Chapter 16
Reuniting
Disclaimer: I don't own El, which is just as well, because he's very pissed off at me right now.
Rating: R for language and violence
Summary: El has had enough
Author's Note: Thanks to the delightfully evil Melody for her beta reading skills. Without her this story would be incoherent.
****
El was indeed still there.
Still standing, one might say.
****
El Mariachi was a very angry man.
The auction was eerily quiet compared to the noise of the casino. El stood in the back corner, his arms folded, head down beneath the dark hat he wore. In the two days since his forcible ejection from the casino, the bruises on his face had only become starker, and he did not want to draw attention to them.
He rather suspected it was too late, anyway. He was drawing attention to himself just by being here. Nearly everyone in this room tonight was cartel. Those few who had come for the sale of other items had made their purchases and left.
It had been a terribly frustrating two days. Frustrating because he had spent most of the first day in bed in his hotel room, in too much pain to even move. The casino's goons had been very thorough. He had several broken ribs and a few broken fingers to match. His nose was broken again, and his left eye still did not want to open all the way.
That was all right. He had been hurt worse before, God knew.
Still, it had been very hard to lay low, to let them think they had gotten the better of him. He had staggered away from the casino to the sound of their laughter in his ears, and it had taken all his willpower not to return that very night and kill every last one of them. Instead he had returned to the hotel and passed out.
All day long he had sat at a table in a dim corner of the nightclub, drinking and then drinking some more, and then pretending to drink. He had watched the people who passed on through, on their way to the casino. Around seven o'clock he had paid his own fees in order to enter Casino del Suerte. No one had even blinked at the sight of him, except maybe the bouncer at the bottom of the stairs, but that man had kept his mouth shut. What did he care if some guy who had been kicked out went inside again and got his sorry ass shot?
So here El was. He had stood through the sale of some automatic weapons, a sizable lot of cocaine, a set of surface-to-air missiles that had purportedly come from Cuba, and a host of other shit. During all this he had closed his eyes, letting the singsong chant of the auctioneer wash over him.
But now the highlight of the evening had come. The men in the chairs sat up a little straighter. El opened his eyes.
"Señores," said the auctioneer. He licked his lips nervously. None of the cartel members was armed – to the visible eye -- but that meant nothing. Right now there were at least a dozen guns in this room.
El himself had two.
"Debo preguntar que usted se queda sentado." I must ask that you remain seated.
"Por favor, espera hasta que la subasta se termine antes de hacer algo. Todos tendrán una oportunidad de mandar en el agente. Ahora, la subasta ha empezado." Please, wait until the auction has finished before doing anything. Everyone will have a chance to bid on the agent. Now, let the auction begin.
The auctioneer stood on a small stage, something that would have looked right at home in any school's theater. A deep red curtain separated the stage area from the back. The curtain now parted, and three men walked out.
El did not move, but his hands clenched into fists.
Sands walked between two men in dark suits. His hands were cuffed together. He was not very steady on his feet, and it was easy to see why. He was wearing his sunglasses, but beneath them, a bloody bandage covered the right side of his face.
Shouts rose in the room. Threats, and laughter. Sands lifted his head and seemed to survey the room. After a long pause, he raised the middle finger of his right hand. A faint smile crossed his face.
The room erupted. Several men leapt to their feet. Guns were pulled.
The auctioneer blanched. The men in suits drew their own weapons. "Señores!" shouted the auctioneer. "Por favor! Baje sus armas!" Lower your weapons!
The men did, all but one. This man stood in the center of the room. Diego Sanchez, new ruler of the cartel whose territory included Culiacan. Ruler of the cartel that had kidnapped Chiclet's brother, that had listened to Fideo and come to collect Sands from the very house he lived in.
"Tell me why I should not kill this asshole right now," Sanchez said coldly. He was El's height and build, but he shaved his head. The stories of how he had escaped the massacre at Ramon Escalante's hacienda varied, but one truth remained the same in all of them: Sanchez had not been there that day, and now he ruled the cartel.
Sands just smirked at him.
El wanted to raise his fists in the air with exultation. He had feared the worst over the past two days, but apparently captivity had done nothing to dull Sands' spirit.
"Because if you do," the auctioneer said smoothly, "this room will turn into a shooting ground. And I think neither of us want that."
Diego Sanchez stared hard at the suits with their guns. More of them had materialized from behind the red curtain, and every one of them had his gun aimed at the cartel leader. Sanchez scoffed, but he did holster his weapon. "Fine. Let's get this over with."
The auctioneer took his cue. "Quién hace la oferta cinco mil?" Who will offer five thousand?
Five thousand. That was the starting bid.
"I offer ten thousand," said Diego Sanchez.
"Fifteen," came the immediate reply from the other side of the room. El recognized him as Alejandro Lopez, from Mexico City.
