With Every Move, Another Chance
Disclaimer: This is a fanfiction. Therefore, by definition, certain elements of the story do not belong to me, including Sands, the CIA, the events of the film trilogy 'El Mariachi', 'Desperado' and 'Once Upon A Time In Mexico', and Miguel, who was named by Sparks and is more commonly known in both canon and fanon as 'Chiclet Boy' or 'Kid'. Sparks also named the two doctors and gave them their appearances, but I created their personalities. I own the plot and original characters, and any similarities to persons living or dead or in other fanfics, or to real or pre-fanficced events, are purely coincidental and/or accidental!
Rating: I think it has to be R, doesn't it? Sands does like his F word, and in later chapters there may be some rather excessive violence. But nothing overly graphic, violent or otherwise, because I don't think I'd be able to write it as well as it would want to be written. Possible slash warning for later chapters, though by no means a guarantee- I'm not the world's best controller of character development; they tend to do what they want! Ah R, PG-13, what's the difference? If you're reading this fic I presume you've seen the film, which was an R in the US and a 15 in the UK, so if you've seen the film then you can read this fic!
Author's Note: Thank you to my first reviewers- Padmez, DragonHunter200 and Esmerelda Sparrow; especially Padmez because she read and reviewed my other story as well! Thank you, you three!
Chapter 2: It's my life; don't you forget
When Sands awoke, he was not in the best of moods. He could feel the new dressings around his three bullet wounds, and the bandage around his eyes, but the only other material that was touching his skin was a poorly tied hospital gown and his boxers. Feeling around, he found the bedside surface and patted it none-too carefully- it supported his sunglasses, a heavy jug of water, a plastic cup and a plate of sandwiches, which upon closer inspection he discovered were egg mayonnaise and cress. No guns; no knife; no nothing. Fuck it. Something was seriously wrong in the world when his best weapon was an egg-and-cress sandwich.
"Ah, Sands, you're awake; good good."
"Truman. I see I have egg sandwiches again."
"The staff daren't make you anything else after your reaction to the soup. I bring you news"
"Pray tell."
"Agent Salmons will debrief you here in my office as soon as you're ready. He will give you the full details of what happened in Mexico following the unforeseen events of the Day of the Dead."
"That's just peachy. May I wear clothes for this meeting, or am I expected to face my superior officer in a nightgown?"
"Dr Fillby is just organising something for you now."
"Perfect."
"And I've brought you your antibiotics."
"Oh joy, oh rapture. Give 'em 'ere."
Agent Salmons sat behind Dr Truman's desk whilst Sands sat in front of it, lounging in much the same way he had done when meeting El Mariachi at the cantina.
"Right. Here's how it all stands, Sands- El Presidente is alive and well, and arrived in Mexico City before you got to Texas the day after the Day of the Dead. General Marquez is dead; Billy Chambers is dead; Dr Guevara is dead; Barillo is dead; various lesser members of his cartel are dead, as are various civilians and soldiers who worked for Marquez; and Cucoy is missing presumed dead; but all of your other "little helpers" made it out alive. The Mariachi was seen not far from Culiacan; Jorge Ramirez made contact with the CIA before presumably returning to his normal life; and Ajedrez was found in the A&E ward of the Culiacan hospital with a gunshot wound to her lower chest region- she'll be there for a while yet, but she's going to make a full recovery."
"I knew I should have shot her twice," Sands said calmly.
"What?"
"The bitch was Barillo's daughter. Now why didn't that come up in your background checks?"
"See, that's he funny thing, Sheldon- we have no record of doing a background check on Agent Ajedrez. No record of one being requested. Care to explain that?"
"I told you about Ajedrez- she was the one who would feed Barillo the false information. Instead, she fed him the real information, and had them drill my fucking eyes out before sending out the guy with the gun to finish me off. I requested the background check."
"Our records say you didn't."
"Well your records are wrong! Get me on the phone to all the operators and I'll tell you which one it was who answered!"
