Author's Note: Sorry this one took awhile to get out, but first I had a mild case of writer's block, and then Ashley, my dear beta, had a hectic weekend.  *sigh*  Why does real life have to intrude into the realm of fanfic?  : )

Anyway, enjoy this chapter, and be looking for the next between Wednesday and Thursday.  Author's Thanks at the end.

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Sands was sitting on what he was coming to think of as his bed in a room he was starting to hate to look of, despite the face that he couldn't see it.  It was enough that he could hear what it sounded like.  If he had to see it as well, he might well have taken his guns and started blowing patterns into the bare walls to keep himself occupied.

   How did he know the walls were bare?  Every sound in the room echoed and was amplified.  Acoustically, it was a cross between a bathroom and a storage closet.  From what he was able to surmise, the room held only a bare minimum of furniture and no decorative touches at all.  Which makes me think that this wasn't meant to be a long term living arrangement.  That did lend some credence to "la niña's" story.

   Tessa.  Her name is Tessa.

   Yes, but 'niña' is ever so much more fun.  He smirked, even though the lopsided grin caused a decent amount of pain to shoot through his head.  No matter.  Any facial movement at all caused pain to shoot through his head.  Thinking made his head hurt.  And sound was no gift at the moment either, but it was one he had latched on to with both hands.  There was nothing worse at this point in time, he imagined, than having to exist in a sightless and soundless world.  Might as well be dead.  And he really had fought too hard to simply eat his gun now.

   Damn, it's hot.  I hate this country.  True, it's so easy to manipulate a majority of the population, but the climate definitely leaves something to be desired.  It's night.  Why is it so hot?  Carefully removing a blanket from around his shoulders, he thought, With my current luck I'm getting some kind of infection and running a fever.  Just when you think it can't get any worse.  Remembering some of the shows he had watched, mainly lame Saturday morning cartoons (hey, everyone had a guilty pleasure), he thought with some degree of humor, At least it's not raining.  That was probably the best thing he could say about his life right now.  It wasn't raining on him.  Possibly the biggest shit-storm of all time?  Yes.  Rain?  No.

   It was boring to sit for untold periods of time with no one to talk to.  Sands briefly considered going to sleep again, hoping that sleep would help him leave behind the pain and the tediousness of his day so far, but knew better than that.  There was no telling just what kind of trouble might come knocking.  Thinking back to the telephone call earlier that day, he decided that it would not be the best idea to let his defenses down at the moment – not when there was no one in the house to alert him to danger.

   At least I know that she didn't give me away.  While he got a perverse type of satisfaction from making people think he didn't speak a lick of Spanish, he was more than fluent in it.  To the regret of his Spanish teacher, he had taken four years of it in high school and two in college.  He'd even dated a Nicaraguan exchange student for a few months while at the University of Washington. 

   That had been a surprise – the school, not the girl.  His prospects during his senior year of high school had been much better than some run-of-the-mill  four year school.  His SAT and ACT scores had been good enough for the Ivy League – his parents more than able to afford the tuition.  He had actually enjoyed letting them down by attending some school in Washington that would accept most anyone, provided they had the GPA and the money.  Needless to say, he hadn't spoken to them since.  And they hadn't exactly tried to speak to him either.  Well, his mother kept sending Christmas cards and belated birthday wishes – belated, he figured, because she tried to get dear old dad to sign them as well.  Fat chance of that ever happening.  The old man was just as stubborn as his son.

   No big loss.  I wasn't the perfect son they wanted, and they weren't the parents I wanted. 

   Shouldn't you be worrying about whoever it is that your bosses sent down after you?

   Bosses?  The CIA?  You want me to worry about a bunch of people who can't decide upon any course of action without first having a seven hour meeting over it and filling out twelve different forms . . . in triplicate? 

   They called . . . they're looking for you.

   They think they talked to a crazy Mexican señorita.  Besides, perhaps if I can't see them, they can't see me.

   Oh, so you're two years old now?

   I must admit that things were ever so much simpler then. "If I saw it – it's mine.  If I touched it – it's mine.  If I want it – it's mine . . . ."

