His time with Lana was uneventful. The woman chatted, but never spoke of her employer or anything more consequential than what was for lunch or the weather.
Sands for his part was civil. He never stopped her, although his headache was only made worse by her incessant babbling.
She cooked for him and helped him to clean and dress his wounds. The injuries he had received from the crash were not bad. A few cuts bruises and strains. Enough to immobilize him for three days. But one had become infected. Evidently he had not been treated straight afterwards, so he had caught a fever. Once that had broken he was fine.
However, he endured Lanas' company because he desperately wanted to find who had helped him; she had not been the one that had tended him during the worst. It was dangerous but curiosity gnawed at him. The balance was disrupted by this person. It was like El Mariachi the second. Taking on the drug cartel... It mustn't be allowed, it screwed everything up. He had to find him and get rid of him. He knew too much about the CIA agent. And that was knowledge he didn't want anyone knowing.
Finally, he snapped. He could no longer bear the womans' babbling.
They were in the lounge room. Lana had just made sandwiches, and placed them on the short table in front of the couch. Sands was on the couch when he made his move. He took the loaded gun out of his jeans just as she brushed past him in her way back to the kitchen. As she went, he stood and grabbed her around her neck with one arm, and brought his gun to her head with the other. She squealed in fear and tried to writhe away. Sands hit her with the butt of his pistol. She stopped her futile struggling and went still. Sands then spoke to her.
"Who is your employer Lana, who hired you?" he asked silkily in her ear. She shook and tried to struggle away again. Sands pulled her tightly against him. Choking her further.
"Just tell me Lana and this will all be over" he said threateningly.
"No Signor, please signor. No name no name Signor, please" Lana babbled. Sands grimaced.
"Then tell me what he looked like Lana" he said trying to sound like her long lost friend.
Lana trembled, her loyalty very strong to this person. "Tell me Lana" he said, digging the gun against her temple harder.
Lana let out a sob, shuddered violently then folded.
"She was little Signor" she sobbed dryly. Sands kept the gun there.
"How little?" he snapped.
"Small, but angry. She said she needed me to look after a friend, she said she couldn't because she had business to take care of. I was scared of her, she had a gun" Lana blurted, talking so fast to please Sands, that he had a hard time keeping up due to her accent.
What the hell was she talking about? A small female with a gun?
"What else Lana" he said, applying even more pressure to the woman's head.
"She had Americano money, and she was wearing black Signor, like you" Sands frowned even harder.
"What was she wearing?" he snapped.
"Pants, and a shirt and a belt signor. The belt had many things in it. But she hid it under her large shirt. She hid it signor, she hid it".
"I don't know any fucking gun slinging girl. Who brought me here?" he growled in frustration. This was not helping.
"The lady at the front counter, she said signorina did signor. Signorina"
"She was a fucking kid?" he questioned acidly.
"Si signor, si. 19 signor, or maybe older", Sands mind was in confusion. This didn't help. Who was it? He decided asking what she looked like didn't help. She certainly wasn't from his past.
"What did she sound like Lana†he asked, sounding relaxed and friendly again.
Lana squealed at his tone, "Rough signor, very rough. She was wearing scarf signor, but I think there was something wrong with her throat. Sounded rough Signor, rough" Lana babbled. Then Sands knew. It had not been a man fighting the cartel but a raspy voiced woman. He wanted to laugh; how differently he would have acted if he knew it was female, and weak.
"Thanks for lunch Lana" he whispered, took a small step back and shot her. His bullet must've got her throat, but she screamed as she fell, and continued writhing and screaming until he put another bullet in her skull to quell the god-awful noise.
Her voice shrank to the ghostly whisper of her previous one as she died. Despite the slight shift the guns impact had had on Sands' hand, his position had not changed.
"Sorry Lana" he said in a bored drawl and stood there a few moments more, feeling almost as if her life was leaking from her and into him. Making him feel stronger and more alive. It sounded like something out of a bad movie. But Lanas' death had restored his independence. He needed no one, he was back in the game, back into life.
Sheldon Jeffery Sands stood alone; he needed no one and was untouchable.
Then coming to himself, he turned abruptly and went back into his room. He took the last of his possessions, some money from Lanas' purse and walked out the front door, seizing a ham and lettuce sandwich on the way. He ate it on his way down the stairs. He had closed but not locked the apartment's door.
Leaving the key with the front desk, he strode out the door and into dusty Mexico. Turned a sharp right, went straight down the dusty Mexican street, full of dusty Mexican people and caught the dusty Mexican bus that pulled up right in front of him when he reached the next street. Its pistons hissed as the door opened and Sands stepped up and onto his rickety escape. He paid the driver and took a seat; oblivious to where he was going. But knowing it was away from here; and for now that would have to do...