed his arm, yanking him to the side. A finger jabbed against the frame of the sunglasses. "Sus ojos. Armando Barillo hizo esto." His eyes. Armando Barillo did this. "El esta Agente Sands. El hombre que los cárteles buscan." The man the cartels are looking for.

Fuck. Sands spun to the left, reaching out for the gun the suit was carrying. But the suit moved fast, and instead of grabbing the gun, his hand only brushed the man's solid belly.

"Get him!" shouted Luis Sandoval.

There never was really much of a chance. He knew that, but that knowledge did not stop him from fighting. It was just his way. He ducked one blow, but he couldn't see, he couldn't fucking see what was happening, and there was no avoiding the gun butt that came down on the back of his head, no avoiding it at all.

****

He came to as they were carrying him to a new location. One of the suits had him by the shoulders, and the other had hold of his feet. His hands were cuffed together behind him, and that was not good, not good at all. "What's he going to do?" asked the man by his feet.

"He'll make a few phone calls," answered the other, and Sands realized they were talking about Luis Sandoval, not him. He forced himself to remain limp in their grasp, so they would not suspect he was awake.

"It's a good thing I remembered that fax," the man at his head said. "Or he would have gotten away with it."

"You think Sanchez will come?" asked the other man.

"I'm sure of it. So will Alejandro and Hector Lopez. Maybe even Juan Rodriguez."

"Rodriguez? All the way from Jalisco?"

"I think so. He almost had this agent in Puerto Vallarta, but he got away." The man gave him a slight shake. "He won't be getting away this time."

The man at his feet let them drop to the floor. Keys jangled, a door was opened. The man picked up his feet again, and they walked forward. "All those cartels here...it could be bad for business."

"It could," said the first man. "But I think not. If I know Luis, he will find a way to make a lot of money off this man."

"How's that?" asked the second man.

They laid him on the ground, none too gently, and Sands fought back a groan as his weight crushed his cuffed hands.

"This is a business establishment," the first man said, mimicking Luis Sandoval's words from earlier. "And what do businesses do? They sell things." He gave a short laugh. "My friend, in a day or two, this casino is going to see the highest-priced auction it has ever seen. The cartels want this man badly. I can almost guarantee that whoever gets him will spend a lot of money for the privilege." He laughed again. "Then you and I can take a long vacation."

"I always did want to go to Baja," said the second man. "I just could never afford it."

"Believe me," said the first man, "when we get our cut of this sale, you'll be able to afford a vacation anywhere in the world."

The second man laughed. "Sounds good to me."

The keyring jingled. The men walked away. The door was closed.

Sands lay very still for a long time. At last he dared to breathe. "Fuck," he said.

****

All right. Think. He had to get out of here. If he stayed, he was going to be sold off to whichever cartel was willing to pay the most for his sorry hide, and he had an idea that if that happened, he would be begging for death before too long.

Think, asshole. How are you going to get out of here? You can't expect me to do everything for you. It's time you pulled your own weight around here.

"Shut up," he muttered. He pushed himself awkwardly up to a sitting position. First thing first. He had to get out of these fucking handcuffs.

He had known one of the professors at the Academy who had sworn by an old trick. "Dislocate your own thumb," the man had said. "Then you can pull your hand through the cuff and bring it around in front of you. You'll still have one hand in a cuff, but at least both hands will be free and in front of you, and that's what matters. And it doesn't even hurt. Chances are, you'll be so full of adrenaline when you do it that you won't even feel it."

Sands had been fascinated by this idea. He had been all set to learn it, too. He had gone to one of Langley's doctors, and told her to dislocate his thumb, so he could do it at will in the future.

She had not been happy with this. She had proceeded to lecture him about the dangers, and bored within thirty seconds, he had tuned her out. Until she got to the part about being crippled for life. That had gotten his attention again, in a hurry. "What?"

Yeah, turned out if something went wrong, you could be crippled, unable to use your thumb ever again. Stupid fuckmook professor had forgotten to mention that part.

Sands had stood up, grabbed his coat, and walked out of the office.

He wished now he had done it anyway.

So then. Get the fucking cuffs off? Well, that wasn't going to happen. But maybe he could at least get his hands in front of him.