   How is that different from your philosophy now?  Sands got the impression that his inner self was enjoying itself at his expense.  If it had a face, it'd probably be split in two from a huge smile.  He hated a smug superego, or conscience, or whatever the crap the voice represented.  What?  Is your personality so fragmented that you can't remember who you're talking to?

   Before he could answer himself, a clock somewhere in the house distantly called out the hour.  He'd never noticed it before.  Was probably unconscious or listening to the woman babble.  He listened intently, and was amazed to find that it was ten o'clock already.  The little woman had been gone for nearly two hours already.  How had that happened?

   Speaking of la chiquita, it might be a good thing to go over what he knew of her so far.

   Let's see . . . she was raised to some extent within the cartel, although she has failed to mention how she ended up "catching their attention."  She has Mexican and American citizenship, something that would make it easy to move between the two countries on cartel business.  She claims to have left the cartel behind, which would place her neck in a considerable amount of danger should she ever be caught.  He rubbed at his head, hoping to relieve some of the headache building up there.  Catching back up with his train of thought he continued, Yet even with the danger, she stays close enough to them that the risk of being caught would remain relatively high.  Which makes me think that there's something she's not saying.  Simply wanting to thumb her nose at Barillo seems as if it wouldn't be enough of a motivation to stay so close.  Perhaps she has no regard for her own life?  She is always talking about death.  Could it be that she wants to get caught, or is she still working for them?  The thought was an uncomfortable one.  If she was still working for them, then he was a sitting duck, no matter how many guns she gave him.  If she were suicidal, then she'd drag down those around her with her.  But she had taken in those kids, and from the way she acted around them, it seemed unlikely that she would deliberately act in ways that would put them in more danger.  Perhaps she's just stupid or overly confident of her ability to stay one step ahead of everyone.

   Perhaps she's just nuts.

   Perhaps, but even madness has some method to it, or so they say.  So what is driving her method?  Thinking back on how she had spoken of her time with the cartel and the things she had learned, he thought, Revenge?  Guilt?  Some warped loyalty to some cause only she sees?  Sighing, he continued, Perhaps it is just a death wish, just not one strong enough for her to take others down with her.  While it made sense, it just didn't feel right.

   "No, you are my responsibility . . . . I'll find something for you to wear somewhere."  Responsibility, hmm?  Sounds as if guilt was a motivator at some point in her thought process, not that I can track her thought process. 

   Irrelevant.  What else do you know about her?

   Degree in medicine.  She went to college somewhere in the States, then did some kind of internship with Barillo's butcher.  Loves classic literature, apparently.  Has a fascination with death and what's been written about it.  Likes children.  Doesn't like to hurt people, calm, patient even when I'm doing my best to piss her off.  A bit absentminded.

   Thinking of how Tess had managed to help support him during their trip here the night before, Sands switched his mindset to her physical characteristics.  She's tall, perhaps an inch or so shorter than me.  Sturdy; was able to make it all the way back here while supporting most of my weight.  Has gentle hands, even when she would like to be pissed at me.  Has a decent enough singing voice and a speaking one that sounds as gentle as her hands feel.

   Yeah, and if she has a weakness for blind guys, maybe you'll get lucky.

   Sands ignored himself.  I wonder what she looks like?  Once again remembering the times he'd had to lean on her to make it somewhere and the side that had been pressed against him as he walked, he thought, Her shoulders don't seem to be too broad, and I think they may have been a little bony.  And it didn't feel as if she had all that many curves, although I can't be sure.  He'd been concentrating on other things at the time . . . like containing groans of agony.  Not that any of this really matters.  It'd just be nice if I had some kind of mental image to go with the voice.

   As he sat and thought, he became aware of a noise coming from the doorway.  Without moving a muscle, he shifted his attention from his thoughts to his ears.  There was someone standing the in doorway – he could hear them breathing.  Several minutes passed as he waited for the other person to speak.  He was reasonably sure that it was one of the kids.  An adult would have been arrogant enough to think that they could move around freely without him detecting their presence.

   His patience was rewarded when the other person shuffled their feet.  "Señor?  Are you awake?"

