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: Conclusion: Almost titled "The Whole Damn Show", but I was kinda going for a theme. Firefight!
7. Lighting A Candle
Entering the workroom the next morning, the gear added a new tone to its range. Sands had barely closed the door behind him when a silvery note struck his ears. "What the hell?" It sounded like a wind chime, or a tuning fork--not unpleasant, but distinctive.
He walked toward it, skirting a table and avoiding something about knee high--a box? He began playing hot and cold with objects on the shelves at the left rear corner of the room. Then his hands encountered a battered leather jacket hanging from a nail on one of the upright supports, and the tone went crazy.
"Okay, I'll bite. What the hell is it?"
"Contact button on the collar. A little refinement, so you don't accidentally blow my brains out thinking I'm someone else."
The old Sands had a retort wound up and ready for a fastball pitch, but the new Sands let it go. "Good idea."
"We strike in two days. They're going to be loading a shipment for distribution. If we hit then, we get the lab, the product, the transport--the whole damn show."
Two days! Sands studied the model of the compound from all angles, and rehearsed the timing. He paced off distances in the big garage bay, choreographing his moves. He began to distinguish subtle nuances from the gear--metallic objects, even things like barbed wire or a chain-link fence--buzzed with a pitch that was ever-so-slightly different from wood or brick. He cleaned his guns, making certain the spare clips were filled and accessible, practiced with the tools he'd need. Anticipation was sweet wine.
Almost before it seemed possible, the jeep was jouncing along a rough back road that would bring them within hiking distance of the compound. Sands felt the tension in his thighs. His pulse beat a little more swiftly, but he was mostly aware of the thrill adreneline brought. This is nothing, he thought. Just give it another two hours, then things are really going to get interesting.
They were virtually silent on the hike in. When they reached the agreed location, Sands readied his weaponry and the tools in the satchel slung over his shoulder. "I'll signal when I'm in position," his companion muttered, and the silver note faded into the trees. The outer fence was only yards away.
Sands waited, his senses straining. Faint chemical odors from the facility drifted on the breeze. A distant piece of equipment beeped as it reversed. There was a boom, explosive, not industrial. He quivered, expecting the signal. The fence? Was it his imagination, or was the current no longer flowing thru it?
His cell phone began to vibrate. The generators were down. He switched it off, then on again. With steady hands, he found the nearest upright to the chain-link fence and began cutting a way in. As soon as that was done, he changed the attachment on the chuck to the one he'd need to b&e the lab and eased the driver back into his satchel.
At the second signal, he entered the gap in the fence, staying low, counting, listening. He grinned widely as multiple bangs signalled surveillance being blow to hell. Save a few for me, he thought.
The main gate presented itself, the wooden guard shack warbling in his ears. Sands flicked the countdown switch on the unit, rolled it gently toward the shack, and ran like hell back the way he'd come. His ears rang in the explosion's aftermath, and he laughed, filled with joy to be alive and doing exactly what he was doing at this moment in time.
Through a thick cloud of cordite smoke, he strode into the darkened compound, hearing shouts from the cartel mooks. Something large and metallic--a truck--presented itself, and Sands tossed a unit into the back, moving rapidly toward the main facility. Another truck was approaching--fast--he did a tuck and roll maneuver and amazed by how natural it felt. Timing prompted him to shield his head as the first truck blew. The force of the blast sent the other truck tumbling--Sands was certain it had gone directly over his head--and there was a rush of heat that made him scramble to his feet and race for the building ahead of him.
Shrill voices, nearby. He pulled out his pistols and listened. Off to his left. That was where their big bay was, where they'd be loading the product. The other end of the building was the factory, with offices on either side of the middle section. The bay, wide enough for six vehicles at a time, was the only way in on this side. Footsteps ran past, a few yards away, and he heard gunshots.
The sound of truck engines, parked facing out, reminded Sands that their lights were independant of the rest of the compound. Throwing himself down, he crawled from the doorway to beneath the farthest big truck and worked his way back. By the sound of it, most of the workers were in the back half of the bay, rapidly loading the trucks as security was kept busy outside. Working quickly, he pulled a unit from the satchel slung over his shoulder and set the timer at ten minutes. He slithered from truck to truck, repeating the procedure. Once a worker passed within inches of him as he crossed from one vehicle to the next. Sands remained motionless, and the man, squinting in the dimness, kept going.
Sands was preparing to start shooting from cover when there was a tremendous kaboom that made the whole compound tremble. That would be the fuel tanks at the motor pool. Sands took advantage of the confusion to loose a barrage of gunfire, listening happily as chaos reigned in the bay. There were running footsteps and several doors slammed, including the one to the truck he was lying under. He sneezed at the cloud of exhaust gases as the engine reved, keeping his head down as the vehicle began to move.