He had done it before, but that had been nearly twenty years ago, in class at the Academy. Each of them had been handcuffed, and they had been timed, how long it took for them to bring their hands in front of them. As a young man in his early twenties he had been able to do it in seconds. Now, he was not so sure.

Well you better try, fuckwit. Because the longer you stay here, the better the odds that you're going to end up buried in Diego Sanchez's backyard.

"I know that," he whispered. "Shut up and let me do this."

He leaned backward until the wall touched his shoulders, then scooted down a little. He arched his back, raising his hips, trying to work his hands under his ass. Thank god he was still skinny; if he had quit smoking all those years ago like they had wanted him to, he would have put on weight and then there would be no way this would work.

As it was, he wasn't sure it would work now. His shoulders were screaming in protest, and his head kept insisting that it had been hit a little while ago, did he think he could forget that?

Just as he was sure something was about to give in his shoulder, his hands finally slid past his hips. He let his head fall back against the wall, breathing heavily.

Don't stop there. Come on. You can do it.

The voice actually sounded encouraging now. Compassionate, even. He knew this was a lie, but it was still nice to hear.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. I'm getting there." He raised his hands, bringing his legs up and over the chain connecting the cuffs. He had to crush his knees to his chest in order to get his feet through, but at last it was done.

He sat up straight, still leaning on the wall for support. His cuffed hands rested in his lap. "One down, one to go."

Now came the hard part. He had to get out of here. Wherever "here" was. He suspected he was in a small antechamber off someone's office, a room where no one went who did not have an express purpose for being there. A room most workers in the casino would never even suspect existed.

And was it, he wondered, a room close to where El was right now? A room where two goons in suits might be hammering away on the mariachi with fists and steel-toed imitation-Gucci loafers?

"Fuck you," he snarled. "You better not be." He had carte blanche to do what he wanted to El. But no one else had that right. Only he could hurt El. Not some suit-wearing fucker in a place like this.

He rose to his feet. Time to go.

He had never been much of a reader, but he had always liked TV, movies, and even theater shows. Fiction was good. It was an escape from reality. Books were no good however, because they left too much up to the reader's imagination – and he and his imagination had never been friends.

He tried now to think of all the movies he had seen, the TV shows where the hero got out of a locked room. What was the secret? What were the little tricks he could now do?

A bitter laugh escaped him. For all he knew, the key to the door was sitting out there in plain view. He sure as hell couldn't see it.

Well, all right. Time to find out.

He began exploring the room, taking his time, making sure he didn't miss anything.

Fifteen minutes later, the search was over. The depressing truth was that there wasn't anything to miss.

The room was small, and it was indeed someone's office. Or it could have been. There were three large desks in the room, all of them probably cast-offs from Luis Sandoval's office. There were no chairs. No filing cabinets. Just the desks. All the drawers were locked, except the lap drawer on each desk, and these were completely empty. He hadn't even found a fucking paper clip.

With an angry sigh, he slid down to sit against the wall beside the door. His head was throbbing, and his shoulders ached, especially the right. He suspected he had pulled something there during his feat of athletic prowess.

Now what, asshole?

Shut up. Just shut up! I don't fucking need you right now, so go away!

The voice just laughed nastily. You always need me. And say, what do you think they're doing to El right now?

No no no. Don't think about that.

Okay. He could be in here for a long time. All night, probably. And that was no good. He had to get someone in here. That was the only way he was getting out. He would have to start kicking at the door and hollering. He could pretend he was sick, or that he needed to pee, something to get them in here. He was valuable to them, worth a lot of money, so they would have to treat him well. Bring him food and let him use the bathroom and all those nice amenities.

And if they don't? If they decide to let you starve in here?

"Oh, shut up!" he yelled. He reached down and grabbed the scorpion dagger out of his boot, feeling a nasty grin spread across his face as his hand closed over the hilt. No weapons allowed in Casino del Suerte, but that meant only guns, as far as Sands was concerned. He never went anywhere without the dagger. It had tasted his blood; it knew him, and he knew it.

The voice in his head just laughed. For a terrible moment he had a vision of himself, gaunt and wasted away to practically nothing, kneeling before Diego Sanchez, new drug lord in Sinaloa and Culiacan. The image terrified him, because he could see it happening all too clearly, if he didn't get out of here.

