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Sands supposed the first step to finding the short, young, croaky voiced female was to learn what her beef with the cartel was in the first place. From there he would decide if she would be a repeat offender, then start following the trail of destruction she would create. This meant Sands would have to go bar digging. The best way to get information was to go to a local bar and listen, men in bars loved to gossip, and the hottest gossip place would have to be the town she shot up. They'd talk about it for months afterwards, of course, the longer you left it the more fantastical it became until it was as distorted as the Mariachi story.
So Sands ended up outside a bar in Culiacan. According to the people he had asked, this fine establishment was called the Scarlet Hog. Sands had not been in the least bit surprised by the name, he had heard worse in his time.
It was twilight when he found himself standing at its doors. This one was run by an American, and was one of the busiest in the city. Already he heard raucous yells and laughter. Taking a deep breath, Sands pushed open the doors and strode in. The place was more than half full, but Sands found a table. In the back corner. He settled himself in for what was shaping up to be a long night. After ordering a beer Sands cast his hearing around the room. People talked, some about wives and other female associates, others about their jobs, or the actions of friends that weren't present at this particular time, but more than two conversations were about the shoot up in the square that happened three weeks ago. It had started after the 'bad girl' had come running out of a cartel controlled building. No one had seen her go in, but she flew out of there like a bat out of hell and took shelter behind a pottery plant, that was diagonal across the square. The cartel had shot the thing up but by the time it was reduced to dust she had moved to another part of the battleground. In one of the stories he even played a part. As the idiot who walked across just as the shooting started. It seemed he was being painted as the girls bumbling partner. Sands had clenched his fist at this but remained still.
After killing at least eight she had somehow blown the building to smithereens. And in the confusion made a run for it, Sands had followed. Then she had jumped into a sports car and zoomed away. Sands could've rolled his eyes at that. She had not been in a sports car and eight had to be an exaggeration. But he tuned into another part of the bar as someone started the same story up.
Sands did learn something more out of this version; it seemed that this shootout had occurred in the exact same square he had had his first blind gunfight in. Other than that it was the same. His beer arrived just as someone closer to him started to tell the same story. This one claimed that the get away car had crashed. Sands listened.
The girl had got out, threatened a driver with her gun and got a new car. Then she had slammed it into reverse and run over even more cartel, before pulling up to her totaled car and dragging the 'black man' into the new backseat and zooming off. Sands listened to this in surprise. Why go to the trouble of helping him, as far as she knew the cartel knew nothing about him. Or did she know more? After listening for a few more hours, Sands left. He had drunk one beer, and was pissed at the whole situation. On the plus side he now knew a bit more. Such as, she had done this before; in other Mexican towns, and that she was an American. One old man had insisted that she was a famous singer who had disappeared after delving too deeply with the drug cartel but everyone had called him an old pervert and he had shut up.
Sands went to the apartment block he currently resided in and slept. He dreamed. In his dream he still had his eyes, and he could see nothing but himself. He saw himself shoot numerous people, he saw past lovers, bits of his childhood and CIA training. But here, in his dream, he could feel all the pain he had inflicted and all the pain he had numbed himself to. He screamed at his uncle, who towered over him with the cane, he cried at the sight of the death he had caused and tried to hide from the accusation in the eyes of the deceased, but he couldn't; they bored right through his soul. In a panic Sands tried to cover his eyes with his hands. There was a bolt of excruciating pain and he took his hands away to see that they now held his eyes, then the world was plunged into darkness and he bolted upright in his bed. Breathing harshly.
After that he sat at the table thinking. Somewhere in the early morning, around four, a thought presented itself. He had been reminiscing about his old CIA days. The training, the tests, the people, when suddenly he wondered how his disappearance had been taken; were they still looking for him? He knew they wouldn't give up easily; he had done the whole 'missing in action' thing before, and gotten very rich from it too. Plus he had worked out a fool proof alibi and got a few agents fired. They had learned the hard way that Agent Sands was not to be left to his own devices.
