Chapter 18

Sacrificing

Disclaimer: I do not own Sands. If I did, I would never let him do anything this crazy.

Rating: R for language and mild violence

Summary: Sands finds out how far he will go to protect El

Author's Note: This is what I get for writing about a psychotic. This chapter was not my idea, honest!

And a million thanks to Melody, for catching me up in a pretty big plothole, and making sure I fixed it. And for sending me such lovely pictures to make my work day go faster.

****

I have found my meaning.

True. So very true.

And I'm sorry, but that's the reason I can't let you come with me.

El was going to be really pissed. Well, that was just too damn bad. But he couldn't do it. He could not let El deliberately walk into danger. Not when El was that fabled meaning.

El and Chiclet. They were all he had to live for. They had done so much for him. Now it was his turn.

A soft chuckle escaped him as he got out of the car. Who would have thought? Sheldon Jeffrey Sands, learning about self-sacrifice at this late date. Ladies and gentlemen, maybe there's hope for our poor fucked-up boy after all.

It took some doing to get El's limp body out of the car and into the ditch at the side of the road. Then he had to tramp along until he found a suitably large branch to cover the mariachi with. By the time this was done, he was sweating, and his hands were shaking.

Holy shit, was he really going to do this?

He started walking up the road. And by God, it seemed he really was doing this.

Because he had realized something after leaving Cozumel. Well, two things, really.

The first was that he would do anything to keep Chiclet safe. And if things were indeed too late, and the boy was already in the cartel's clutches, then he would do whatever it took to free him.

The second was that he could not expose El to Diego Sanchez. El, who had braved a casino full of cartel in order to save him. The cartels wanted El more than they wanted him. He knew this. El knew this. Yet still El had come for him.

And El had gotten lucky once, but that was no guarantee it would happen again. If El walked up to that house, bold as brass, he would be dead before setting foot on the property.

Sands could not let that happen. He would not let that happen.

He walked along the road. Normally when he walked into town and back, he knew exactly where he was at all times. He counted steps, and he listened to the changing sounds of the world around him. Not so today. He wasn't sure how far back El had pulled the car over, and how far he would have to walk before someone spotted him.

That was all right. He trusted the cartel to find him first.

"Hey," he whispered. "You in there?"

There was no response. The voice in his head was quiet.

He nodded. That was all right. He had been prepared to make a pact with the voice – you help me and I'll help you – but it was just as well that it was still silent. He didn't need it, after all. The truce had just been Plan B. It was better this way, that he did this alone.

Life was really funny sometimes. Like how it had taken him thirty-five years to figure out just who the voice was.

I'm you!

Yes indeed. And why was the voice strong and clever and brave?

Why, because he was all those things.

The voice wasn't afraid to take action, because he wasn't. The voice knew how to manipulate people because he knew how. On its own the voice didn't know anything. It was just a mouthpiece.

Just a voice.

You want to be careful though, he thought. Thinking like that is apt to get you in trouble. It's a lot more than just a voice and you know it.

Yes, yes he did know it. And when the madness came back, as he knew it would, it would be horrible. There would be a battle for his mind that day, and the prize would be his sanity. To lose that battle would be to lose everything.

But hopefully that day was still far in the future. He felt confident that it was. Right now he was firmly in control. There was no chance for the voice to come back. The real danger would come if he allowed himself to lose control.

Or if that control was taken from him.

"Nope," he whispered. "Not gonna happen."

But he wondered who he was kidding. He was walking unarmed into an ambush of cartel – he had left his guns with El, on the hope that El would see them and understand what he had done. Did he really think he was going to come out of this all right?

A shout went up. The first of the lookouts had seen him. "Hands in the air!"

Footsteps hurried forward. Guns were cocked. He stopped walking and raised his hands, unable to keep from smirking. It was kind of funny, really.

"Don't move, asshole," someone ordered.

Rough hands jerked his arms behind him and cuffed his wrists. Thick meaty fingers encircled his upper arm and dragged him forward. He fought the urge to pull away from the unwanted touch. El could touch him now, but that was because he knew El wouldn't hurt him. He had no such guarantees with these guys – in fact, they probably couldn't wait to hurt him.

"How ya boys doing?" he asked brightly.

A hand whapped the back of his head. Not hard. Just enough to remind him who was in charge.

