Whee!!! This is a long one, kids! More psychotic fun!! ::does Sands happy dance::

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IV. Falling

Sands prided himself on not being daunted by anything. He prided himself on his composure, how he could make his face a mask to hide his true nature almost whenever necessary. And he prided himself on never acting like a blind man.

Sure, he had taken to folding his money a certain way so he'd know which bill was which, and wherever he stayed he made sure his room was impeccably organized so he could find any given belonging in an instant. But he made a point of acting as if he could see, just to throw people off a little bit, keep them guessing. There was no glory, nothing worthy of legend in being a predictable person.

El Pistolero Ciego.

That was him. Sometimes he wished he could see, just for an instant, just so he could see the looks on the faces of the utterly befuddled as he explained his elaborate schemes that made sense in some unthinkable way. As he casually made some sarcastic comment. As he called them "sugarbutt."

People were his toys.

Sands heard clicking sounds even through the thick door. Sounds that could only be those of locks opening. Several possibilities of who it could be raced through his mind.

It could be a doctor. Sands didn't like doctors: never had, never would. Between the constant fear that some shrewd spook in white would figure out his less-than-healthy state of mind that he worked so hard to conceal, and the incident with Dr. Guevara, he felt completely doctored out.

It could be someone from the CIA. He rather hoped not, although what could they possibly do to him? He was Sands the Untouchable. Rules were below him. The worst they could do would be to kick him out of the Agency, but that was really okay by him right now. His badge was the hardest thing he had ever striven for in his life; he had worked his ass off for it. But so long as he was allowed to go, he could keep the balance without those fuckers.

For a moment he imagined it might be El, here to shoot everyone in sight and spring him out of this trap, but the thought vaporized instantaneously. El was long gone by now, making love to his guitar or some other kind of mariachi shit.

Well, it seemed he'd just have to wait and see. He was incapable of doing much in his own defense, unless of course it was only one person. As he had learned in training, it was possible to take someone out without use of the hands. Without standing – and without seeing – was another story, but it was possible. He could do anything.

'That's right,' a sleepy voice affirmed. 'We can.'

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Someone stepped into the cell and the door clanged shut. Sands didn't move; he was barely even breathing. His life was like a chess game that had to be planned out very carefully: he was black and everyone else was white, and white always moved first.

"Agent Sands." So it was a woman. Her voice was untouched by any trace of a Mexican accent, rather, she sounded positively nervous. Sands wondered if she was pretty. That was at least one nice thing about being blind: in his world, all the women he spoke to were gorgeous.

Slightly thrown by his lack of response, the woman continued. "I'm Agent Christine McCaslin. Of the CIA," she added quickly.

Ya think? Sands thought amusedly. "Nice to meet you, Christine," he said cheerfully, moving his face in the direction of her voice. "Please excuse me for not getting up."

This was met with silence. He gleefully imagined the look on her face as she searched for some kind of response; however, his face betrayed nothing of these thoughts.

"So," she said finally, after a long pause. "You took out a good number of our top agents, Mr. Sands. Can I ask you why you were so resistant?"

No. And is that an inclusive or an exclusive 'our'? 'Cause I sure as hell don't work for you shitheads anymore.

"Agent? Did you hear me?" She didn't sound too much younger than he, but at interrogating murderers and renegades she was most likely quite inexperienced.

"I heard you." He sighed and crossed his legs the other way, right over left, before answering. "They were trying to take me in. I value my life and my freedom very highly. And despite my efforts you quibbledicks still shoved me in a cell in a straitjacket, so there you go."

Another pause. "You know that your actions against the Agency will most likely lose you your position and your badge?"

"Yes, ma'am." She was far too easy to mess with.

-----------------------

Everything he said was either dripping in cheer or laced with what was surely a dangerous calm that didn't lull her into the least bit of security. She had not responded to a single thing he said with confidence, and she was supposed to be the one in charge here. And where had he come up with a word like 'quibbledick?'

Some people had told her that he was an absolute madman. A genius, they had assured her, but plain crazy when you came right down to it. And muttering and yelling to himself, like the guard had told her, along with the complete lack of remorse he showed to killing his fellow agents, was enough to confirm his lunacy in her mind.

Christine suddenly found herself wishing for a desk and a lot of paperwork.

