A/N: chapter two. Yeah, this is going slow . . . .
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She found Marcos and the wounded man nearly three blocks away. She arrived just in time to see him flip another man off. He then muttered something that was undoubtedly both insulting and profane. Amazingly, he was still on his feet, although it did appear as if the wall at his back was doing just as much (if not more) to keep him upright as his legs were.
She was unsure of how to approach him, knowing there was no way she'd have his instant trust, or even gratitude. Surely after the treatment he had received at the hands of the cartel, he was going to be . . . wary . . . of trusting a stranger. So how am I going to help him without having to tie him to the bed and then pumping him full of sedatives?
She stood idly by as she pondered that question, all too aware that every moment in the open upped the risk of being caught while trying to get to her house. So far she had been totally silent, even the sound of her sneakers on the pavement silenced or drowned out by the distant sounds of fighting. Not even Marcos had noticed that she had managed to track them down, but that was unlikely to last long. She needed a plan of action before she was noticed.
"Señor, are you alright?"
"No."
Marcos smiled. "You will be."
The man neither agreed nor disputed this statement. He leaned his head back against the stucco wall that was helping him stay on his feet. His face was a gory mess of dried and fresh blood. His left sleeve and both pant-legs were caked with blood as well. Even against the black of his clothes it was possible to see it.
There is no good reason that this man should still be conscious, let alone on his feet. She was puzzled by his stamina. It had to be more than simple willpower keeping him vertically situated. Drugs. If they gave him something to keep him aware as they removed his eyes, then it could still be in his system. Which would explain– Her thoughts were interrupted by the same man who was centered in them so prominently.
"Kid, get me outta here." He held out a hand in Marcos' general direction.
That's it. If he trusts Marcos, then I can use that. Enough to get him off the streets. She watched as the ever obedient Marcos took the man's gloved hand. He started to lead the man back down the street, back to where he had left her – towards the official residence which now more closely resembled a charnel house than a place the president had stayed.
"No. No, no, no. We just came from that direction. Lots of big, dumb, hired asses ready to shoot me on sight. Take me someplace else."
When Marcos started explaining in a barrage of Spanish that was hardly recognizable since it was so full of street slang, she decided it was time to make her appearance. Cutting Marcos off before he could fully explain what he was intending to do, she said, "Actually Marcos' sense of direction is surprisingly well developed for such a young boy." She stood perfectly still as the man turned his face in her general vicinity and went for his handgun.
"Who are you?"
"A friend of your rather loyal guide. He asked me to come help you." As she spoke the gun honed in on her position. Clearly this man was a threat no matter how disabled he was.
"And that makes you qualified or trustworthy how, sweetie?"
She ignored the part of her that said this was a dangerous situation and that she needed to run before she was shot. He'd probably just shoot me in the back anyway. Replying to his question, she said, "I'm qualified because I've spent the past six years mending various bruises, cuts, gashes, gouges, and broken bones. The four years before that were spent in medical school." She shrugged rather needlessly. "As for how you can trust me, Marcos does. That and I am possibly the only person in all Culíacan who doesn't want to kill you. And most convincingly, I don't trust you any more than you trust me." She watched him weave on his feet. "And if we don't get you somewhere where you can lie down, you'll collapse right here in the street. Easy prey for the cartel, the military, or any passing citizens who don't like gringos." The man was silent. "However, if you prefer to be taken to the hospital, I can arrange for that as well."
"No. No hospitals. Too accessible." He lowered his arm, but the gun remained in his hand.
"Mmm. That's what I though you'd say." She approached him slowly, letting her steps sound out deliberately. They were loud enough to be heard over the faint sounds of fighting. He tracked her, tracked the sound she made. It was almost creepy if she let herself dwell on the fact that he had no eyes yet was still perfectly able to tell where she was.
"I'm going to place myself on your right side, señor. I want you to lean on me. We have several blocks to walk as of yet," she looked around, "and it would be best if we were quickly on our way.
He shook his head. "I hate to argue with a lady, niña, but I'd rather have you where I can keep a weapon trained on you." He heard her footsteps stop.
"You want to support yourself with your wounded arm?" Her tone was disbelieving. "Are you sure that's a good idea? You've already lost a great deal of blood. I'm not sure that you can afford to lose any more. And we still need to get to my house. I'd rather not jostle that arm unless it's absolutely necessary." The footsteps started again.