   It's the kid with the bike, he thought, ignoring the voice that whispered that the boy's name was Marcos.  He had never been truly comfortable around children.  They were just so kindly naïve that he had always just wanted to avoid them – it's not as if they had anything he wanted.  That and he had always been afraid that his cynical nature would taint them somehow.  He wasn't a happy person.  He wasn't even a content person.  He envied a child's ability to go through a tough time and automatically assume everything would be better the next day.  It was that part of him that had shelled out the money to buy the kid's gum.

   Good thing I did.  I also managed to buy the boy's loyalty.  While he didn't relish the idea that he possibly (and most probably) owed this kid his life, he wasn't about to make the kid pay for that either.  Everyone bet on a loser at some point in their life – it wasn't the kid's fault that he had picked Sands.  But he wasn't going to speak Spanish for the kid.  "Yeah, I'm awake."

   The boy took a step inside the room, pausing again just over the threshold.  "Do you hurt?"

   Sands shrugged, unwilling to admit anything that would make the kid either feel sorrow or pity for him.  He'd manage the pain.  "What are you doing up?  It's past ten."

   "Couldn't sleep."

   "Why not?"  What are you doing?  Trying to put that two years of psych to work?  Sands ignored that comment.  Whether he liked it or not, he owed the kid something for what he had done.  If a night of sleep was the best he could do, so be it.

   "I'm worried."

   "About what?"  Is it just me, or is it hard to get any usable information out of the Mexican populace in general?

   "Señora Tessa."

   This caught his attention.  What could Tessa possibly be doing that would cause the kid to be worried?  Shifting his weight over cautiously because of his many wounds, Sands beckoned the kid over to take a seat on the bed.  "What is the señora doing that would make you worry?"

   Marcos heard the note of iron in the man's carefully modulated voice.  Briefly he wondered if he should voice his concerns, but in the end he gave into the worry for one of the two adults currently in his small world.  "I think she went to look at the corner where my parents died.  Or perhaps to find the men who were watching my home last night."

While Sands was careful to not voice his opinion of this aloud, in his mind he was cursing the idiot woman who thought she was indestructible enough to meddle in affairs that were apparently worth killing over.  She was clearly delusional, even suicidal.  First she wanted to go to his motel and pick up clothes for him, when there was a very good chance that either the cartel, renegade militia, the Mexican government, or the CIA would have a surveillance detail somewhere in the area. Now she was visiting crime scenes and hunting down men who had a visible interest in a boy who had helped a man who had been supposed to die in the street from either having his eyes gouged from his head or from a quick bullet from a cartel flunkie.  Oh yes, the woman had brains, but it was obvious that she had no common sense whatsoever.

   In the midst of this rant, Sands abruptly remembered what else the boy had said.  His parents were dead.  "Your parents died yesterday?"

   Marcos nodded, then remembered that the man beside him would be unable to see the movement.  "Sí, señor."  He swallowed and took a deep breath, then continued.  "There was so much blood.  I think they were shot several times, but the police, they would not let me get close enough to look and I didn't stay to ask.  I needed to check on my brother and sisters – to see if they were dead too."

   Sands was impressed by the maturity of this statement, and he also realized why the boy had sought him out.  The kid couldn't have been any older than ten or twelve, but there were some things that just couldn't be talked over with a woman.  Especially in a society where women were still supposed to be protected from the harsher side of life.  "So you went to your house and found that men were watching it.  I'm impressed.  Not many kids your age would have noticed that."

   Some of the boy's shuddering breaths eased.  "Sí, but yesterday was a strange day."  He took a deep breath.  "They were alright, my brother and sisters, but they were scared.  I couldn't take care of them." 

   The confession was agonizing to hear.  This was a culture where the man of the house was supposed to be able to provide for his family.  As the oldest brother, Marcos would have been taught that.  "So you brought them here."  There was no answer, but Sands could hear the boy moving, could feel the bed moving.  The reason soon became clear – the boy had moved closer to him, leaning against the wall, sitting just close enough for the sleeve of his shirt to touch Sands' arm.  He didn't quite know what to think, didn't know what to do.  He could handle talking – that's how he handled most things – but he had no idea how to comfort a boy who had lost all the stability in his world in such a short period of time.  Like you lost yours?  The voice had no sting to it this time, and Sands realized that talking was all he had to do.

   "Señor?"

   "Hmm?"