-----------------------

"Agent, can I ask you a few more questions?"

"If it makes you happy." Sands was beginning to tire of this little game. He wanted a nap. His arms were cramping something awful from having been wrapped around his torso for so long.

"What was going through your head when you started shooting? What exactly were you thinking?"

Jeez, did this lady think she was some kind of fucking reporter or something? Some kind of shrink? Well, Christine, there actually were many thoughts in my head at the time. And less than half of them were mine.

"Well, I suppose I was thinking that I wanted out, and if a few people had to die on the way, so be it." He offered this with an almost friendly smile, wondering what the next question would be.

"I see," she said after breathing heavily out through her nose.

I don't, Sands could not help thinking to himself.

"Now, um, could you please tell me what went on with the coup and the Barillo cartel that led to your... injury?"

Sands wondered if they had taken off his glasses when they'd brought him in. He wasn't about to wriggle his nose or anything to find out, but he hoped not. If someone was going to see him without them, he wanted to be awake when they did it, just to enjoy the reaction.

"Well, sweetcakes, it's a long story. In the abridged version, I'm all by my onesie because certain fuckers of a certain agency refused to get me a team. I go to meet this bitch in a nice little dive, maybe get some good pork, she double-crosses me and drags me straight to Barillo himself 'cause it turns out she's his daughter, their loony doctor offs my eyes because I saw too much of their scheme, and then they shove me out into the street. I kill the little whore and begin the rest of my life."

"What did you see? That they needed to... you know, do that for?" Her tone was unsteady.

"I knew what Barillo was up to. I knew about the coup, about Marquez who was gonna take over afterwards. I knew the daughter was a spy in the Mexican agency. I saw Barillo looking like a fricking mummy after a nice bit of surgery. No doubt the handiwork of the same good doctor."

"Right." Sands could hear the diligent scribbling of pen on paper. "Why didn't you report back to headquarters?"

Why indeed? he thought. 'Cause the little man in my head was telling me not to? That'd go over real well.

"And how do you think I could have done that without seeing? I couldn't exactly hop into a cab and tell the driver to take me to the Central Intelligence Agency."

'Good, very good,' he heard faintly. 'If she underestimates you, we'll have far better chances of getting out of here.'

'Why, thank you,' Sands responded cordially.

Christine had finished writing. "I suppose that's true, but you still could have contacted us. Isn't an agent supposed to keep a cell phone on their person at all times, to call for backup or in case something goes wrong?"

"Guess what," he said, with the manner of someone stating that the world is round. "I tried to do just that, after those bastards did their work on me. But, lo and behold, the line was out. Seems someone at HQ didn't want me calling in, didn't want to send backup."

"Well, we'll look into that, Agent," Christine said, making another note. "I don't suppose you have the phone anymore?"

"You suppose correctly," he said with blatant finality. "Are we finished?"

"Yeah, I think that's enough questions for now. Another agent or I may come back later for more, if that's alright."

"Feel free to stop by, sugarbutt, 'cause my schedule's free all day." Oh, if only he could see.

"Well..." She searched for some gratuitous words of parting. "Thank you for your time, Agent Sands."

He chose not to respond, at least not out loud. He heard her turn towards the door.

'Now's our chance. Make your move. Take her down.'

'How? With what? She's too far away to reach.'

'Shake your head.'

'What?'

'To make the glasses fall off, fuckwit. Don't worry, they're there. It'll keep her in here.'

'And then what?'

'Just do as I say.'

Obediently, Sands lowered his face and shook his head vigorously. There was a muffled sound as they landed in his lap, and he quickly moved so they clattered onto the floor.

'Good. Now, listen carefully.'

-----------------------

Christine jumped a little at the sudden sound of plastic. She turned cautiously for fear of what she might see, deliberately not looking at Sands himself, but rather at the floor next to him.

Yes, sitting unassumingly on the floor was a pair of black wraparound sunglasses. She found herself wondering if Sands' eyes would be blank and unfocused, like those who were naturally blind. Somehow she found it difficult to believe that so clever and dangerous a man would have such eyes; ones that were cold and intelligent would be more becoming. Mentally bracing herself like she did whenever she watched a late-night horror film, she looked at the man's face.