As soon as his concealment had moved past the length of his prone body, Sands bounced up, pistols in hand, and made for the lab side of the building. With half of the trucks gone, the space would be even darker, he knew, so the odds of anyone singling him out in the middle of the hysteria going on were marginal. Staying alert for anyone approaching, he found the gap between the offices and hurried down the short corridor.
Although the whine of the drill seemed loud to him, it wasn't so loud that he didn't hear the tone of someone approaching behind him. The hallway was narrow enough that he could pinpoint the oncoming thug as soon as he turned. One quick shot, one less thug. Being effectively backed into a corner with the only way out a locked door behind him, Sands alternated shooting mooks and drilling the lock for long minutes. He was amused to realize he had a boner--God, what was it about shootouts that always did that to him? The door to the lab swung inward, and Sands darted inside.
Unchallenged, Sands had the lab to himself long enough to scatter the remaining units, strategically, set at two minutes. The trouble began when he tried to leave the room. The mooks were waiting for him, remaining in the bay and using the corners of the offices for cover.
Okay, time to get messy. He dug into the satchel for something he'd hoped he'd get to use. One flash grenade, coming up. He gave it a gentle underhand toss, letting it roll down the hall. Heard loud curses, a bang, lots of screaming. That sounded promising. Sands exited the lab fast, having just used up nearly half of his safety margin.
Bolting out into the bay, he side-stepped one hysterical thug who was screaming that he couldn't see. "Sucks, don't it?" he muttered in passing. But what the fuck, the effects would probably wear off if the guy lived that long. It wasn't like he'd ripped anybody's eyes out. Sands grinned savagely; the temptation to shoot these particular fish in this particular barrel was strong--but that lab was gonna blow, and he wanted at least a hundred yards between him and it when it did.
He nearly made it. He was running flat out across the compound to the gate when the first of the trucks, the one still parked at the far end of the bay, blew the roof off. Sands hit the ground as debris showered down around him. He tried to get up, but the ground gave way beneath him and he fell again. Momentarily disoriented, his ears ringing as another truck blew--that was close--Sands got his bearings and realized he was in the crater where the guard shack had been. Circumnavigating it, he took a half dozen strides down the corridor between the fences when the lab went up. The shockwave threw him against the far fence.
He grabbed the mesh to stay upright; ribs, he thought. Hell, at least this time it's not bulletholes. Sands wasn't sure if the gear was still working or not, because his ears seemed to have left the scene of the crime. No, he could faintly hear his own rasping breaths. With an effort, he jogged toward the escape route, counting. For a minute, he thought he'd passed it, then he caught a familiar crystalline tone from the gear.
"Nice work, Lucifer."
"You too."
The hike out was accomplished in half the time, since they didn't have to worry about surveillance. They didn't drive back the way they'd come; Sands could feel the jeep climbing. "Where the hell are we?"
"On a promontory overlooking the scene of our triumph. Beneath us, the conflagration rages, great gouts of flame reach into the midnight sky, billowing black clouds stream forth to heaven. Tonight is the longest night of the year, and together we have lit a fine sacrificial fire to bring back the light!" An unearthly howl rose from the seat beside him. "Rage, rage against the dying of the light!"
That was one way of looking at it, Sands supposed, who mentally toasted marshmallows over the blaze. Damned pagan lunatic. He still felt euphoric---exhausted---but euphoric. That would wane soon enough; tomorrow he was gonna hurt like hell. He switched the gear off, leaned his head back, and didn't wake until the moving jeep gave a lurch that made his ribs protest.
Was it enough? Would the cartels get the message and leave his adopted city alone? Sands hoped so.
Before long, they were pulling into Culiacan. "You're in front of the Cathedral."
"Thanks for everything." On impulse he extended his hand. It was clasped in a firm grip and a hand rested momentarily on his forearm.
"Any time, Sands. Oh, and you might find this useful. I found it in a limo on the way to the fuel tanks. It ought to keep you in puerco pibil for a while." Sands accepted the suitcase, switched the gear back on, and climbed out of the jeep. "You've got my number!" he heard over the sound of the departing engine.
Sands stood in the shadow of the Cathedral for a moment, the steps leading up to the great doors rippling like a waterfall to the gear. He could always go in, light a candle...no, he'd set enough fires tonight. He'd get a hotel room, at a decent hotel this time, and in the morning...well, let he'd see how badly he was hurting. Meanwhile, there was nothing on the breeze but a faint perfume of incense from midnight mass.
Sands began to walk, leisurely, toward the center of the city. He couldn't see, but he knew where he was going.
FINITO!