"Eighteen," said Diego Sanchez.
And so it went. The price went up and up. Sands stood still. After that smirk in Sanchez's direction, he showed no interest in the auction or the men shouting out increasingly large sums of money. Occasionally he swayed as though he might fall. Each time this happened, one of the suits beside him would push or pull him upright again. If he was angry or humiliated at being sold like a piece of meat, he did not show it. He did not, in fact, even seem to really understand what was going on.
El had a morbid moment when he wondered what his own selling price would be, then decided that was a question he didn't really want answered.
He knew he was lucky to be standing here. The casino suits must have learned Sands' identity some time after letting El go. It was the only thing he could think of. Otherwise he knew he would be onstage too, sold to the cartel with the most money. He would be a prize, all right. Hell, the spectators would fill this room, and spill out into the hallway beyond, all of them wanting to see the great El Mariachi brought low.
In the end, the outcome was as he had expected. Diego Sanchez offered one hundred thousand pesos for Sands, and no one could match him. The auctioneer banged down his gavel, and the sale was final.
The suits started to escort Sands off the stage. The agent did not even lift his head. He just stumbled along between the firm hands of the suits, his normally graceful gait now a broken shuffle. Seeing him that way, El felt his anger begin to rise. All day he had successfully kept it in check, but now it fought his restraints, wanting to be turned loose.
Sanchez smiled coldly.
Some of the men in the back began filing out. El pushed himself off the wall, and strolled out of the room, following them.
****
Halfway around the building, one of Sanchez's men tried to attack him. The man had hidden behind a trash dumpster, but El had known he was there right from the start. When the man jumped out at him, he was ready.
Twenty seconds, and it was done. The man was dead with a broken neck, and El now had a third gun.
He continued around the building, moving more cautiously now. Every step sent a stab of pain through one side of his chest, and he cursed under his breath. Killing the man had been satisfying, but now he had tasted blood. Now he wanted more.
The other three of Sanchez's men had stopped in the alley behind the nightclub. A flight of stairs led below street level, down to the back door of the casino. Two pick-up trucks were parked back here, leaving again no doubt in El's mind that Sanchez had known all along that he would win the auction.
A new man had joined the three from inside – obviously left out here to guard the vehicles. There made four men in total, each of them wearing guns. As El watched, one of them glanced over his shoulder, clearly expecting his companion to come around the corner and announce that the man who had followed them was dead. All of them looked alert, but no more so than any of the other alert men El had killed before.
A door opened from the casino. El was keeping to the shadows beside the building, so he could not see the door itself. All he saw was the spill of light from within, a split-second before it was blotted out by two figures. He heard shuffling footsteps, then the men came into view.
A suit, and Sands.
"Here you go," said the suit. He chuckled. "Have fun."
One of Sanchez's men came forward and gripped Sands' arm. "Shut the fuck up," he said. He pulled the agent up the rest of the stairs. Sands came without protest, although El saw him bite his lip, in obvious pain. He stumbled and fell once to his knees, having to use his hands to break his fall.
The suit went back inside. The door clanged shut.
Sanchez's man stopped at the top of the stairs. He gave Sands a shake. "We're gonna take you to your new home, fucker. Hope you like it. It's gonna be the last one you ever see."
Sands just stood there for a moment. Then he looked up. "I can't see. Fucker." He delivered this last word softly, almost conversationally.
The man holding him laughed derisively. "Yeah, whatever. Let's go."
It happened so fast El had trouble following it. One minute Sands was very still, the cartel man holding his arm. Then in the next, the man was doubled over, his hands clutching his bleeding throat, and the small, sharp rock protruding there. Sands brought his knee up sharply, his cuffed hands diving for the gun the man carried at his hip. Bone crunched as the man's nose broke and his head snapped back, then he fell to the ground.
The other three men grabbed for their guns, then froze as Sands said, "Drop 'em, boys." He took a step to the side, the gun held in both hands.
Sanchez's men stood where they were, too stunned to move.
It was time. El walked forward deliberately. Even if Sands had shown himself capable of taking down every one of these fuckers, El would not have let him. He was too pissed off. He wanted this moment.
With a twin snap of his wrists, the guns he had been hiding in his sleeves popped into his hands. He grinned, savagely enjoying the look of dismayed shock on the cartel members' faces. "You heard him." The broken fingers of his left hand did not want to hold the gun, but he made them do it anyway.
Slowly, a wide smile spread across Sands' face. He was ghastly pale, and he looked like he might collapse at any moment, but there was no mistaking the pure joy in that smile. "El."
"I am here," El said. He did not take his eyes off the cartel members. All three of them were glaring alternately at him and Sands. None of them, however, had dropped their guns.
There they might have stood all night, except the back door of the casino opened again. That rectangle of light spilled outward a second time, and then two new shadows erased it.
