Robert Rodriguez owns Sands and anybody else you may recognize from OUATIM. Lucky him. If he doesn't like me borrowing his characters, he can always send Sands over to my place to shoot me.

A/N: I'm fond of Milton, but it seems the only thing of his anyone knows is that tired old bit about reigning in Hell vs. serving in Heaven. This seemed more appropriate.

The line about memory instead of a view is, of course, from "The Silence of the Lambs". Hmm, wouldn't that be a scary crossover....?

4. Hail Mary

Thoughts of the call he needed to make took some of his appetite from the pibil. Afterward, he had Manolo guide him to the plaza, and find him a doorway where he couldn't be approached unaware. "Here, go get yourself some ice cream. I've got to do this." Sands stood, holding the phone and steeling his nerves. Finally, he activated the device and dialed a number from memory.

"Millenium Consulting."

It was too late to hang up. "Institute Sierra-Tango protocols," he said quietly.

"One moment." There was a click on the line. The connection hummed for a moment. Sands heard the faintest electronic beep, and the curiously hushed tone of a secured line. "Go ahead."

"Do you know who this is?"

"A dead man, or so I've heard."

"I need your help." Possibly the hardest sentence he'd ever spoken in his life.

"When and where?"

"Culiacan, Mexico. The rose garden at the Cathedral of St. Martin, 1500 hours, day after tomorrow.

"Confirm. Culiacan, Mexico. Rose garden, Cathedral of St. Martin. 1500 local, Monday."

The line went dead, and Sands found himself sweating. God, what had he just done? Set loose something that could just as easily go for his throat...unless he could somehow convince it otherwise. He wiped his fingerprints from the stolen phone and chucked it into a trash barrel as Manolo led him away.

On Monday, Sands arrived at the Cathedral an hour after morning mass. There was a window in the choir loft where Manolo could keep watch on the rose garden to see if anyone arrived early. "Anyone here?" he asked the boy as they entered.

"Only a grandmother, praying by Santa Barbara."

Sands went forward along the left hand wall to the frontmost pew. As he passed what must be the statue of Saint Barbara, he heard a rattle of beads and a whisper of prayer. His only prayer was to survive the next few hours.

Memories...what he had now instead of a view. Where had he heard that before? Since he'd made his phone call, memories had threatened him, day and night. His thoughts cycled from recent events in Culiacan to long ago events in Greece--betrayal, torture, threats, helplessness--he swallowed. Behind him, the old woman moved to the next statue and lit a candle--he heard the match strike as she did so. Maybe he could ask her to say a prayer for him.

This was the best way. The only way. He'd explain about Barillo and the cartel that was trying to move in in his wake--he'd managed to learn a few things about it in the last couple days, and that no one local was going to interfere with them--damn it, he was Special Agent Sheldon Jeffrey Sands of the Central Intelligence Agency, why the hell was this scaring him so damn much?

Because, he reminded himself grimly, I'm flying solo now. I don't have the company to back me up. And I'm waiting to meet with someone much crazier than I am, who hates my guts.

Another match, closer still, and another beaded prayer.

Caution is sensible, Sands, but if you were cautious, you'd've thought of another way. Like what? Some other way to set up those shapes for a fall....

A soft rustle of fabric alongside him, and the sound of a candle being lit in the niche across the aisle from him. Then a calm voice, neither Mexican nor anyone's grandmother, spoke: "Hail Mary, full of grace, pray for us sinners and keep your hands where I can see them, or this will be the hour of your death."

Sands froze, outmaneuvered. Without saying a word, he slowly, slowly raised his hands and removed his sunglasses. He turned his head fractionally to the left, allowing the newcomer to see what they had concealed.

There was a creak from the pew behind him, and the hair on the back of his neck stood up as that resonant voice recited. "If thou beest he--but oh, how fallen, how changed, from him, who in the happy realms of light, cloth'd in transcendant brightness didst outshine myriads, though bright...." In a more conversational tone, his tormentor continued, "That's describing Lucifer after his fall from heaven. Paradise Lost, by John Milton...a blind poet. You think you have the right to ask for my help? Tell me everything."

Taking a deep breath, Sands told. El Mariachi and Marquez, the attempted coup, Barillo and Agent Ramirez, Cucuy, Belini and finally, Ajedrez and the last things he'd ever see.

"And you want what from me, exactly?"

"There's a new organization trying to rise up. I want it put down for good. I want to set an example. Culiacan is going to be off limits to the cartels. I can't do it alone."

"Why me?"

"Because I know you'll do whatever it takes to get the job done. I know you'll see it coming." Sands's tongue was a dry leaf in his mouth. It was all said now, and he waited for judgement.

Movement behind him, and a question, breathed close to his ear. "Do I frighten you, Lucifer?"

"Yes." Sands heard himself say.

"Good."

Something thudded against the seat of the pew beside him, and the air stirred softly. He heard the faintest sounds as his visitor departed. At the back of the church, the big doors opened and closed. Sands waited for a moment before reaching to investigate. A cell phone. Great. Nothing like having a maniac on speed dial.

"Senor Sands?" He jumped, not having heard Manolo's sneakered approach. Being startled twice within an hour did his morale no good at all. God, he needed a smoke....