"Sands, we never got a call from you requesting a background check on Ajedrez! I've spoken to all the operators; they didn't hear from you at all that day!"
"But that's not possible; I called you; I spoke to someone; I got a background check on that bitch!"
"You said your cell's phone line had been compromised. Do you think it possible they transferred the call?"
"Fuck. Fuck, I let her have my phone- she needed to make a call, I let her use my phone, it was her! Yes, they must have done- oh, the look that must have been on the cartel guy's face when I called..."
"Sands. Listen to me. There's no place in the Agency for a blind-man," Salmons said bluntly. "You know it as well as I do. They're doubling your pension fund and letting you go."
"Not good enough." Salmons closed his eyes and let out a breath heavily.
"I'll see if I can wangle a trebling."
"You'll see?"
"You'll get a trebling. But the Agency has no use for you any longer. Without eyes you can't be a field agent, and you can't take an office job. Hell, they wouldn't even agree to let you man the phones if you applied to, because you wouldn't be able to take down messages properly! That comes from higher up than me, Sands, and I can't do more than ensure your pension increase."
"So you're just 'letting me go'. I love seeing how America looks after it's own."
"There's nothing more I can do. What did you expect, Sands? You misjudged her. You fucked up. If it hadn't been for the Mariachi and Ramirez and sheer dumb luck things could've gone to hell down there. Did you want a medal for it?"
If Sands had had any weapon on him at all, it would be pointed at Salmons' head right now, if not sticking out of it or smoking. He knew he'd never have gotten away with it- hell, he'd probably have been dishonourably discharged with no pension at all for killing his immediate superior- but that didn't stop him wishing he had a weapon all the same. As it was, the only thing he'd managed to find was a ballpoint pen- no scalpel, no letter- openers, no staple-guns, not even a fucking pair of scissors had been left for him to be able to get his hands on; and although he knew he could kill someone with the object, he could not do so using it as a ranged weapon, and so settled for merely snarling. "Fuck you! What did you think I meant when I said I had people to help who were unarmed? That was not luck. The Mariachi and Ramirez were under my orders, doing what they'd been told to do- and if they improvised, that's one reason why I chose them, because they had the ability to use their own initiative if the situation called for it. And Ajedrez... I fucked up with Ajedrez, okay? I admit it! I didn't see it coming. Now I won't see anything again. Happy? I don't need you fucking lecturing me about what happened down there!"
"Sands, calm down!" Salmons barked. "This discussion is closed. What do you want to happen to your pension money?"
Sands considered this. "Put the whole lot in a bank account. High interest, fixed rate. A card-account, not a book- after all, I can't write straight anymore, can I? All correspondence can go to you, anything I need to know can be conveyed via telephone; I'll make sure I always pass my number back when I change phones. I doubt the bank would agree to give me all my letters via telephone."
"They would agree to send you Braille versions, though."
"That's a good point. Tell them to do that instead, then; and the Company can give me a Braille dictionary and keyboarded laptop as goodwill leaving gifts."
"So in summary, I should report that..."
"They treble my pension and move it to a bank account with a high fixed interest rate and arrange for all my official correspondences to be sent in Braille- all my official correspondences. They should also give me the Braille dictionary and keyboarded laptop as tokens of their goodwill. Then I will resign peacefully. Otherwise, I get the lawyers in, and it gets messy. And public."
"Do you have any family you want informed?"
Sands thought. "My sister Anise," he said finally. When he didn't hear a reply, Sands assumed Salmons must have nodded. "And wear ruffs."
"What?"
"If they want to see me, they have to wear ruffs. I'm sick of people nodding or shaking their heads or looking at me or each other- wear ruffs."
"Wear... ruffs. You mean proper Elizabethan-England neck-ruffs."
"I'm fucking joking! Get out of my sight." It was fun, Sands decided, saying things like that. People never knew how to respond. And if they tried saying something similar to him, in an attempt to share the joke... he could have a lot of fun being not amused. That was, he would have been able to, if the Company hadn't decided that he wasn't any use to them anymore.