They walked him the rest of the way. Down the road, up the driveway, toward the house. One man holding him, another walking close by. He began to hear voices, shuffling footsteps, fabric rustling, guns. There were many men on the front yard, he realized. More on the porch.

And from the porch, another voice. This one younger, scared. Cut off almost immediately.

Chiclet.

"Agente Arenas," said Diego Sanchez, using the Spanish translation of his name.

He said, "It's Sands, fuckmook."

"So it is," Diego Sanchez said.

He heard Chiclet again, muffled. Either they had gagged the kid, or someone had a hand over his mouth. "Let the kid go."

A surprised murmur ran through the yard. How did he know? they all wondered. Wasn't he supposed to be blind?

He smiled thinly. "Let him go, Sanchez."

"You are in no position to be making demands," said Diego Sanchez.

"Too bad," Sands said. "I'm making one anyway. Let the kid go, or this is going to turn ugly."

Another murmur went through the men. Was he alone? Were they surrounded right now? He imagined them looking around uneasily, peering at the bushes, eyeing the road, waiting for an attack. He liked those images, very much.

"I think you are making an empty threat," Diego Sanchez said. "Do you know why I think this? Because I know you arrived here with only the mariachi. Where is he now?"

Sands shrugged. "The damndest thing. That cowardly fucker. He didn't want any part of this. He let me out and kept right on driving. He's probably halfway to the coast by now."

Diego Sanchez made a sound of patent disbelief. "And so you are alone," he said. "You come walking up here, so bold. I must ask, why? You knew we were here."

"I knew," Sands said. "And you know why I'm here. He's standing on my porch. And if any of your goons have hurt him, I will kill you."

"You surprise me, Agent Sands," said Sanchez. "The stories about you speak of a cold-blooded killer. Yet here you are, for the sake of a child."

He said nothing. They would not understand. Hell, he barely understood it himself. All he knew was that the very thought of any of those fuckers laying a hand on Chiclet made his blood boil. It wasn't allowed. It just was not allowed.

"Where is El Mariachi?" asked Sanchez.

"Here's the deal," Sands said, ignoring the question. In truth, he was getting very sick of being asked that. It seemed like ever since El had hauled him out of Ramirez's house, there had always been someone asking him that. El Mariachi, El Mariachi. To listen to them, you'd think the cartels didn't have anything better to do with their time than hunt for El Mariachi.

"You are going to let the boy go free. He is going to walk out of here, down the driveway, and back to his home. You are going to leave the people of this village alone. You are going to forget you ever heard about El Mariachi, and you are most definitely going to stop hunting him. Savvy?"

Stunned silence met this pronouncement. A few of the men standing in the yard snickered. Finally Diego Sanchez said, not without some amusement, "And why will I do these things?"

"Because if you do," Sands said, "I promise to go with you. Quietly. No fuss. And you can do whatever you want with me."

From on the porch, he heard a desperate, muffled cry.

Relax, Chiclet. I know what I'm doing.

And the strange thing was that he did. Two years ago he could never have even imagined himself doing it. One year ago he could have conceived of the idea, but been unable to carry it out. But things were different now. He could do it now.

He meant to do it.

"Rest assured, Agent Sands, that I will do what I want with you," Sanchez said. He did not sound amused now.

"But that only happens if you let the boy go," Sands said.

"I could just shoot you now," Diego Sanchez said.

"You could," Sands said with a shrug. He felt the old excitement stirring in his blood. He had won. The game wasn't even over yet, and he had already won. "But then you wouldn't be getting your money's worth, would you?"

In the silence that followed he could almost hear Sanchez's rage. He braced himself for a blow, but none came.

"Pedro." Sanchez kept his voice very steady. "Take the boy to his house."

Sands allowed himself a thin smile. "I knew you'd see things my way."

Footsteps crossed the yard, coming toward him. That would be Diego Sanchez. Again he tensed, waiting for a blow.

He became aware that the man holding his arm was standing close. Very close. An unwanted tendril of fear slid into his belly.

Don't, he told himself. Don't. Don't. Freak. Out.

If he panicked, if he lost control, the voice would come back. He had to stay in control.

He cleared his throat. "So. Diego my man. You're not going to...ah...molest me now, are you?" He strove to sound casual, as if the question was of no consequence.

Sanchez let out an unamused laugh. He was much closer now. "No, Agent Sands. I can assure you that neither I nor my men are interested in your ass."

