Chapter Ten

Deal with the Devil

In some ways this session was worse, but in others it was not. El's already bruised and swollen body was much more sensitive to the beatings, but this time he knew what they wanted, and he knew they couldn't afford to harm him in any lasting way. He even thought they avoided adding injury to his maimed hands. They left Maria's bandages on.

He had no difficulty groaning pitifully and, to the extent that he could stomach it, cowering from their blows in order to avoid the application of the electrodes. Unfortunately, the Castilian-accented man liked using the juice. Somehow El choked down the promise of compliance that he wanted so badly to give in order to make it stop. Mercifully, his acting must have convinced them, for they didn't spend much time shocking him.

When it was finally over, they had to drag him out. He thought he could walk, but decided not to let his captors know that.

They dragged him over the cobblestones to a different location. Delgado received him while sitting in an armchair in a sumptuous library. El was dropped onto the carpet.

He lay there unmoving, savoring every moment of being left alone.

Delgado said nothing at first, and El gradually became aware that someone besides the ubiquitous armed guards was also in the room. He heard sounds of movement and of furniture sliding and banging.

Curious, he opened his eyes.

Fuck, did it have to be Sands?

The agent prowled the room, feeling over every shelf, desk, table, or bookcase. When he came to a cabinet or drawer, he opened it and thoroughly explored the interior before moving on. The guards watched him with amusement.

Delgado watched El.

"What is your name?" he asked.

El said nothing.

"What is his name?" Delgado asked Sands.

"Why the fuck would I know?" Sands replied. He continued his exploration, slamming things closed irritably.

"I thought the CIA knew everything."

"His name didn't matter."

"I'm not calling him El, as if he were a king or something."

"Call him horse's ass, then." Sands, still wearing sunglasses, turned his back to a bookcase and faced Delgado. "Come on, Julio," he wheedled, a note of desperation in his tone. "I won't do it again."

"You displeased the Señora," said Delgado in a bored voice. "You might as well sit back down. There's no perico in here."

"I heard you the first time," Sands replied, and returned to his searching.

Against the background of books and paintings, El saw for the first time how very thin the American was. He was reminded of a wild animal not adapting well to captivity, compulsively pacing its cage.

"So, 'El'" said Delgado, "are you ready to help me?"

"No," said El.

"Why not?" he asked. "You seem to have something against us dishonest businessmen. This is an opportunity to really hurt the Orozcos."

El said nothing. In truth, his resolution to not be used by a cartel was weakening. Days and weeks of torture could very well be ahead of him, all for what? In order to not attack and injure another cartel?

It was a matter of pride. These bastards wouldn't make him work for them.

His gaze moved to CIA Agent Sands. But then there was the matter of the deception. Sands had recommended the torture, but El believed him that he had done it because he knew El could deal with that better than with addiction. The American had claimed that Delgado owned him, but from the start he had given El a chance. Perhaps El would be foolish to throw that away over pride. He needed Delgado to believe he feared the beatings.

Or perhaps he was giving himself excuses. His foggy mind was weary of dealing with the pain from his abused body.

Sands himself remained an enigma. El had only to see his pale and pinched face as his craving led him to paw at every nook and cranny of his cage, to know Sands was not faking his total dependence on the Delgados. But a man like Sands - he had to hate it, somewhere deep down. Hate it a lot.

"You know," Delgado continued, "the job will get done anyway."

Also true, El had to admit. Why was he refusing, again? He wasn't sure why Delgado had not threatened Maria or Lorenzo if El did not cooperate, but he was sure to do it soon, and then El would give in. Better if they thought they'd broken him with the torture.

Sands, in his searching, encountered one of the machine gun-toting guards. He treated the man's person as if he were a desk or a cabinet, going through his pockets.

The man growled an insult and clubbed the agent beneath the chin with the stock of his gun. Sands fell back beside a bookcase, blood flowing from his lip. He lay there, unmoving, looking exhausted.

"Agente Sands, go back to your place. There is no cocaína for you. We have already canceled our arrangements with Colombia, so until this new shipment of yours is recovered, we have only inventory on hand. And that, my friend, goes to paying customers, unless you are very, very good."

El currently considered himself something of an expert on pain, and he saw now that Sands was not only exhausted, he was in some pain that didn't come from the blow to his jaw.

The man slowly got to all fours and stood. He made his way, fumbling with his hands ahead of him, to a chair and collapsed into it. Gone was the confident navigating he had done along the estate's pathways. He held his head in his hands.

"The next shipments are being prepared, and will be ready by next week. Until then, if we do not recover what the Orozcos have taken, we can't meet our own business obligations. I'm sure you realize the seriousness of the situation."

"Call the Colombians back," muttered Sands, rubbing his forehead.

"You expect me to grovel to them!?" Delgado got to his feet and walked toward El. "Never! We will crush the Orozcos and take any other inventory they have, as well. Fuck Colombia!"

"You need a backup plan." Even in a haggard voice, Sands managed to sound like he was speaking to a small child. "Your customers can't go a week without their shit. They'll defect to more reliable sources." Then he added, in an ironic tone, and, for the first time, El heard the pain in it, "Trust me, I know."

"No! Your advice, my friend, is poor. Your judgment is bad. I told Marco I didn't need him anymore. I will not ask him for help, now."

"It's not help; it's business," said Sands, still resting his head in his hands. "You can pay."

"Pay! Marco will charge me everything I have if he knows our danger. He will overcharge me just out of spite! You are losing your usefulness as an advisor. No aperitif today."

This brought Sands to his feet, his fists balled. "Christ, no!" he wailed. "Julio, think for a second! It's only a backup! You won't have to pay him if you get the first shipment back! You can't … you can't. I'll be no good to you before long."

"You are already no good to me. And no nightcap. We can't afford it."

Sands sank to the carpeted floor with a sound like a sob. "Please …"

"You! Mariachi! Are you ready to cooperate or do I send you back to my cousin?"

"Don't," El said, trying not to overplay his part. "Don't send me back."

"Hah!" crowed Delgado, "This is the kind of help I can use! You will assault this cache and return my property!"

"Yes," said El, looking at Sands.

A/N: Thanks again, reviewers! I'm glad you're still with me.

Let me recommend some stories.

For a great story of Sands's self-treatment and recovery, as well as a rousing tale with an interesting OC:

Darkness Bound, by Vanillafluffy story id 1929223

If you haven't read the incomparable Miss Becky's stories - what were you thinking?

After the Dust Has Cleared story id 1519851

When All is Said and Done story id 1543454

Que Quieres En La Vida (In English) story id 1571973

also

End Game story id 1698376