Her first thought was, Oh God, that's gross. And so it was: where there should have been eyes was only scar tissue and scabbing. She thought they had just blinded him, with a chemical or a couple of cuts, not ripped out his actual eyes! And yet, she found the empty holes horrifically fascinating – they were incredibly creepy, but she couldn't look away.

"Whoops," Sands said. "Shit." He turned his head to the direction where the glasses had fallen, and then back towards her. "You think you could do us a favor and just grab those? Put 'em back on? The light's a bitch to my eyes."

"S-sure," Christine said, stuffing the pad and pen in her pocket but not taking her eyes off him for a second. It's a trap, she warned herself, but then she thought again. No, it was an accident. To get them and put them on his face will just take a second. I've got a gun and he hasn't, and besides, the bastard's blind and jacketed. What can he possibly do?

She put a hand to the holster at her side, just in case, and carefully moved over towards him. Keeping her eyes on his face, which looked remarkably thankful, she squatted to reach the glasses. Once they were safe in her hand, she shoved them onto his face and quickly stood up.

"Thanks," he said.

Then, all of a sudden, she found herself on the floor.

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'Listen very carefully,' the voice had said as Christine had walked towards him. 'When I say, kick her legs out. She'll have a gun that you'll have to get away from her. She's probably right-handed. Just follow my instructions, and we'll be okay. Got it, Sheldon?'

'Got it.'

The moment the glasses were back to cover his sockets, he felt much stronger. He heard the agent stand; her boots made a scuffing sound on the bare floor. "Thanks."

'NOW!'

Deftly, he did a scissor kick that knocked her legs out from under her. There was a satisfying shriek and a thud as she hit the floor, completely winded.

'Get up, damn it, get up! Get her!' The words were screamed in his head, and for all he knew, flew right out of his mouth.

He climbed to his feet and felt the cold tingle of blood returning to his legs. She was right in front of him. With one foot he found her right shoulder, and he stomped on it as hard as he could.

"Drop the gun!" he growled as he did so, more as a hope than a command, and he was rewarded with the sound of something skittering across the floor. He moved that foot so it held down her wrist, and she cried out again as he put all his weight on her wrist so he could bring his other foot to her throat. "Don't move," he ordered.

'Good. There's a camera in here somewhere. Tell them the terms.'

He looked up and in every direction around him. "I'll kill her!" he shouted at the walls. "I'll crush her fucking windpipe if you don't release me!" She was gasping for breath, quite audibly. He hoped everyone watching could hear her. "I want out of this jacket and out of this hellhole, do you hear me?"

There was no response, just the echo of his shouts.

"You have thirty seconds to respond! I'll kill her, goddamnit!"

-----------------------

Christine thought that if he didn't crush her throat, he'd make her wrist explode, for having a grown man stand on these sensitive places hurt like bloody hell.

Calm down! the voice of reason told her, even as Sands was shouting about how he was going to kill her. Her eyes darted over to the door, where a rectangle of the guard Matthew Evans' face was visible and panicky. He was indecisive, she realized, of whether to come in now and risk her death, or wait till he had let her go and risk the man's wrath.

There was no doubt in Christine's mind that she preferred the former.

She locked eyes with the guard, and held up three fingers on her left hand. The feeling was already gone in the right, and she winced whenever Sands shifted his weight. Evans' eyes widened, and then he nodded.

Christine lowered one finger. Evans turned, presumably giving an order to the others. She put down another. He waited for the final signal with anticipation.

Then she put down the last finger, reached up with her left hand, and pulled at the leg on her throat with all the strength she could muster as the guards unlocked the door and burst in.

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He was falling.

'NO! You shitface, no! Fight her!'

He heeded the voice and made his foot find solid ground. But suddenly there were footsteps, people everywhere, and the echoes made it impossible to discern who was where.

There was a sting in his chest, and he heard countless echoes, and relentless bells, and a voice screaming failure, and then he ceased to hear anything.

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Hooray! A long and dark chapter with some action! Lol... reviews, anyone?
you know the drill... review responses for everyone below:

Anjelina-- Thanks for your review, it's quite encouraging! Hmm, well, I'd never say no to a Johnny poster ;)

Spoofmaster-- Yay for reviewers that keep coming back! Yes, there's only five chapters, as I've got the whole thing written and beta'd already.

These good people reviewed, and so should you! ;)