"Well, that's good to know." He slumped a little in relief. But not too much. If they saw how relieved he was, they would rape him just on general principle. And then he really would lose his mind.

Sanchez continued, "We are more interested in hearing you scream."

Sands nodded. "Again, good to know," he drawled.

The footsteps stopped just in front of him. "The mariachi," said Diego Sanchez. "You are protecting him."

"If you say so," Sands said, shrugging again, as if he had no interest in questions about life or death. Then he suddenly realized that he had not heard the sounds of anyone leaving the front porch yet. That guy Pedro was still standing there, holding Chiclet hostage. Shit. This was not good.

"Would you trade your life for his?"

Sands thought about this. His life wasn't worth much -- no one would say otherwise -- but he thought it might be worth enough to save El.

He hoped it was, at any rate.

"Yes."

Sanchez leaned in; he could suddenly smell tequila and sandalwood. "I accept your offer. You are going to die, Agent Sands."

He stood a little straighter, pulling his arm free of the man holding him. He lifted his chin defiantly. He wondered if it would be a bullet in the head, or the chest. Maybe the gut, so they could watch him bleed to death. He didn't really care about dying, but he did regret that it would have to happen in front of Chiclet.

"Oh, not now," Sanchez said. "No, it is going to take some time. You are going to die slowly, Agent Sands. Painfully. One death for every one of my men you have killed. Starting with Ramon Escalante."

This was unexpected. He gave a start. "Escalante?"

"He was my brother," Sanchez said. "Through marriage only, but still my brother, in all ways that mattered." He eased closer and pulled Sands' sunglasses off.

The men in the yard gasped and muttered to themselves. A few swore. A few laughed.

"I was not there the day Armando took your eyes, but Ramon was. Often he described it to me." Sanchez's voice dropped to a confiding note. "The way you screamed."

Sands gritted his teeth. The thought of all those men staring at him and the empty holes in his face made him want to scream with rage and then bash their heads in. He hated being stared at. He hated that they could all see his weakness, the maddening reason he was standing here today, offering himself to them like a fucking sacrificial lamb. If I had my eyes, you fucker, if I could see you, you think we'd be standing here like this? You would already be dead.

"I will hear those screams again," Sanchez said. "Before I allow you to die for good, you will beg me a hundred times over for death."

"I see," he said carefully, unable to help it; the words just slipped out. Then, with sudden cheer he asked, "Did Ramon" – he rolled the "r" zestfully – "also tell you I was insane?" He grinned.

"He did not need to," Sanchez said. "We knew, even before the coup. It was in the letter."

His grin slipped a little. "The letter?"

"The letter telling us about you. I see you did not know about this."

"No," he said faintly. A letter. Oh Christ.

"A woman wrote it. She claimed to be former CIA. She told us about you, and warned us that you intended to steal the money meant for General Marquez. Because of this letter, Barillo had his daughter earn your trust, so we could learn your plan. That is how we knew what you were up to, Agent Sands. Why we were able to take you. And your eyes."

Sands thought he was going to be sick. A letter. Written by a woman. It had to have been Belinda Harrison. And how clever of her to claim to be former CIA, the better to make sure Barillo believed her. On the day she had come to the house and finally revealed her own insanity, he had guessed that she had set him up, but it had been only a guess. He hadn't known for sure.

Now he knew differently.

A letter. Bel "That Bitch" Harrison had been big on keeping evidence. Which meant she would have kept a copy of the letter.

Which meant El knew. Because El would surely have found the letter at Belinda's house in the village on that day, the day of the hurricane, the day Sands had killed her.

El had known. And El had never told him.

Cold fury swept through him. He had never felt so betrayed in all his life. No, not even when Ajedrez had sat down across from him at that cafe. He had no secrets left from El, but by God, El had seen fit to keep secrets from him. What about all that talk of trust? Apparently it had been just that – only talk.

He grinned, a hard, humorless grin. "Fucked again. Good ol' Bel."

Sanchez either didn't get it, or chose not to. "Yes, I would say you are fucked, Agent Sands."

The tone of his voice changed when it got to his name. Sands tensed, but of course there was nothing he could do. The gun butt struck the back of his head, and he was falling, falling into a black far deeper than blindness.

The last thing he heard was Chiclet calling his name.

****

He came to once, to find himself bouncing along in the trunk of a car. His hands were still cuffed behind him. His head throbbed, and his stomach churned unhappily. "Oh, very original," he muttered.