   "Were you scared yesterday?"  The question didn't carry an idle inquiry behind it, but rather the uncertainty of child hoping to find that he was normal – an assurance that what he was feeling was normal.  Or at least common.

   Sands took time to weigh his words.  He knew that he had the choice to lie and save face or tell the truth and perhaps give a child some sort of peace of mind.  He didn't think of himself as a nice person, or a kind person, or even a sympathetic person, but he choose to forget that for the moment.  "Terrified."

Ever since Sheldon Jeffery Sands had moved across the country to go to school, he had been in control of himself and his surroundings.  Halfway through his freshman year, he had realized he had a large talent for manipulating and reading people; for getting them to do exactly what he wanted, for knowing exactly how far he could push them before they snapped.  His years in grade school had been too full of anger and antagonism for him to have learned this before.  But here he was on his own for the first time in his life, without daddy's money or mother's societies and community functions to blunt the teeth of reality.  He loved it.  Most people hated him, but that was alright, because he could still get them to do what he wanted.  He knew he was full of it, but he managed to pull it off without getting his ass kicked, so who cared.

   School had been a breeze.  He was smart enough to be able to pass his classes with a minimum of effort, and as a result of having so much free time, he had taken up the sport of people baiting.  Of getting to know people, and then learning what buttons to push to get which reactions.  It had been amusing to see how many people he could alienate or twist around his little finger.  It was then, five months into his freshman year that he had decided to join the CIA when he graduated.  The possibilities of the manipulations he could pull off on a national level had intrigued him.  What could be better than doing something you enjoyed than getting paid to do it?

   He had left the U of W campus five years later with a masters in Political Science, a BS in Economics, and half a BS in psychology.  Eighteen months of academy training later, and he was set loose.  Well, not loose.  He'd had to do a lot of dirty work, jobs that were the equivalent of having to scrub urinals with one's toothbrush before he was allowed to do what he really wanted.  He'd done a few jobs, cleared up a few messes caused by other more incompetent agents, and then the higher-ups had seen what he was good at doing.  Keeping the balance, walking the line between legality and outright criminal behavior, between madness and brilliance.  And then, three years ago – the big offer had come his way.  Keep things moving smoothly in Mexico?  Make sure that politics there always came out favorably for the U.S.?  His reply had been, "When do I leave?"

   And for a little over two years he had walked that line, had kept that balance.  Then whispers of a coup d'etat had reached his ears through one of his many channels of information.  Normally, he would have let events play out the way his bosses would want.  But this time there was a lot of money involved.  Enough money that whoever could get a hold of it would be able to run this country while quitting his day job.  He could disappear and pull the strings of political power in a manner that suited him.  Or he could move to another country entirely and set up shop there.  Either way he figured, it was just another chance to expand his talent; that it was the next logical step.  Except this time he had overreached himself, had made one tiny yet fatal misstep.

   When Ajedrez had sat down across from him in that dinner with that self-satisfied smirk on her face, he had known that the game was up.  He thought he could face that, but then he had felt the needle pierce his skin, and all he could feel was an overwhelming fear as he fell from his position on the fence.  Icharus had failed to learn from past mistakes and had once again flown too close to the sun.

   And then there came all the things he tried not to think about, but couldn't make leave his mind.  Worst was the knowledge that he was strapped to a table, unable to move, and a madman was going to remove his eyes while a bunch of goons and one traitorous bitch sat around and laughed at the stupid American.

   Yes, had been scared yesterday.  He had been so terrified that he was lucky his underpants were still clean.  And the fear hadn't stopped when he'd been allowed to leave.  The feel of mingled sun and blood on his face had chilled him to the core.  So he had done what he had always done when he was scared – he had fought.  And in the end it still hadn't been enough.  If Marcos hadn't come along or if Tessa had refused to treat him, he'd be dead right now.  He would have lost everything in one fell swoop – his freedom, his future, his life, and worst of all, his independence.  He had been fucking petrified.  But what he had admitted to the boy would suffice – the kid didn't need to know the rest. 

Tess wanted to go home.  The graze on her arm throbbed with a low pain, that had she been able to hear it, would have sounded similar to the pulsing sound waves of the lowest musical instrument on the planet.  The sleeve of her jacket was wet with blood.  Deciding that it was safe to head home, she made a U-turn in an empty parking lot and headed back across the city.

