Chapter Thirteen

Betrayal

A/N: Thanks again, you marvelous reviewers! You guys have been praising me for the fast updates, so I am trying to keep it up. You may notice, though, that my chapters are kind of, erm, short, as a result.

El's blood sang to him. This was the kind of planning he was made for - this was the dark talent he had discovered all those years ago in Ciudad Acuña, when he began his journey from innocent musician to legendary gunfighter. This, he could do. You shoot men and you take their guns. Simple.

Without any effort on his part, his mind gave him details. If Lorenzo's room was across the courtyard, any guard there could have seen what had just happened. He would have to die next, and quickly. Then El would free Lorenzo. Lorenzo, who could shoot a man over his shoulder without looking.

It was wonderful how adrenaline eased his hurts.

Crouched so as to be below where a shooter would expect him, he opened the door a crack, searching.

The sound Maria made would have warned him, had he been expecting attack from that direction. As it was, he thought she was reacting to the bloody death of their room guard, so he was unprepared when Sands tackled him from behind, yelling for help.

El fought the man in earnest this time - all of their lives were at stake - but Sands fought with desperate intelligence. As El tried to bring the gun to bear on the agent, Sands went for his other hand, and slammed El's fingers against the floor. Blinding pain went through El. He pulled the trigger, certain that Maria was not in range, and hoping that Sands was.

Hope died as Sands wrenched his gun hand against the wall, and took the gun from him. El lunged anyway. The man was blind; El should have a chance, even in close range.

Sands fired, point-blank, with absolute deadly intent. The only reason El lived was because a cooler had overturned and spilled ice on the floor.

El slipped and went down.

Then the room and corridor filled with armed and shouting men.

The chaos cleared, and El found himself in the outside corridor on his knees, his arms bent painfully behind him, in front of Julio Delgado.

El put all his hate into the look he gave Delgado.

"I'm glad to see you are feeling better," Delgado said, no geniality in his tone, whatsoever.

"Vete a la mierda," said El.

Sands, divested of the gun, and sunglasses back in place, stood nearby, sheer need emanating from him. "Julio," he said.

"There will be punishment for this, Mariachi," Delgado said. "I promise you."

"And reward?" piped in Sands. He tried to approach Delgado, but El now saw he was being held, too. "Julio, now, please?"

"You will call me Señor Delgado!" Delgado snapped.

"Right, right. Sorry," said Sands. He shifted his weight from foot to foot like a child who badly needed to go to the bathroom.

Delgado turned back to El, his eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "This was to be expected, I suppose, once you were stronger. You do recover fast. You may live up to your legend yet."

"Señor Delgado," Sands begged, "I stopped him for you. I warned you. You've gotta fix me up."

"You think you are entitled to something? Gomez is dead."

"I told him about the estate security. He knows about the motion detectors, the dogs, everything. I told him how the night shift plays cards instead of walking their beat. Listen, the whole punishment/reward thing? It really requires consistent application when the desired behavior is exhibited. Please . . ."

"I thought I would like it when you begged, you pale-faced sack of shit. Now I only find it irritating."

Sands sagged, to where the men holding his arms found themselves holding him up. "I am what you made me," he gasped, sweat dripping from his chin.

"I made you? I remind you, you son of a whore, you helped yourself to Barillo's merchandise without invitation. Certainly without payment."

With an incoherent howl, Sands lunged at Delgado, actually breaking free of one of his captors before the group of them tackled him to the ground, not far from El.

Delgado's lip curled in disgust. "Get him a bag," he instructed a man, in Spanish. "Not too much!"

Sands's response was muffled by his face being pressed to the ground with a rifle butt. "Thank you, thank you, oh God, thank you."

"And tonight," Delgado called after his departing henchman, "check on the night shift."