Chapter Twenty-Four

The Pooch is Screwed

"The crop is gone," Delgado announced, looking mainly at El. "The lab, the preparation facility, everything. Most of my people are dead, and the new shipment being prepared is destroyed."

El was well and truly startled. He said nothing, trying to think how this changed things. Not for the better, he feared. Not for Delgado's prisoners.

"No shit," said Sands, sounding impressed.

Well, thought El, the man must be lucid again. As lucid as he ever was.

Delgado stood directly in front of Sands's chair, which put his back to El and Lorenzo. "A paramilitary operation. That's all the survivors could tell me." He spoke quietly, deadly threat in his voice. "Agent Sands, if you reported to the CIA, you will die a slow and agonizing death. After suffering through detox hell."

Everyone in the room was silent as if they all held their breaths. Sands's expression was impossible to read. His dark glasses, so out of place, indoors, at night, made him look like he was behind a Mardi Gras mask.

El sneaked a glance at Lorenzo. This was the first time other than the flogging that the two of them had been together in the same room. Delgado no doubt believed their cooperation was ensured by Maria's absence. Lorenzo stared at Delgado.

Sands finally spoke, clearly and plainly, and to El's surprise, in good Spanish. "I haven't reported anything to the CIA since before you met me. They wouldn't care two balls about your crop."

Delgado glared, processing this. Abruptly he whirled to face El, producing a handgun and aiming it at Lorenzo's stomach. "Mariachi! Who did you call? If you lie to me, I'll make your friend here look like Swiss cheese."

Pablo grinned. The guards who had brought Lorenzo stepped away from him.

El thought Sands's approach to be wisest under the circumstances. No evasions, no sarcasm or insults, no answering a question with a question. Just answer the man swiftly and truthfully. Except, in his case, without the truth. "I called no one," he said, meeting Delgado's gaze.

Delgado fired the gun.

Everyone jumped and adrenaline surged through El. Just before he did something he would regret, he caught himself. Delgado had shot past Lorenzo, not into him. The bullet hit the tiled floor, spitting up chips. Lorenzo's face paled beneath his tan, almost matching Sands's pallor. He had flinched, but he recovered quickly, only his fast breathing betraying his fear.

"The truth!" yelled Delgado. "Sands gave you a number for the CIA!"

"No," El's voice rang out. And here he could be absolutely truthful. "It was a test for the girl. She failed." He saw this register on Delgado's face, and risked pushing a little. "You don't believe me, but you know Sands can't lie to you."

Delgado whirled back to the agent. Behind him, David and Pablo spoke together briefly. "You gave the Mariachi a number to call the CIA," Delgado said, pointing the gun at Sands, who couldn't see it.

"No," Sands said, and, in English again, "I didn't."

"Then who destroyed my entire facility? We are wiped out!"

"My money's on the Colombians," Sands replied. "Their various security forces are paramilitary, and they know you were cutting them out."

El saw Delgado glance at David and Vasquez, who gave little nods. David pounded his fist on the table. "What do I do?" Delgado asked. Then, as if realizing how that sounded, "What is your advice?"

"My advice?" Sands smiled a demented smile. "Run."

El began assessing the location of the furniture with respect to the pile of guns he knew to be loaded.

"What?"

"Take the fortune in jewels you have in your safe, and pull up stakes, tonight. An operation like they launched? They won't put the brakes on. They'll want to close the whole show."

"Nonsense!" Vasquez cried. "He's paranoid delusional, like the doctor said." He nodded at the white-coated man who still stood near Sands. Pablo and David started yelling arguments. Around the room men started looking uneasy. El caught Lorenzo's eye and tried to indicate the pile of loaded weapons.

Sands continued speaking, his English penetrating the din. "Your own men will be a problem. If they know you're ditching them, they'll bite you in the keister. I suggest you either shoot the men who are here in the room with you, or else buy them off right now."

"That's enough!" yelled Delgado, outraged.

Outside, lights and sirens came on, alarms sounded, dogs barked, and, from the distance came the sound of gunfire.

"Bingo," said Sands.