   She had been driving around for a little over an hour now, making sure that there was no one following her.  When she had caught a glimpse of her attackers at the motel, she hadn't thought her two assailants had had a car, and now she was reasonably sure that she was right.  Despite the fact that she had kept her eyes peeled for any hint of pursuit, Tessa had seen no trace of her attackers, even though she had stopped outside two apartments and the hospital.  She'd even been sitting in that last parking lot for twenty minutes and hadn't even seen a car go by.  All Tess wanted to do was go home, look in on her patient, check on the children, tend her wounds, take her medications, and go to bed.

   Making sure to park behind the house where her car wouldn't be visible from the street, Tess climbed out of the car, holding her injured arm to her chest to keep the pain as dim as she could until she could tend to it properly.  She left her packages in the car – it wasn't as if any of it would spoil overnight.  What about the suitcase?  You certainly paid enough to get it.  Shouldn't you bring it in?

   I'm tired.

   And a wuss.  Stop whining and bring it in.

   I hate you.

   I don't care.

   Walking the three steps back to the car, she opened the door and grabbed the suitcase in her good hand.  Setting it on the ground so that she could close the door quietly, she noticed the bullet holes in her car.  I'll look at it tomorrow and see if I can pull any bullets out.  Perhaps that will help me decide who wasn't shooting at me.  The cartel was the only group she could discount with a reasonable amount of surety.  But if it hadn't been cartel, she had no idea who it might have been.

   Approaching the house with dragging steps, she once again set down her burden to unlock the door, keeping her bloody arm motionless.  After drawing a pint of blood yesterday, Tessa wasn't ready to lose this much blood today; she was already drowsy and getting lightheaded.  The door opened.  Stepping inside, she put the suitcase on the floor by the kitchen door, unwilling to carry it any farther tonight.  She was going to go straight into the back of the house, but the voice interrupted her.  You know, locking the door might be a good idea.  She made a face, but did turn back to set the deadlock.  "Now can I go to bed?" she asked wearily and quietly.  She got no response.

   Walking down the hallway, concentrating to keep from weaving on her feet, she made it to her bedroom.  She was only a step or two inside the door when she heard the click of a safety switching off.  Looking up, confused, she saw that her patient was wide awake . . . but the boy at his side was not.  Ignoring the gun, she asked in a tone that showed just how befuddled her mind was, "What is Marcos doing in here?"

   Now that he knew who was in the house, Sands lowered the gun.  Embarrassed to be caught with the boy asleep on the bed at his side, he ignored her question in favor of asking his own.  It was always best to be on the offensive.  "What took you so long?  I thought you were just going to pick up some groceries.  Did you get my cigarettes?"

   "I did get groceries.  And I got your cigarettes.  But I also had to buy some clothes for the kids, and I didn't know what sizes they wore, and then I had to get clothes for you . . . ."  She trailed off.

   "I wasn't aware that stores in Mexico stayed open past midnight."  Looking at her watch, Tess saw that it was indeed that late.  So much for that excuse.  "Let me guess – a crime scene managed to distract you on your way home?"

   Tess rolled her eyes.  Well, she knew how the man had entertained himself while she was away – by pumping information out of Marcos.  She was about to berate him for that before he could berate her for doing something with the potential of being dangerous when Marcos woke up, disturbed by their conversation.

   She considered making a run for the bathroom before he spotted her injury, but didn't have time.  As soon as he opened his eyes he saw her, and the moment after that he realized that she was bleeding.  "Señora!  What's happened?!  You're bleeding!"

The idiot woman had managed to get herself hurt.  He had known it.  Served her right for doing something so foolhardy as to go back to the sight where people had been murdered, or where people were obviously lying in wait for prey.  She was lucky she wasn't dead.

   He listened as she tried to quiet the boy in a voice that was steadily getting weaker and weaker.  Whatever he thought of her actions, it sounded like she needed medical attention soon.  It would be no good if the only completely functioning adult in the house was put out of commission.  "Marcos.  Go to bed."