The three cartel members all looked that way immediately. Sands took one large step backwards and to his left, trying to get out of the field of vision of the men at the bottom of the stairs. It was a good maneuver, but it was not enough.
"What the fuck is going on here?" demanded Diego Sanchez.
And suddenly everything went into motion.
The stairwell was bounded on street level by two concrete walls. They were chest-high on El, and they were clear of the street graffiti that usually found its way onto such structures. El ducked behind the nearest one now, on the right of the stairwell. His ribs protested loudly, and he gasped, "Sands!"
The agent did not hesitate. He ran forward, using El's voice to guide him to the right spot.
Not a moment too soon. The cartel members opened fire, and bullets struck the concrete wall just as Sands slid around, coming to rest beside El.
El took in his too-pale complexion, and the fresh blood staining the bandage over his eye, and knew that Sands would not last long in a protracted fight. They had to end this quickly.
Apparently Sanchez's men had no intention of drawing things out, either. They advanced as one, shooting the whole while. Bullets struck the top of the wall. Chips of concrete broke off and spattered El and Sands; gray dust settled in their hair.
"Christ," Sands muttered. "Now what?"
"Now we shoot," El said.
"I can live with that," Sands said. He turned on his knees and reached up to prop the barrel of his gun on top of the wall while keeping his head ducked low. The action wrung a low groan from his throat, but he did not stop. He began to fire.
Immediately the cartel members scattered for cover. El rose smoothly and shot at them. He got one as the man tried to hide behind one of the pickup trucks, and winged another as he tried the same thing. The other man made it to the safety of the truck, however, and he began returning fire.
Strangely, no gunfire came from the stairwell, and Diego Sanchez and his man.
El dropped back down, his breath hissing through his teeth as pain speared through his chest.
For a moment silence ruled the night. Then El heard the sound of a door opening.
Sands heard it too. "Shit."
The casino employees. Once the suits entered the fight, the odds would be overwhelmingly against them.
El peeked over the wall, saw the last cartel man reloading his gun, and made a quick decision. He grabbed Sands' arm. "Let's go."
Sands flinched and uttered an involuntary cry, and El immediately changed his plan. He let go of the agent. "Cover me."
He ran out from behind the safety of the wall. Behind the truck, the man had finished reloading his gun. On the ground near the rear wheels, the second man El had shot was feebly moving, trying to rise.
The man behind the truck saw El coming and fired. El stumbled as something struck him, but did not stop running. A split second later gunshots came from behind the wall as Sands sprayed the area with bullets, sending the suits back down the stairs, and making the man behind the truck dive for cover again. Through sheer chance, one bullet struck the man on the ground, and he went very still.
Then Sands ran out of ammunition.
It didn't matter. El had reached the pickup truck. And he had three guns, all of which still had bullets in them. He opened the driver's side door and climbed halfway in the truck. "Come on!" he shouted.
Sands reacted immediately. He ran toward the sound of El's voice, staying low, still holding the empty gun.
From his angle, El could not hope to hit the man behind the second truck, but that was not his intention. All he wanted was to keep the man from being able to fire at them.
Sands reached the truck. El moved aside. "Get in. Look for the keys."
"Very funny," Sands snapped. But he wasted no time in climbing in the truck and pulling down the sunvisors. A set of keys spilled out from the one over the driver's seat, and El quickly folded himself into the truck, his breath catching on another gasp of pain.
The gun he had taken from Sanchez's man was tucked in the waistband of his jeans. He reached for it now and tossed it at Sands. "Here." He jammed the keys into the ignition and started the truck.
In the rearview mirror he saw the last cartel member step out from the safety of the second truck, and start firing at them. More men, all of them in dark suits, poured onto the street from the stairwell leading down to the casino. There was still no sign, however, of Diego Sanchez.
Sands rolled down the window, and leaned out. He twisted around so he was facing the back of the truck, and started firing.
El floored it. The truck jolted forward, quickly leaving the casino behind. The street ended a block up, and El slowed for the turn, but only a little. Sanchez's man started to get into the truck, and the last thing El saw in the mirror before he turned the corner was one of the casino suits stopping that man.
Then the truck rounded the corner, and he could see no more.
"Get in!" he shouted. "They're behind us now."
Sands slid back in through the window. "You're out," he said, and tossed the gun back at El.
"It's not mine," he said.
"I didn't think it was."
"Are you hit?"
"No. You?"
El nodded. "Yes."
"Shit. Bad?"
"No." He glanced at his arm. The wound hurt, but the pain was still dim. Later it would hurt like hell, but for now sheer nerves kept the worst of it at bay. "It's not bad."
"Get out of town, then we'll stop," Sands said.
El looked at him, and the blood on his face. If it was possible, Sands was even paler than he had been before. He held his cuffed hands to the side, so he could press his right arm to his chest. Blood trickled down his face from beneath the bandage, shining under the streetlights. "What did they do to you?" El demanded.