"You're more concerned about my bloodcell count than you are about me shooting you. Are you insane, or merely stupid?"
Apparently I'm a glutton for punishment. "Neither. I'm practical. I was expecting you to do or demand something along those lines. After the day you've had, I'd expect nothing else." He felt a hand on his arm – his right arm. Apparently she didn't have a great deal of respect for his wishes. "Just keep your gun in your right hand, like this," she raised his arm so that it rested around her shoulders. The barrel of his gun was resting lightly against her breastbone. "Is that good enough for you? You can still shoot me immediately should you decide that I'm up to no good, and I can keep you from falling flat on your face and doing yourself yet another injury."
"Lady, you're nuts."
"You're not the first one to suggest that, and I'm sure you won't be the last." Gingerly (but securely) wrapping an arm around the man's slim waist, she said, "Okay, let's start moving."
Sands was sure that he had somehow managed to stray into hell. Every step emphasized the pain in his legs, his arm, and his head. What had started as sharp knife-like darts of pain had spread and merged to become a single sheet of fire that was slowly consuming his sanity. Or what was left of it.
The woman at his side hadn't spoken a word since they had set off. He was indifferently pleased to find that she was roughly the same height as he – it made it easier to use her as a crutch.
Oh, the pain was going to drive him fucking mad. There had to be a way to distract himself. Maybe by imaging the look on that bitch's face when I shot her. He grimaced. Imagine the look, hadn't seen it, couldn't see it because he had no fucking eyes, which was why he had shot Ajedrez in the first place. Well, that and she had betrayed him. That didn't work well.
"What's your name, niña?" The hand gripping his wrist to help keep it in place contracted sporadically, then relaxed.
"Most people call me Tess." Her voice was completely neutral, purposely void of any kind of emotion.
"Why's that?" He wondered how hard it would be to piss her off. Then maybe she'd leave him to die in the dirt instead of dragging him through what he was beginning to imagine purgatory was like.
"Because that's what I tell them to call me."
Non-informative answers. I always did like a tight-lipped woman. "Is there a last name to go with that, 'Tess'?"
"'Fraid not."
"So, what? Your parents a big fan of Cher or something?"
"No. They just didn't find it necessary to give me one. In their way of thinking, bastards aren't deserving of last names." This was said so matter-of-factly, yet with a very strong "drop it" vibe that Sands knew that this topic would probably piss her off faster than any other. "Who's bastard?"
"If I wanted you to know that, I probably would have volunteered the information. You can stop trying to piss me off. We've only got one more block to go."
"What can I say? I'm bored. It's not as if I can entertain myself with sightseeing." He let the subject drop for the time being. He was quickly losing the strength to irritate his guide. "So, what's for dinner?"
"How did you know?"
"Know what?" Tess was hot and sweaty from maneuvering her patient up the three flights of stairs from the street, and semi-nervous from the thought that her door could be knocked in at any moment. Yes, they had gotten back to her temporary residence safely, but they hadn't escaped scrutiny.
But surely we weren't the only people escorting wounded today. We couldn't have looked that out of place. Then, taking a good look at her patient who was covered in blood from pretty much head to toe, was wearing sunglasses long past the time when the sun had set, and a black sequined vest, she revised that thought. Hopefully we didn't look too out of place.
"Are you going to answer my question or are you going to stand there like a lackwit with your ass bare and your pants around your ankles?"
"What?" Oh. No. Actually it's you who's going to be caught with his pants down, although I assure you that you're ass will be covered at all times." She turned from the bed for a moment. "Marcos?"
"Sí, señora?"
"Will you get the really big pair of scissors from my left hand desk drawer and bring them here?" The boy nodded and ran off. When she returned her gaze to the bed, she found her guest slumped against the wall. "I thought I asked you to lie down."
He raised his uninjured arm, pointing a gun with an attached silencer at her. "I thought I asked how you knew where to find me?" he shot back in a reasonable yet too-controlled voice. "Now, I've had a rather . . . trying . . . day. A trying week, in fact. I'm not in the mood to be fucked with. So either you can answer my questions, or I can give you your own wounds to tend to."