   The boy stopped his flow of Spanish long enough for Sands to be sure that he had been understood.  He felt the bed shift as the boy slid off it, heard bare feet walk across the room.  Heard Tess give a murmured reassurance, then heard the door close.  Then nothing for several moments.  "How bad is it?"

   "It's just a graze.  I'll be fine."  If he believed that, then he should go look outside to see if there were any rainbows or leprechauns in sight.  He saved this opinion as he heard shod feet mover across the hardwood floor in the direction of the bathroom.  If she wanted to be the strong silent type, that was fine with him.  He'd used up any gentleness he had on the boy.  He was in no mood to comfort a fool.

   He heard clothes being taken off, the soft thud of fabric hitting the floor, the hissed breath of someone in pain.  Serves her right, he thought, trying to defeat the urge to get up and see . . . find out . . . what exactly was wrong.  It almost worked after he heard nothing else for several moments, but a low cry broke that resolve.  Or it at least roused his curiosity.

   Getting up, ignoring the fact that he was wearing next to nothing, Sands made his way into the bathroom.  He knew he had reached his goal when an exhausted voice told him, "Go back to bed.  You shouldn't be up.  If you pass out now, I'll be forced to let you spend the night on the floor, because I won't be able to pick you up."

   "Relax, chiquita.  I just wanted to hear the truth about how bad it is, and how you got it.  Marcos sounded fairly concerned."

   She glanced at him in the mirror before turning her mind back to how to get her t-shirt off without hurting herself more.  "Marcos has had a rough past twenty-four hours.  He's concerned because I represent his last modicum of safety in a world gone mad, and me getting injured means that he's not as safe as he would wish to be."  Sands said nothing, obviously waiting for answers to his questions.  You are in no condition to fight, my dear.  Just tell the man what he wants to hear.  "Fine.  I very nearly got shot in the arm, but luckily the bullet only grazed me.  And while it is painful and bleeding in a manner that might be considered profusely under other circumstances, I will be fine as soon I as get the chance to patch myself up."

   "And what was the situation that you forced your way into that involved guns and flying bullets?"

   "None of your business."

   Sands clicked his tongue and shook his head.  "That was rude.  I think my delicate feelings have been smashed.  You want to try again?"

   "No."  The syllable came out in a sulky tone.

   "Why not?"  If Tess had been blind herself, she would have thought that the man behind her was inquiring after the health of someone's dearest great-aunt.  Then again, his 'tirado' vibes were out in full force.  It was clear that he was going to get answer from her even if he had to bar the way out of the bathroom until one of them passed out from weariness.

   "Because you're going to get mad, and that would be bad for you until you've had a bit more time to recover."

   Sands lost all pretense of amusement, his face freezing.  The lack of expression on it was chilling.  There was only one thing he could think of that would make him mad.  "You found out where I was staying and went there, didn't you."  It wasn't a question; instead, a confirmation of a hunch.

   "Yes."  Tessa's reply was whispered as she hunched a shoulder and waited for the blow she knew was sure to follow her admission.  It never came.  Instead the man grinned rather mirthlessly.

   "I think that I owe you a rather large 'I-told-you-so.'"  He let that sink in for a few seconds before asking in a voice that clearly indicated how inept he thought she was, "I don't suppose you got a look at the men who shot you?"

   "I didn't need to, and I didn't loiter once I figured out that someone was trying to kill me.  Maybe I don't know who it was, but I do know who it wasn't – or least I'm reasonably sure."  The man looked unconvinced.  She sighed.  "Whoever was firing at me was using a silencer.  Those aren't standard issue within the cartel.  Barillo had enough power in the area that he didn't need to hide what he was doing.  However, those gunshots were conspicuously quiet.  It was someone else."

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Author's Thanks:

To Kaliko, Sue, Miss Becky, Merrie, and Bitchy Little Pixy, for your continued support and constant reviews.  Much love to you all for the support.  To fiondra for being a new reviewer – new reviews give me fresh inspiration, or perhaps it's just some sort of writer's high that makes me want to go write.  *shrug*  Whatever it is, I hope to hear from you again.  Lastly, many, many, many, thanks to Ashley who stepped up to be my beta without me having to ask, and who does a great job of untangling some of my more tangled sentences.  Many gracias my friend.