The Strangest Holdup in Mexican History

Disclaimer: I don't own El and Sands. That privilege belongs to Robert Rodriguez.

Rating: PG-13 for language and mild violence

Summary: So you're on the run from the cartel. What do you do next, El?

Author's Note: Many thanks to Melody, who never lets me get away with being lazy, or taking the easy way out. I love you, girl.

****

El ran, dragging Sands with him. He forced the CIA officer out the window ahead of him, taking vicious delight in watching Sands go sprawling in the dirt.

Two men were standing outside the window, no doubt to ensure that no one tried to sneak out that way. El shot them both, leaned down and grabbed Sands again, and took off running toward the back yard, all without breaking stride.

The house had once boasted beautiful gardens lovingly tended by a well-paid staff. But the house had been abandoned for years and now the gardens had gone wild. El found himself running through the start of a tropical rain forest. He put on a burst of speed. His car was a block away – if they could make it that far, there was a chance they could get out of this alive.

Shots sounded from behind him. A flowering vine on his left exploded in a hail of pink petals. El twisted to the right, ducking behind a tall Joshua tree. Sands, unable to see where he was going, slammed right into it, bloodying his nose and uttering a string of foul curses.

El considered letting him go. Sands was only slowing him down. But back at the house his impulse had been to take Sands with him, and he had long ago learned to obey his spontaneous nature – it had kept him alive over the years. And that meant keeping Sands with him. For a little while longer at least.

He ran on, making sharp veering turns and dodging around the vegetation. Some of the wild growth of the garden cleared, and El saw a fence ahead. Inwardly he groaned. The fence was six feet high, all solid wood planking. A privacy fence, and a very good one. On his own it would not be a problem, but there was no way Sands could scale it, not injured as he was and with his hands bound behind him.

Then he saw he would not have to. There was a gap in the fence, cleverly cut by people wishing to use the house for all manner of activities without being seen doing so. A large section of the boards had been cut out and then replaced in the hole, making the fence appear intact to a casual eye.

The shots aimed at them from behind were getting closer to hitting their targets. El ran straight for the cutout. At the last second he thought to wonder what he would do if something sat behind the boards, like a tractor or a lightpost, and he shoved Sands ahead of him.

Sands crashed into the fence and stumbled on through, cursing El in a mixture of English and Spanish that the mariachi might have found amusing at any other time in his life. He ducked his head as he ran through the gap created by splintered boards. Just as he came out on the other side, pain erupted in the upper part of his right shoulder. He staggered and nearly went down on one knee; only Sands' presence kept him upright, for the CIA officer was somehow still on his feet and running.

"Shit!" El hollered. He hated being shot.

On the bright side, he could see his car now.

He plunged his left hand into the pocket of his jeans, searching for his car keys. It occurred to him what a cosmic joke it would be if he had left them in the house, and then his fingers closed over them. He yanked them free so hard the pocket turned inside out and flapped against his thigh like a limp fish.

"Stop!" He threw Sands against the car. Sands slumped against the door, gasping for breath. El jammed the key into the lock and gave it a hard turn to the left. He pushed Sands aside, opened the door, and gave Sands a shove in the direction of the front seat. "Get in!"

Without waiting to see what his unwilling passenger was doing, he ran around the hood of the car. Hot blood trickled down his back from the wound in his shoulder, and his arm was already beginning to throb.

He unlocked his door and got inside. In the rearview mirror he saw two men leap through the shattered fence, and a wordless growl of frustration escaped him. He thrust the key into the ignition, started the car, slammed it into drive and flattened the accelerator to the floor.

The engine let out a startled roar, and the car leaped forward. The two men in the rearview mirror grew smaller and smaller, and at last disappeared altogether.

When their pursuers were finally out of sight, El dared to relax his speed. He let the car slow down, and looked over at Sands.

Immediately he took his foot off the pedal. "Sands?"

Sands was slumped against the door, his head hanging low. He was terribly pale, and he was shaking. His sunglasses were crooked, revealing one empty eyesocket. Blood still trickled from his nose, and more ran in a fresh stream from his mouth where El had hit him yesterday. A long splinter of wood was caught in his hair, almost like an Indian feather. Another stuck out from the collar of his shirt like the world's smallest arrow.

