Grace was staring into her grapefruit letting the past several days sink in.  She came to Mexico to get away from one man and wound up in the arms of the most unlikely of people.  She chuckled to herself.  This isn't like a movie, my ass.

            "Gracie, you all right?" Sands asked.

            "Hm?"

            "You're quiet over there."

            She smiled.  "Sorry.  You know what?"

            He smiled back at her.  He always seemed to know when she was smiling – it reflected in her voice.  "What?"

            "I hate grapefruit."

            He shook his head.  "That was…random."

            "No, it wasn't.  They give you grapefruit with every breakfast and every time I think that it'll taste different, but nope.  Same disgusting thing every time."

            "Maybe it'll grow on you – I did."

            Grace blushed.  "Well, you have a very unique flavor."  She reached across the table and took his hand, then traced lazy circles in his palm.

            Sands smiled knowingly.  "Energy's back up, isn't it?"

            "Well, we should say goodbye to this country in the proper fashion, shouldn't we?"

            "A personal best," he chuckled.

            "What is?"

            "I've totally corrupted you – take away the couple of days where we weren't sleeping together and I did it in less than a week."

            Grace smiled, shaking her head at him.  "And you're damn proud of that, aren't you?"

            "Who wouldn't be?"  He stood up and Grace followed suit.  Automatically, their fingers laced together and they made their way out of the restaurant.

            Upon making it inside the elevator, Sands gently pushed Grace against the wall, letting his lips and tongue assault her neck.  A few days ago, Grace would have pushed him away, insisting that their behavior wasn't appropriate, but now she pulled him close to her and nipped at his earlobe.

            "Promises of what's to come?" she purred.

            "That and more," he whispered.

            The elevator doors opened and they exited, slightly less cautious than they'd been over the past couple of days.  Grace reached into her purse to grab the room key when Sands grabbed her, spinning her away from the door; he had heard the cocking of a gun.

            "Jeffr…"  She nearly choked on his name as she saw a bullet hit their door.  She then watched as her lover pulled out his gun, his body shielding hers.

            "Open the door, Grace," he said through gritted teeth.

            She once again dug for her key, but caught someone from the corner of her eye – Michael.  Instead of a key, she pulled out the gun Sands had given and pointed it at Michael.

            "You won't do it, Grace."

            Sands turned around yet again at the sound of Michael's voice.  "Fuck," he said under his breath.  "Gracie, where's the other one."

            "I…"

            "Put it down, Grace," Michael said, "before I make a mess of your fuck toy."

            "Michael what's the matter with you?"

            "I don't like him," Michael said with a smile.  "I tend to get rid of things I don't like.  After thinking about it, I wanted to take care of him personally."

            Sands raised his gun, but before he could fire, Grace saw the other man.  She pushed Sands out of the way – the bullet intended for him hitting her in the back.  From his place on the floor, Sands fired, hitting the man who had shot Grace – only he was unaware that she was hit at all.

            "Jeffrey," her voice was barely a whisper.  She crumpled to the floor.   For the first time in Sands' career, he was almost unable to comprehend what was happening. 

            "Gracie?"  He rolled over, forgetting all about Michael.  Could he have seen Michael's face, he'd have seen a mixture of horror and satisfaction.

            "Jeff…"  The word turned into a gurgle.

            Without another thought, Sands got up.  He could hear Michael's ragged breath.  "Fucker!"  Michael's feet shuffled and that was all he needed.  He shot once, hitting the man's shin, knocking him to the floor.  That wasn't enough.  He climbed on top of Michael hitting him several times in the face.  He had a bloodlust coursing through his veins, but couldn't let himself kill him.  No, he'd rather see him put in a special part of a prison…where the guards tended to ignore the goings on.  If they wouldn't put him there, then he'd find a way to kill him.

            Sure that Michael was out cold, he returned to Grace.  "Gracie?"  The hallway was now filled with people.  "Gracie?"  His hand went to her face.  He felt the blood trickling from her mouth.  "I can't see her," he called out to whoever cared to listen.  "I can't see her!  Where's she hit?"

            "Her…her back I think," a woman said, her voice timid.

            Sands reached under her, finding the wound after a moment of searching for it.  Warm blood covered his hand.  "Jesus…"

            "Sands?"  Harold's voice rang down the hallway.  "What the hell happened here?"  He nearly tripped over the first shooter's body.

            "Help her!" Sands screamed, his voice desperate.

            "Sands…"

            "Fucking help her, Harold!"

            Harold quickly pulled a walkie-talkie looking piece of equipment from his jacket and asked for immediate medical assistance.  After he was finished, he knelt at Sands' side.  "Is this Ms. Milano?" he asked.

            Sands nodded.  "Go cuff the fucker over there before he wakes up."  Harold got up, doing as Sands asked.  Sands then ran the hand not putting pressure on Grace's back across her face.  Her eyes were closed.  "Gracie?  Can you hear me?"  He knew full well that she couldn't.  He understood that she was unconscious, but the words came out of him anyway.  Paramedics soon rushed down the hallway, taking Grace from his arms.

            I'll fucking napalm this country if she dies…