"No," he snarled. "No fucking way." He stood up and drew his foot back, ready to start kicking at the door.

And the door opened.

For a moment he was too stunned to do more than stand there. Then the survival instinct kicked in, and it was all systems go.

The man started to speak. "Sands--"

His words were abruptly cut off as Sands buried the dagger in his chest.

The door to the room was still open, and that was good, but less good was the fact that they were still standing in front of it, where anybody passing by could look in and see what was happening. With both hands still on the hilt of the dagger, Sands forcibly turned the man to one side, and began walking him backward.

"Garh!" The man uttered a strangled cry. One hand beat at his chest.

Gun. He has a gun.

I know!

He changed direction, jerking the man to the right. His right foot struck one of the desks in the middle of the room just as he heard the distinct sound of a gun being drawn from its holster.

Sands let go of the dagger and reached up to grab the man by the hair. With all his strength, he slammed the man's head onto the desk, facedown. Something gave in his shoulder at the wrenching downward motion, but he gritted his teeth and ignored the pain.

The man tried to scream and managed only another one of those strangled cries. Sands lifted his head again. The man twisted in his grasp, and one arm bumped his own as the man raised the gun. The barrel touched the side of his head, wavered, then touched him again.

He brought the man's head down on the desk again. This time there was a horrid crunching noise.

The gun went off. The sound was the whole world. Bright pain exploded in his skull, and Sands cried out.

He and the man hit the floor at the same time.

He lay where he had fallen. He could hear nothing but a high-pitched ringing in his ear. The bullet had just nicked him, he knew that rationally, but the pain was incredibly disproportionate to the injury. It yelled and screamed and stampeded through his brain.

At least it shut the voice up.

No one came running in to see what had happened. Men with guns did not storm into the room. They had not heard the shot. These rooms must be soundproofed, too. Maybe on busy nights all the other interrogation rooms got full and they had to use spare offices like this one.

He lay on the floor, unable to move. He wanted to raise his cuffed hands and cup the hurt on the side of his head, but his right shoulder was a frozen scream of pain. He could not raise his arm. He cursed feebly, and he heard the words through his left ear, but they sounded very distant and far away, like they had been spoken in another country.

All right. Well, the man he had just killed probably didn't have any spare Vicodin laying around, but maybe he would have something even better – the key to the handcuffs. With a low groan he could not hear, Sands rolled over and forced himself up to his knees.

Bad move. Oh very bad move. The whole world did a dizzying tilt, and he slumped to the side. His shoulder hit the desk first, then his head. He jerked upright, biting his lip to keep from screaming.

Oh Christ, oh god, oh god.

Look at you. Jesus. Can't even kill a guy right. You deserve to be locked up in here.

"Fuck you," he whispered. Or maybe he shouted it. He had no idea. He couldn't hear a fucking thing anyway.

Panic wanted to settle in. He couldn't see, and now he couldn't hear for shit, either. How the hell was he supposed to get out of here now?

Inside his head, the voice laughed merrily, completely undaunted by the pain dancing in circles around it.

"Tell you what," he panted. "You stay here. I think I'm getting out."

I'd love to see you try, laughed the voice.

Slowly, being careful of the fucking desk, Sands leaned forward. He let his hands lead the way, favoring the right, trying to keep his arm pressed as close to his body as he could. He didn't think the shoulder was dislocated, but something up there sure wasn't happy.

His fingers touched cloth. He scooted forward on his knees so he could get closer.

His left hand brushed the dead man's face. Or what was left of it. He let his fingers trail over the wide nose, the full mouth, on down the throat, hoping to end up at the man's belt, where he would find a key, the key, any key—

His mind stopped working.

That face.

Oh my god.

He forced his suddenly trembling hands to return to the man's face. The man who he had killed.

The man who, upon entering the room, had said, "Sands." Not "Agent Sands." Just his name.

"No," he breathed. "Oh god, no."

There wasn't enough of the man's face left to be sure. But the nose, the mouth, the firm chin. They were all familiar, in a horrible, chilling way.

He had just killed El.

******