A fresh twinge of pain shot across his skull, a bit apologetically, as if to say it was sorry things had to be this way.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," he sighed.

He wondered how long of a drive it was to his new home. The last home he would ever know.

****

He did not struggle when they came to get him out, but one of Sanchez's men was overzealous, and hit him as he stumbled over the back fender of the car.

Immediately he slumped, the world going fuzzy and dim. He could still hear, but everything sounded very faraway and distant. He could not move to help himself as two men propelled him forward. He knew when they went inside because the warmth of the sun was suddenly gone, but that was all he could tell. They could have been at a nuclear-weapons factory or a two-bedroom house for all he knew.

By the time the forward motion stopped, however, his head was clearing. He was even able to stumble along under his own power for the last few steps. Then they jerked him to a halt and he stood still, swaying a little, praying he wasn't going to vomit the first time he opened his mouth to say something.

"I would welcome you to my home," Diego Sanchez said, "but I only offer a welcome to my guests. And you are not a guest."

Sands risked a nod, and wished he hadn't as pain shot through his head. "What do you call people like me?" he asked in a low voice, pleased that the words came out just fine, and just the words, thank god. "Prisoner? Captive? Hostage?"

"Muerto," Diego Sanchez said harshly.

Dead.

"Ah." Sands nodded again.

He thought they were in an office. The kind a businessman had in his house. The room was fairly warm, which meant a lot of windows. Sanchez sounded like he was sitting down – behind a mahogany desk, no doubt. The two men who had escorted him here stood on either side of him, not touching him now, but close enough that if he swayed just a degree to the left or right, he could feel the fabric of their sleeves.

"So," he said. "Guy like you. Probably starts out running, am I right? Making deliveries, proving you can be trusted. Then you get to know the big kahunas, and they start trusting you with more. You learn things. You stop running and now you direct the guys doing the deliveries. Am I right?"

"What do you want?" Sanchez asked. The clipped way he answered told Sands that oh yeah, he had gotten it right.

He was not surprised. He had never yet met a guy he couldn't figure out.

"I want to make you a deal," he said.

"You have already made a deal," Sanchez said coldly. "I am afraid that is the limit of my goodwill."

"But you haven't heard what I'm about to say," Sands said.

Diego Sanchez sighed. "You are trying my patience, Agent Sands. And when I am impatient, I get angry. And when I am angry, I find that often only the screams of my enemies puts me in a better mood."

"A man after my own heart," Sands said. He was not afraid of Sanchez, or anything they might do to him. He had, after all, survived all the other shit the world had thrown at him. Hell, he had only been a kid when he had come through the worst of it. And yeah, maybe he had lost his sanity then, but there was always a price to be paid for survival.

So he was not particularly frightened of Sanchez. "Here is my offer. Let me join you."

The man on his right let out a surprised burst of laughter. The man on the left was silent. Diego Sanchez said, "Why would I do that?"

"I'm a spy," Sands said very simply. "And I'm good at what I do. You know I am, or I wouldn't have survived in this country as long as I did. I'm a good shot, I'm an American, and I'm blind. No one would ever suspect the blind American." He smirked.

Diego Sanchez was apparently thinking this over. Sands could tell by the way the man on his left suddenly shifted his weight from foot to foot in agitation. "I would have to test you first. Prove your loyalty."

He nodded. "Sure. I would expect you to."

"Men who wish to join my cartel must first accomplish a task," Diego Sanchez said. "Normally this involves something about our product, but I do not think you care about drugs."

Sands shook his head. "You know I don't give a shit about your drugs, or anyone else's."

"As I said," replied Diego Sanchez. "So your task is different. Kill El Mariachi."

Sands shrugged, although it was not easy to do – his shoulders ached from having his hands cuffed behind him for so long. "Okay."

"Okay? You expect me to believe that?" demanded Sanchez. He sounded very cold.

"Well sure," Sands drawled. "I mean, I was pissed when he drove off and left me, but it was also kind of good to get away from him, you know? I'm getting really sick of him. You would be too if you had to live with him. Besides, are you forgetting?" He grinned. "Insane here. Us madmen don't form attachments to other people. It's too...normal." He laughed for a moment, then let the smile die. "So yeah, I'll kill him for you."

Not that he could. He knew that now. If Sanchez called his bluff, he had no idea what he would do.

Unfortunately – or perhaps fortunately, depending on how you looked at it – Sanchez did not fall for it.