Salmons shook his head, and stood up noisily. "I'll see you at your discharging."
"Be sure I'm told the date; I'd hate to miss it."
Salmons left the room, closing the door behind him, leaving Sands alone with his thoughts.
Fuck. He was being fired. He'd fucked up, and so he was being fired. Wonderful. Life just got better and better. Oh well, he could always be a... what could he be? He supposed he could be a singer, but then he might walk off the stage or something, or break the equipment: trip over leads, pull wires out of things, step on someone's instrument, that sort of thing. He could be a politician; they're all blind, and he could have secretaries to read things out or write them down- who was he kidding; he didn't have the right mindset for mainstream politics- after all, revolutions and sabotaging coup d'etats and arranging coup d'etats, that was a whole different barrel of eels. He supposed he could join a freak show, and be led around by a man with three buttocks or a bearded woman; no holes in that plan. Maybe he'd even meet the famous triple-breasted whore- but the smile died on his face at that thought when it conjured up a picture of Ajedrez. She was at Culiacan hospital. She would make a full recovery. A quick death had been too good for her anyway. Sands would use his last days as a member of the CIA to the full, and worry about further employment when he needed it. A plan was formulating in his mind, and he liked it.
"Speak to me, Eddie; come on," Sands murmured, bent over the computer.
"Hi! Please state your name, badge number and pass-code for access!"
Sands did so quietly, turning down the volume on the speakers.
"Welcome, Sheldon Jeffrey Sands! What would you like to do today?"
"I need the address of one Agent Ajedrez, Mexican special forces, now."
"Sure thing, Sheldon Jeffrey Sands! Would you like that in a print-out?"
"No, thank you. Just read it out to me, Eddie."
"Sure thing!" There was a pause, then Eddie read out the address. It was the flat they had shared.
"No, fuckmook, her other address," Sands hissed.
There was another pause. "No other address listed for the name Ajedrez."
"What about Barillo?"
There was another pause while the computer searched the database. Too long a pause. "Twenty seven results for the name 'Barillo' in Mexico. Would you like to alter the search parameters?"
Yeah, how many results for a man with 'leader of a drugs cartel' on his passport? A thought struck him. "Open new search: Agent Ajedrez's personnel file. Crosscheck the two searches; are there any matches?"
Eddie paused. And paused. And paused.
Come on, fucker. At least say 'no matches' or something.
"Security clearance code level nine requested."
"Level nine?"
"Security clearance code level nine requested. Code: "level nine" submitted. Processing."
Dammit. Stupid fucking voice-recognition computers. I wasn't talking to you!
"Code: accepted. Access granted. Match one of one for the crosscheck of Agent Ajedrez's personnel file with addresses for the name Barillo available. Press spacebar to continue."
Sands couldn't believe his luck. Which stupid idiot made a security clearance code that was so simple; the first thing anyone using a computer like Eddie was likely to say?
/Unless the person using Eddie wasn't stupid enough to voice their thoughts aloud./
For once he let an insult roll of him like water off a duck's back. That moment of idiocy had bought him Ajedrez's address, and by golly, he was going to use it. He pressed the spacebar. Eddie recited the address. He smiled. He deleted the search- not sent it to the recycle bin, not "deleted" it, but wiped it from the hard drive altogether.
"Thanks Eddie."
"Any time, Sheldon Jeffrey Sands!"
Sands left the room, walking with confidence, turned a corner a little too early and brushed against the wall. It didn't matter. He felt along the wall... one door... two doors... and what's behind door number three? He opened the door.
"Darling? You in here?"
"That's Officer Darling to you, Sands!"
"Come now Darling, is that anyway to welcome me back?"
Darling sniffed. "What do you want, Sands?"
"Is there anyone else in here?" Darling had heard about what had happened to Sands. Most people had by now. The junior employees had had to be sat down and shown the one assignment of Sands's that they'd filmed before they fully appreciated the warnings not to go up to him and ask him about it.
"No. It's just us."