Sands thought on this, and realized that the reason they had not found him was that he was laying low. He pondered this for a second. So what did this mean? Was he hiding like a rat? Did he care? The answer to both of those was of course yes. The fuck would he hide from his own people. Fuck them if they thought they could intimidate him. Fuck them.
He stood and paced. Somehow he had decided he was finished with the CIA. They had left him to rot, and he had a kind of life down here now. He thought maybe one day he'd pay them a visit if he felt like shaking up the bees hive. But until then he didn't want them knowing about his little mishap. He could just picture his leading officers' face. The smug arrogant asshole would grin. Knowing that Sands couldn't see him, then he would cough and tell him they would put him in a place best suited for his 'special' needs. The scorn and disdain he'd pour onto those words would send Sands bonkers and then they'd put him in a mental institute. Again.
Sands frowned. He didn't want them knowing about him just yet, he had his own troubles, and he didn't need CIA agents on his ass. So that meant walking around aware that there could be a sniper trained on his head. That wasn't much of a change, he did that anyway. And just as he thought that, he let the idea of the CIA go. There was nothing he could do about it, other than play dumb and stay out of the spotlight for a while.
The sun had risen, today Sands would find out where his doomed rescuer was currently residing. And tomorrow? Tomorrow he would make her pay.
The next morning Sands packed his few belongings. He was fairly sure that she wasn't in this town. She hadn't been since the last gunfight. So now he'd have to go in a direction and hope it was the right one. He left his things at the apartment. He figured he could grab something to eat, listen in to the early drunkards then leave; with or without the desired information.
He was three blocks away from his current residing place, just on the sidewalk to a semi busy street, with vendors of all kinds, when a shout rang out.
"Sands! Stop you're under arrest by the..." the man never finished. Sands spun and fired and he dropped. The mans' partner drew his gun but Sands threw himself around the corner and listened as the second one approached. His enemy moved quickly and cautiously, when he neared the corner he slowed. Sands was right against it, he listened as the man flattened himself against the stone and leant forwards. Sands put his gun right against the corner, the man made the mistake of peeking. Sands fired, the former CIA agent was dead, and most likely no longer recognizable.
As the adrenaline faded Sands heard the mans voice in his head again. It was familiar... yes. Samuel Fronz. The man with balls for brains. He remembered Sammy alright. The man basically lived in the gym, tried to give him a rough time once. But he had discouraged that quite well. Men like Sammy learned a lesson best when it was hard. He hoped that this one would be remembered in the next life, or he'd have hell to pay. He clicked his tongue in frustration. This was an annoyance. When they failed to report in there'd be agents sent down here.
He couldn't afford to get taken in yet, he had unfinished business. Now what? He'd have to leave. Without sight it would be harder to learn if any agents were snooping around. He'd have to learn where she had gone and fast, hopefully it was far away from here. He gave the body with a hole where its face used to be a swift vicious kick.
This just wasn't his day.
He made it three blocks before he realized that he was being followed again. The footsteps behind him keeping pace, when he stopped they stopped. He judged around five meters distance; the idiot was wearing steel capped boots. Sands snorted in frustration. Then he turned off the sidewalk into some random's kitchen. The reason being it smelt nice. The man did not follow, instead four sets of shoes could be heard congregating outside. Sands made for the back, a woman came through the door from the lounge. She gave a cry. "Excuse me M'am, is there a back door out of this place" he asked smiling charmingly. She made a gesture, probably a nod.
"Si" she said when he cocked his head questioningly.
"Okay", he said, "that's a start, can you show me the way out please" it was not a request.
"Si" again as she moved away. He followed, somewhere upstairs a child cried out. He stepped outside on the other side and soon was on the sidewalk again. Behind him he heard a shrill cry and then there was an explosion. He felt the shockwave from the other side of the street. Some car alarms went off and people started screaming in panic. Sands strolled through the mayhem, on his way back the crap hole he called an apartment, there was no time for food. His welcome had worn out, if there were this many cartel here, evidently his prey was not. Next stop: Guana.