Sands gave him a sick smile. "It wasn't them," he said. "I did this."
El was horrified. "What? Why? Why would you do that?"
"Control, El," Sands said wearily. He let his head fall back to rest on the seat. "It's all about control. Who has it.
"And who doesn't. Anymore."
El made a right turn onto the town's main road. He glanced in the rearview mirror. No pursuit. He did not slow down. "What are you saying?"
"I am saying, El my dear friend, that all is quiet on the western front." Sands' smile changed, became less brittle and more genuine. "I'm saying, I won."
"The voice," El breathed.
"Is gone," Sands said triumphantly.
It couldn't be that easy, El thought. It just couldn't. But he could not deny the wild hope that surged through him. Maybe it was that easy. Maybe for once, just once, they would catch a break.
"We'll stop at the hotel and get the car," he said. "Then we'll see about getting those cuffs off."
"That would be swell," Sands said. His voice was fading. He was rapidly losing consciousness.
"Rest," El said. His chest ached with every breath and the broken fingers of his left hand throbbed. The gunshot wound in his arm was beginning to sing with pain. But he had rarely felt so good.
They had done it again. Created a victory where there should have been none. And they were together again.
"El?"
"Yeah?"
"Did they beat you up?"
He lied, "Only a little."
"Fuckers."
El said nothing to this. He felt ashamed of himself, that he would take advantage of Sands' blindness this way, but what harm could it do? The man didn't need to know how badly hurt he was.
"El?" Sands' voice was little more than a whisper.
"What?"
"I'm glad you're not dead."
El blinked. He had no idea why Sands would say that. "So am I," he ventured.
Sands did not hear this. He had finally passed out.
****
By the time they reached the hotel, El was beginning to worry he would succumb to unconsciousness himself. But there was no time to waste.
Before leaving the hotel earlier, he had packed their bags and put them in the trunk. So it was a simple matter to ditch the stolen truck and move to their car.
He had to help Sands out of the truck. The agent stumbled when his feet hit the pavement, and he cursed. "Where are we?"
"The hotel," El said. "We are leaving town."
"That," Sands said wearily, "is an excellent idea."
They walked around the car. The pain in El's ribs made him hobble, and he found himself muttering furiously under his breath. When Sands had eased his way into the front seat, El straightened up with relief. He went over to his side and slid in, his jaw clenched against a groan.
"El?"
"What?"
"Don't fucking lie to me."
He flushed. "What?"
"I know you're hurt worse than you said."
The reproach in Sands' voice was more effective than if he had shouted or cursed. El dropped his head. "I'll be fine."
"Christ," Sands said in disgust. "Look at us, El. What a pair we make."
El started the car. "Vera Cruz?"
Sands lifted his left shoulder in a barely perceptible shrug. "Sure."
"You need a doctor," he ventured.
"So do you."
El scowled. He had no intention of submitting himself to a doctor's care, and he knew damn well that Sands felt the same.
He sighed. "Vera Cruz it is."
"Vera Cruz," Sands breathed.
He pulled out of the parking lot and onto the road. He had left some money on the pillow of his bed, enough to cover the cost of their stay. He hoped that would pacify the hotel management, but if not, well, what was one more group hunting them down?
They drove in silence for a while. Long enough for the bleeding to stop from El's arm where he had been shot. Long enough for them to leave the town and Casino del Suerte behind.
"El?"
He jumped. He had thought Sands was asleep.
"What?"
"It's not gone for good. It will be back."
El thought about the desperation that had driven Sands to hurt himself so badly, all in an effort to battle the madness in his head. He could not imagine how Sands must have felt, to go to such lengths.
"I know," he said. "And when that happens, we will fight it."
"We," Sands said, so quietly El could barely hear him.
"We," El affirmed. He had no earthly idea how he could combat his friend's insanity, but he had every intention of doing his best to help.
"Stop," Sands said, his voice suddenly stronger. "Stop the car. Now."
Thinking maybe he was going to be sick, El pulled over to the side of the road. It was dark out, and there were no streetlights along this stretch of blacktop. "Are you all right?"
"Shut up," Sands said. "No talking." He turned in his seat and scooted closer to El, ignoring the way the gearshift dug into his leg. He raised his cuffed hands, although El could see that it hurt him to do so.
With surprising gentleness, he touched El's face.
El sat very still under this exploration. When Sands' fingers found his bruises, he winced slightly, but he did not pull away.
An odd smile tugged at Sands' mouth. "How could I have thought…?" he whispered.
El frowned. "Thought what?"
Sands hesitated, then he dropped his hands back to his lap. "Nothing," he said. "I thought…nothing."
El did not believe this, but he had no choice but to accept it. He put the car back in drive and started forward again.
******