"Good. Do you remember last May, when you-"
"I remember, Sands," Darling cut across him, not wishing to be reminded further. "Come to claim your payback?"
"I scratch your back, you scratch mine, Darling. That's the way it's always been and always will be. I need you to make me a 3D model of a building- to scale- complete with compass directions. I want exits. I want entrances. I want anything that can be used as one. I want one model per floor, no ceilings, no roof, and all the rooms."
"Do you want the furniture too?"
"Now that you mention it, that would be lovely, Darling. But I wouldn't want you to go to the trouble. Just the identity of each room will do- kitchen, living room, bedroom, bathroom, that sort of thing."
"And whose house might this be?"
"An old friend's; she asked me to house-sit for her."
"The address?" Darling asked tiredly. Sands told him. Darling's spine was suddenly as straight as if someone had shoved a metal rod down it. "How did you find that address?"
"I'm Sheldon Jeffrey Sands, mate. How could I have failed to?"
Darling looked at him sceptically, but Sands just grinned. Then Darling remembered that he wouldn't have been able to see the sceptical look anyway. "I can't do it, Sands. I won't. Not even for you."
"Oh yes you will."
"No I won't."
"Then we'll just see how the Committee take the news of your little unofficial sojourn last May, then, won't we?"
"You wouldn't dare. You wouldn't dare!"
Sands smirked, and mouthed 'Oh yes I would.' Darling didn't doubt it. He had no choice.
"I'll do it. But you'd better be clear on this, Sands- there's not going to be anybody out there to save your ass if this goes pear-shaped. I don't know what you're planning to do, but it can't be good if you're fucking with what's left of the Barillo cartel."
"Who says I'm fucking with the cartel? All I want is a plan of the house. It's as simple as that."
"Nothing's ever simple with you, Sands."
"I'll take that as a compliment."
"It wasn't meant to be an insult."
"Good. Get it to me by Friday."
"Friday?"
"Thursday then."
Darling knew better than to protest again. "Very good, sir."
Oh, Darling was mighty pissed now, Sands could tell. The thought made him grin. "No need to lose your temper, Darling."
"I think you're making a big mistake here. I'm blind- you think I don't know what that fucking means? I know my limitations. I also know that I killed those three cartel men even without my eyes. You believe what you like, but it's thanks to me things didn't go to hell in a hand basket down in Mexico. And it's not as if that was my first assignment. What number was it again? Eighth? Ninth?"
"Twelfth," the clerk supplied.
"Thank you. And how many of those were successful?"
"Eleven and a half. The Committee are split as to whether the Marquez incident was a success or a failure on your part."
"I can understand that. Losing my eyes isn't exactly a sign of triumph on my part. It seems my operatives were so good the Company might want to employ them in my place, no? You want to bring Jorge out of retirement full- time? You want the Mariachi on your team? No offence, but I don't think either of them would accept your offer. Jorge took some persuasion to come out of retirement just for one assignment, and the Mariachi? He only works with other mariachis, and doesn't have a very good track record of keeping them alive. See, I'm the best you've ever had, and I think that that warrants a little more gratitude than giving my the sack at the first excuse."
"Agent Sands, this is not an appeal court, this is your discharging. Your badge, please?"
"I still think you're making a mistake," Sands told them, pulling his badge out of his pocket and holding it in his hand.
"The badge, Sands."
Sands threw it in the direction of the voice with impressive aim- it bounced off the man's forehead and landed in his mug of coffee on the rebound. Of course, Sands hadn't known about the coffee, but it was still most impressive.
"Did you get it? Did I miss?"
"No, Sands; I got it," he said through gritted teeth, fishing the badge out of his mug. "Thank you. And your gun?"
"My gun? What gun would that be?"
"Your gun, Sands."
"Surely every American citizen has the right to defend himself."
The man looked at his colleagues, and sighed. "Fine, keep the gun. The, um, Officers, have organised a leaving bash for you in the mess hall."
"Miguel, you know the way to the mess hall? El Cantina?"
"Si, Senor."