"Yet one of the conditions of your surrender was that we let him go," the cartel leader said.

Sands sighed theatrically. "Yeah. It was, wasn't it?" He shrugged again, even though he already knew that he had lost this particular round. "But hey, it sounded good, didn't it?"

"How stupid do you think I am?" Sanchez demanded. "Even if I did not know you were lying about wanting to join us, do you really think I would give you a gun?"

Sands shrugged again. "That's okay. I don't need a gun to kill anyone." He kicked out with his right foot, sweeping the man beside him off his feet. The man fell over backward with a surprised yelp.

Sands dropped with him. The man hit the floor a bare second before he did. He pinned the man's throat with his right knee. He reached behind him, feeling a flare of the old pain in his right shoulder as he did. When his groping hands found a clump of the man's hair, he yanked the man's head up and to the side. The loud crack as the man's neck broke filled the room.

Footsteps ran toward him. Not just one set, but three. There had been two other men in the office, he realized, probably flanking Diego Sanchez.

They knocked him off the dead man, and to the floor. Booted feet thudded into his ribs, stomach, head. And it didn't matter how many there were. When they were beating the shit out of you, most things ceased to matter.

They let up long enough for Sanchez to approach. "You killed Jose," the drug lord said. "That is one more death you will pay for."

Sanchez knelt beside him. Sands longed to spit on him, but a boot on the side of his head was grinding his face into the floor, and there was no chance. "I think I will offer you a welcome, after all," said Diego Sanchez. "Because you are going to be here for a long time, Agent Sands. A very long time."

"Fuck you," he snarled.

"I know El Mariachi will come for you," Sanchez said. "In fact, I am counting on it. That is why I took you with me." His voice drifted a little, as he stood up. "El Mariachi will come, and when he does, I will kill him. You, Agent Sands, will get to listen to his dying screams. They will be the last thing you hear, before you die."

"He won't come," Sands managed, then the boot pressed down hard, making speech impossible.

"Perhaps not," Sanchez said. "Either way, it does not matter. You will still die. But we will see. We will wait, and we will see."

Sanchez kicked him. Bright pain exploded in his face, and then it was gone.

Then everything was gone.

****

The dream is horrible. The sunlight heats his face, but beneath it, he feels cold, so cold that he will never be warm again. He is caught between two of them, twisting and fighting to get free, shouting curses at them. His hands are unbound, but that does not seem to matter, because he still cannot get free.

El Mariachi is screaming.

The men are laughing. El's screams grow weaker.

Diego Sanchez walks up to him. "Take this." The scorpion dagger is placed in his hand. The hilt is hot to the touch, burning his palm, marking him directly over the scar where once this blade drank his blood. "Cut him."

What choice does he have? He made this decision and now he must follow it through. He walks across the courtyard, holding the burning dagger. When he reaches El he stops and raises his hand so he can touch El, so he can see what they have done.

El is tied to a post, slumped against his bonds. There is blood. So much blood. Already the mariachi is dying.

"Cut his hands off," Diego Sanchez orders.

He raises his hand higher, so he can feel El's face, and then he cries out in horror. They have taken El's eyes.

"You were right," El sighs.

"About what?" he moans. Oh god. El. They have ripped out El's eyes.

"About everything," El says.

They are all shouting at him, jeering, laughing, urging him to cut. "I'm sorry," he says. "I never wanted this."

"I know," El whispers.

"I'll see you on the other side," he says.

He cuts. Just once. Blood pours from the gash in El's throat. The mariachi sighs. Maybe he says, "Thank you."

He raises the dagger to his own throat, but before he can cut the thunder of guns fills the air. His body twists and turns under the impact of so many bullets, falling by slow degrees.

Then the ground is there. It's a soft landing. He lies there for a moment, then opens his eyes.

El stands there. A beautiful dark-haired woman is at his side. She is carrying a young girl in one arm, and her other is about El's waist.

El holds out a hand. He smiles.

Smiling, he gets up and goes to them.

****

He woke with a start. Immediately the pain of his battered body was there, clamoring for his attention.

He rolled onto his side with a groan, drawing up his knees so he could curl into a ball. He had no idea where he was, but the air was cool, and damp. A wine cellar, perhaps. Definitely underground, wherever it was.

Okay. Stay calm. He just had to stay calm. He could do that.

But deep inside his head, something stirred, and opened one sleepy eye.

******