El reached over – gasping at the pain in his shoulder – and yanked the splinter free. The end was painted bright red. El grimaced and dropped it onto the floor of the car.

Sands flinched. "Fucker."

"I just saved your life," El said. "You should be grateful."

"Yeah? Why do you keep doing that?" Sands asked. He leaned his forehead against the window. "I guess back there at the hotel I must have shot you in some vital part of your brain responsible for logical thinking."

The question totally threw him. The simple answer was that he didn't know. He should have killed Sands a hundred times over by now. But something always prevented him from pulling the trigger. He didn't understand it, and he didn't like it. And that pissed him off.

He could beat himself up over it, or he could just accept what he had done. And it was simpler to take his anger out on Sands. He spared a brief glance into the rearview mirror to make sure no one was behind him, then slammed on the brakes. Sands went flying into the dashboard. "I could let you out now if you want," he offered.

Sands made a choked noise of pain that actually made El feel sorry for him. "That's very kind of you," he muttered through clenched teeth. "But I think I'll pass."

El's sympathy died a quick death. "Then shut the fuck up," he said coldly. He started to drive again.

****

While stopped at a traffic light, it suddenly occurred to him that the cartel had seen him driving away. They knew what car he was driving.

He was going to have to ditch the car.

"Shit," he swore. The car was new. He hated to give it up so soon.

He began looking for somewhere to pull over. The street they were currently on was populated with a series of strip malls and stores. It was not yet nine o'clock in the morning, and traffic was light. Most of the stores weren't even open, and their parking lots were empty.

Save for one. He nodded grimly when he saw the pharmacy. That would do.

He pulled into the parking lot and stopped the car. "Where are we?" Sands asked.

El ignored him. He took a deep breath, taking stock of the situation. They had fled the house so fast, he was just now beginning to realize what had happened.

Fideo was dead. Lorenzo was dead.

He had two guns and two spare clips, one in each pocket of his jacket. He had the knife he had taken from Sands. Some cigarettes and a pack of matches. A money clip. That was it, the sum and total of his possessions right now. His guitar case was back at Lorenzo's house.

Not Lorenzo's house anymore, he thought. Grief tore through him like a knife wound. He had lost two friends today. They had gone to the house to see if he was all right, because he had not returned last night. They had gone to check on him, and now they were dead.

And one of them was dead because of the man currently sitting in the front seat. El gave Sands a long look. The CIA officer was slumped against the window, barely conscious. He could get out of the car and walk away, leaving Sands locked inside for anyone to find. The idea had a bitter appeal to it.

Then he shook his head. The corner of his mouth crooked in something resembling a smile. He could lock Sands in the car and walk away, but Sands would not be caught. Somehow or another Sands would get free and escape, to disappear into legend yet again.

No. El scowled. Not this time. He had Sands, and he was going to make sure the man did not get away again.

He opened his door and stepped outside. The morning was already blazing hot. He stumbled a little when his feet hit the pavement, and a wave of fresh pain broke over him. Blood ran down his back.

He walked around the car and opened the passenger door. He pulled the knife from his belt and removed the leather scabbard. He grabbed Sands and pushed him facedown onto the dash, wringing a pained cry from the American. "Hold still, unless you want me to cut off your fingers," he said.

He cut the rope binding Sands' wrists. "This is the pharmacía," he said. "I am going inside to get some things. Wait here. If I come back and find you gone, I will make it my mission in life to hunt you down. Comprende?"

Sands nodded. He did not seem inclined to sit up. "Fuck off," he whispered. He was shivering again with fever.

El closed the passenger door and sheathed the knife. He stuck it in his belt and snugged his jacket over it, hiding it and the two guns he wore from view.

****

The air conditioning was on full blast, and it was cold inside the pharmacy. El stalked up and down the aisles, gathering what he needed. Painkillers, antibiotics, gauze, bandages, alcohol. He prayed that his dark jacket would hide the bloodstain on his shoulder, or that the increasing lurch to his step would not be noticeable.

The cashier barely glanced at the purchases as she rang them up. She gave El the total and snapped her gum.

El reached for his money clip. He was just starting to unfold the bills when the door to the pharmacy opened, and Sands walked in. Holding a gun.