"Then lead on."
And with the little boy leading him by the hand, Sands left the room.
"Hey, kid, did I ever thank you for saving my life?"
"No. but I didn't thank you either!" Miguel felt terrible as he realised this.
"Yeah you did, kid. Yeah you did. Thanks."
"Thank you Senor."
"No, thank you. And shut up."
"Si Senor," Miguel said with a grin.
After a while of walking in silence, Miguel spoke again. "You talked about- the Mariachi. Did you mean /the/ Mariachi? El Mariachi?"
"Sure. You know him?"
"Si. He taught me to play guitar better, and got rid of the drugs cartel in my town. Then my father and I moved to Culiacan. That was where he meet Carolina- in my old town!" Miguel sounded proud of this, as though it was more of a claim to fame than having El Mariachi give him guitar lessons. Sands would have rolled his eyes, if he'd had any.
"Here we are, Senor," Miguel told him, opening the door to the mess hall and guiding him in.
"If anyone even thinks about leaping out at me, I'll shot them."
That kind of put a bit of a dampener on the party from the outset, but gradually it recovered. Peterson had cornered Sands and was blabbering non- stop.
"Charles wanted to put sheepses eyeballs on the menu, but I stopped him. Then he wanted to buy you two fake ones so you could roll them across the table when you wanted to roll your eyes, but I pointed out that that wasn't a good idea either. Then-"
Charles was passing by and heard this, and took that opportunity to butt in. "It's all lies, you know- they were all his ideas, and I told him they were rubbish."
"Oh, you did not!"
"Did to!"
"Did not!"
"Did to!"
"Gentlemen. Please. Control yourselves." Somebody save me from these morons.
"Senor Sands- I am going home now. Senor Johnson will drive me back to Culiacan. Will I see you again?"
Sands froze. Miguel was leaving? Dammit. He could've used someone he could trust around, but of course that was stupid, he was just a kid who already had a family back in Mexico. "Sure, kid. You'll see me again."
He didn't even notice that they were talking about seeing.
"Will you see me off?"
This time he couldn't miss it, and smiled wryly. "I'll do my best. Come on, then."
Miguel made to take his hand, but Sands shook him off- he was going to have to do this. "Just lead the way, kid. I'll follow." "You are not angry with me, Senor?"
"'Course not, kid. Just without you here I'll have to get around by myself, won't I? And about time too, I've been a fucking dependant on you for a week now." Sands shook his head- he didn't know how he'd let it happen. "I'm sorry, kid."
"No, Senor; you have nothing to be sorry for! I am sorry, for having to leave you."
Sands groaned. "For fucks sake, kid; don't be stupid."
They set off, and Miguel kept looking over his shoulder to see that Sands was following him.
For his part, Sands was trailing a hand along the wall, wishing the boy would talk more. "Are you okay, Senor?"
"Just... carry on talking, okay?"
"Si. What should I say?"
"I don't know! Tell... tell me about the time you met El."
"El Mariachi?" Miguel brightened at the thought. "Si, si, okay Senor." Miguel recited the story of his meetings with El Mariachi as he led the way for Sands down the corridor, only having to pause in his telling twice to warn Sands about steps. You think you know a place like the back of your hand, but wait 'til you try walking around it blindfold: you won't know it as well as you think you do. But then, you might know it better than you 'd expect. And then they were outside, and Johnson stood in front of his car waiting to drive Miguel home after nearly a month away from his father.
"Sands. How are you doing?"
"All things considered I think I'm doing quite well. Despite your best efforts."
Johnson winced at the reminder of his foolish stupidity. "I didn't mean any harm by it."
"Save it for someone who gives a damn. And you take care of my kid here."
"Y- Yes. Of course. Come on, Miguel; get in the car." Johnson knew better than to question Sands when he was already in his bad books.
"Are you coming, Senor?"
Please, no, Johnson prayed to whatever entity might by listening.
Sands opened his mouth to refuse, then remembered his plan. What better way to get to Mexico?
"Sure. I'll go."