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: Sometimes a cigarette is not just a cigarette. Sometimes it's a wake-up call. And some old dogs learn new tricks, too....

5. Disciple

Four days later, Sands's new cell phone rang for the first time. He was pacing the garage the long way, wondering when Manolo would get there. According to the talking clock feature, it was after 1100 and he was hoping to go find one of his old contacts today. On Fridays, the guy in question would be at the barber shop around 1300. It was just a question of getting there.

When the electronic rendition of "La Cucharacha" began to play, he snatched up the phone. "Sands here."

"Be at the southeast corner of the central plaza in one hour."

The line went dead. Fuck! Scratch plan A. Could he make it to the plaza in an hour? By himself? He didn't have a hell of a lot of choice, did he?

Sands had already mastered the trail to the back gate of the garden; go out the back door of the shed for eight paces, then turn to ten o'clock in time to avoid that damn scratchy bouganvilla. It was eighteen strides along the path to the curve that led to the back gate, with a tree root right around step nine that you wanted to be careful of.

The back gate itself still squealed; he'd left it that way as an early warning system. Closing it now behind him, he counted four paces to the brick walls of the alleyway. There was usually a trash can a few yards down on the lefthand side, so he stayed to the right, letting his knuckles brush against the brick for reference. This would be his first solo farther than the newsstand, which was in the opposite direction from where he needed to go. He knew where the plaza was; back when he'd had eyes, he'd spent hours studying maps of Culican in preparation for the coup. (He knew alleyways and cul-de-sacs that he'd never laid eyes on. And never will, now, he reminded himself.)

Okay, this way. 'Scuse me. So sorry. (Nice tits, lady.) Well, that's a damn stupid place for a mailbox. Hey, asshole, slow down, you'd be amazed what it'll do for your insurance rates. Do they have any level sidewalks in this goddam town at all? Yes, I am blind, fuckmook, what's it to you? God so help me, lady, if that dog comes near me, I'll shoot the fucking thing, and you, too.

By the time he reached the plaza, Sands was tense but triumphant. He still had fifteen minutes left to orient himself and figure out which was the southeast corner. Over there, by the taco vendor....he found an unoccupied bench and sat down with a sensation of immense satisfaction, which soon cooled. "Pretty lame," his mind jeered. "Walking six whole blocks by yourself? Wow, that's really an accomplishment for a guy who used to wreak havoc across most of Europe." And look at where that got you, he reminded himself. The Agency got tired of your antics, and shipped your ass down here.

Still, he'd made it; it was a milestone in his new life. He debated the merits of a celebratory cigarette. With limited funds--using plastic would've been flagged the company for sure--he'd restricted smokes to two a day, but right now, it would sure taste sweet. What the hell, at least he could afford Manolo's damn gum.

"Let's move it, Lucifer."

Sands rose from the bench and followed the pad of footsteps. "Get in." It was a jeep, and Sands climbed into the passenger seat without a word. He knew better than to ask questions. Instead, he concentrated on where they might be going. Calling up the map of Culiacan in his head, he knew they were heading out of town, and he was pretty sure of which road they were taking. After a few minutes, they slowed and hung a left onto an unpaved side road. Industrial park, Sands thought. Warehouses, light industry, the source of lots of cheap "Made in Mexico" souveniers.

Suddenly, the air pressure changed. Sands heard the rattle of a garage door coming down behind them as the jeep's engine shut off. He emerged from the jeep, tracking his way across the garage--his bootheels echoed on concrete. The place was big enough for several other vehicles, by the sound of it. A door opened. His hands found the wall first; the door was slightly to his left. This room was smaller. Overhead was a soft buzz of fluorescent light strips. Sands closed the door behind him and took his bearings.

"This room is a square. There are shelves on the lefthand wall, a table directly across from the door" --which was where the speaker's voice came from-- "and another table halfway along the righthand wall, about a meter out. Go over there."