El's eyes widened. Stupid, stupid! shrilled his brain. He had forgotten all about the pistol in the glove compartment.

The cashier spared a bored glance for her new customer, then did a double take. The blood drained from her face, and she screamed.

Oriented by the scream, Sands sauntered over to the counter. He barely missed walking into a display of handcream. "Buenos dias, señorita." He grinned.

The cashier's hands shot up in the air. She moaned in terror.

"El?" Sands called. "What's taking so long? Are you still trying to decide if those condoms really are ribbed for her pleasure?"

Fury made El's throat constrict, so it was hard to force the words out. "What are you--"

Sands started in surprise. "Ah, there you are. Ready to go?"

"Put that away," El demanded. He was still stupidly holding his money clip, he realized.

"Did she bag everything yet?" Sands asked. The gun was not quite aimed at the cashier's head, but it was close enough. Too close. El did not dare make a move. He could try, but Sands would have time to get off at least two shots before he took Sands down. He was going to have to talk his way out of this one.

"I will," the cashier babbled. "I'll do anything you want. Just don't hurt me, please!"

Sands looked like he was about two steps away from passing out. Under the bright fluorescent lights, the blood on his face and beads of sweat on his brow took on a crazy glitter. But he was still grinning. "How about you just put everything in a bag, sugarbutt? And of course we'll be taking whatever you've got in that cash register."

"No," El growled. "We pay for it."

"I don't think so," Sands said. He had adjusted his aim ever-so-slightly when the cashier spoke, and now he curled his finger about the trigger. The girl was busy throwing El's purchases into a plastic bag, and she thankfully did not see this.

But El saw it. He knew Sands would shoot the girl without hesitation. In fact, he was pretty sure Sands was going to shoot her anyway. "All right," he said. He put the money clip back in his pocket. "We take the goods and we go. That's all. All right?"

The cashier opened the drawer to the register and began scooping out the bills. "It isn't much," she said. Her voice broke, and she started to cry. "We've only been open for an hour."

"It'll do," Sands said brightly. His arm began to tremble, making the gun's aim waver.

El sidled a step closer to him. But as he watched, Sands almost seemed to glare at his trembling hand. The shakes slowed, and then stopped altogether. The gun zeroed back in on the girl's head. El stared at him in awe. He had never known anyone to have such terrible self-control before.

The bag was full. The money sat on top of the drugs and medical supplies. "That's it," he said. "Let's go."

Sands did not move. "Wait. Got any cigarettes, sugarbutt?"

The shelves behind the cashier were well-stocked. She nodded, moaning in the back of her throat.

Sands, of course, could not see that nod. A scowl of impatience crossed his face. Not wanting him to speak, El said quickly, "Give us two cartons." He pointed to the brand he normally smoked.

The cashier hurried to stuff the cartons into the bag. She sniffled and whimpered.

El grabbed the bag. "Let's go."

Sands doffed an imaginary hat with his free hand. "Muchas gracias." He turned around and started for the door.

El hurried after him.

****

In the parking lot, he said, "We have to leave the car."

Sands stopped walking. "What?"

"They saw it," El said. "They will be looking for it."

"Oh my Christ," Sands swore. He sighed. He turned back toward the pharmacy. "Well?"

El frowned. "Well, what?"

"Well hadn't you better go in there and get that girl's car keys? Unless you were planning to walk from here on out."

El looked at him. Sands was hurt and sick. It probably wouldn't require much effort to overpower him and take the gun back. But then again, he was hurt now too, and the pain in his shoulder was only growing worse with every passing minute. Getting the gun from Sands might be more trouble than it was worth.

Perhaps sensing the turn of his thoughts, Sands pointed the gun at him. "El?" he asked lightly. "Would you like to get your butt in gear?"

There were other options available to them, but none so quick and easy as stealing the cashier's car. And even though he was disgusted by the thought of taking the poor girl's car, El knew he would do it. Because he was a survivor. That meant doing whatever he had to do in order to stay alive.

"Wait here," he said. He thrust the plastic bag at Sands. "Take this. I'll go get the keys."

Sands smiled. "Good man."

El walked back into the pharmacy.

******