Sands complied. 'Halfway' was a relative term, since he didn't know how big the room was. Smaller than the garage outside, but bigger than the one he'd been living in. He reached the steel-topped table after six steps, hands cautiously exploring the surface. There were a number of hollow metal cylinders in a shallow cardboard box, two heavy boxes that rattled metallically, a cigar box, much lighter than the first two, and two gallon-sized metal cans. A rectangular plastic box with low sides--empty--held an assortment of hand tools.

"Now then, Lucifer." The voice was right beside him, unnervingly close. "Here's what you're going to do. First, take one of these--" His hand was guided to one of the boxes "---and put it on the end of this, tightly---" Putting caps on the end of metal cylinders? Oh shit. Don't let this be what I think it is.

One of the cans scraped aginst the table, and Sands caught an acrid whiff. Shit. It was. "Fill this measure to here. Over the tray, don't spill it. Level it off. That's enough for one unit. If there's any left over in the measure, you didn't use enough."

"You're asking a blind man to help you build pipe bombs?" he blurted before he could stop himself.

"I'm expecting a man who asked for my help to contribute some time and effort of his own. Alternate powder with the nails in the other box. Pack it down firmly with this dowel. Leave enough room for the detonators. I'll show you how to do those when you have all the units made." Then he was left alone with the componants.

Sands was in a clammy sweat for the first twenty minutes. The room was cool enough; what he was being told to do was what scared the bejesus out of him. Units? Fucking bombs. If there was any consolation, it was that there was enough power here to kill him outright, reduce him to a smear on the wall if something went wrong.

There were two dozen of the cylinders; by the time he'd managed four or five, Sands was intent on the process and somewhat more relaxed. The smell reminded him of the shooting range, one of his favorite parts of training. Building bombs. Christ, what a milestone. Not one Sands wanted to take pride in; he'd witnessed the aftermath of a car bombing in Athens and knew what a device like this could do to innocent lives. Cartel mooks, now, he could dig that....

"Not a good idea, Lucifer. Filthy habit."

Sands tensed, then tucked the cigarettes back into his shirt pocket. Where were his fucking brains? Annoyed that his straying thoughts and nicotine addiction had just made him look like a total monkey, he fished out a package of Manolo's gum instead. Focusing on the task at hand, he continued to work as his humiliation slowly subsided. Talk about your stupid rookie mistakes!

Concentrating on what he was doing, Sands assembled the remaining units. He waited, knowing that the most he could hope for was not to be critized. Inspection was thorough. Listening carefully, he counted each unit as it was moved picked up and put back down. There was no comment; that was a good sign. "Now about these detonators...you can't make any mistakes here, period." This time he could feel the supervision at close range, practically breathing down his neck. "That has to be crimped tighter. You don't want it working loose, believe me. Careful with the adhesive, you don't need much." Eight of the units were completed before Sands was allowed to work without the vigilant presence beside him.

"Okay, that should take care of things for today. There's something I've been meaning to mention. Your shadow, the little street rat. He's a danger to us."

Without any conscious thought on Sands's part, the pistol was in his first. "No."

"We can't afford--"

"I said no!" Sands roared, too angry to edit his words or tone. "That is not a fucking option!" Half a step brought the pistol into contact with its target. "I'd be dead if it wasn't for that kid. Don't even think about fucking with him!"

Laughter echoed from the walls. "My, my. It sounds to me as if they took your eyes and left you with a conscience in exchange. I'm not sure that was such a great deal, Lucifer. Inconvenient things, consciences."

An old and bitter argument on the subject flickered through his mind. Back then, he'd been the one arguing that certain people were expendable, and had felt justified in carrying out their deaths personally. His actions had provoked conflict, and now Sands was sickened by the thought that his youthful ruthlessness might cost Manolo's life.

"Put that away. It's good to know that you've finally learned to discern the difference between targets and human beings."

Sands holstered the gun. "I deserved that," he admitted, calmer. "Maybe being a target yourself does that to you."

"Indeed." Footsteps, and the door to the garage opened. "Let's be off, shall we?"

After being dropped back off at the same corner of the plaza, Sands pitched his remaining smokes into the nearest trash can. Somehow, the thought of craving them made him a little queasy.