He tried to sit up, nearly crushing her fingers in his hand, but he
fell backwards again, his jaw clenched against the pain. He held perfectly
still for a long moment, his breathing fast and shallow.
At last he said hoarsely, "Help me up."
"What?" Estrella cried. "Surely all your bones are broken!"
Forcing a smile, he shook his head slightly, then winced and stopped. "I was trained to avoid taking too much damage from something like that."
"Too much damage! What, is there a secret CIA trick to getting hit by a car?"
"Something like that," Sands agreed, holstering his gun, bracing his free hand against the ground, and pushing himself up into an unsteady sitting position. "The trick is to relax at impact- you just let the car throw you, deadweight."
"And that is all there is to it, I suppose," she said, sarcasm just barely concealing the quiver in her voice.
"Listen," he said, turning his face towards her and smiling tightly, "Your concern is really very touching, but right now, all I want to do is to get the **** out of here. Comprendes?"
"Yo comprendo," she said coldly.
"Good," he said absently, feeling around on the ground and hating every moment of it. "Where the **** are my sunglasses?"
Wordlessly she handed them to him, and he put them on.
She got him up onto his feet by main force, and he leaned heavily on her arm for a few moments, shaking his head to try and clear it. Later, he knew, he'd have one hell of a headache.
************************************************************************
Once in the car he shook off her helping hand and settled himself comfortably in the seat. He reached up behind his right shoulder, drawing the seatbelt down, and fastened it with a snap.
A moment passed in silence, and then Sands snarled a half- intelligible curse and unfastened it again, rubbing a hand across his chest where the belt had touched him.
Next to him, he could feel Estrella's curious glance. "What?" he demanded crossly.
"Does it hurt you?" she asked, sounding concerned.
Sands scowled. "No, it doesn't," he said shortly.
"Then what?" she persisted, and he heard her turn to face him.
"That's none of your damn business, is it?" he asked in a falsely cheery voice.
Taking the hint, she turned back around, started the engine, and pulled out of the station, silent once more, but Sands could still feel her question hanging in the air between them, like some invisible thundercloud. 'Hell,' he thought grimly, 'Maybe it is visible? How the **** should I know?'
'So go ahead, answer her,' said the small voice in his mind. 'See what she makes of it. Go on, it'll be fun.'
'Right,' he thought cynically, 'Fun.'
"If you must know," he said at last, careful to keep his tone matter- of-fact, "It reminds me rather vividly of being strapped to that table."
She was quiet for a long time, and Sands waited in genuine curiosity to hear what she would say, or indeed if she would say anything at all.
At last she said simply, "I'm sorry."
"For what?" Sands inquired contemptuously. "For asking about it? For your family cutting my eyes out and leaving me to die?" He half-hoped she would lash out at him, just so he could vent some of his pain and frustration on her, but she did not.
She didn't even answer.
************************************************************************
Sands spent the remainder of the trip pretending to be asleep. He tilted his seat back and interlaced his fingers behind his head, resting as comfortably as he could.
His adrenaline had long since worn off, and he was starting to feel the effects of his earlier battle with the police. Namely, he hurt. A lot. He was bruised from neck to knees, the palms of his hands were scraped and raw from breaking his fall, and his arm was throbbing with pain from his newly-acquired bullet wound.
He was, however, vaguely grateful that Estrella wouldn't have to dig another bullet out of his flesh, as the shot had only grazed him.
His thoughts turned to their destination, and to Jorge Ramirez. The man was presumably back in retirement, and living somewhere out in the middle of nowhere. Why Estrella thought Ramirez would be willing to help him was beyond him, but he supposed he would find out.
He was distantly aware that his not knowing should be bothering him a lot more than it was. For all he knew, she could be leading him into some kind of elaborate trap- selling him out to the cartel, perhaps. But no, it didn't fit. She could have just let them take him at the house in town, or let the police catch up with them, but she hadn't done either.
'We've been over this before,' he pointed out to himself. 'The best price she's going to get for you is from the Guerro meeting, not from the Barillos or el presidente's police. So it stands to reason that you could trust her to a certain extent for the time being- it's in her own best interest to keep you safe.'
'The key thought here being "to a certain extent"' he admonished silently.
'Of course.'
Growing bored with his own company, he dropped his sleeping act and sat up, asking brightly, "So, are we there yet?"
************************************************************************
Ramirez's driveway was long, twisting, and unpaved. The car bounced along the uneven road, causing Sands' head to smack against the window, making him swear and worsening his headache considerably.
At last the car ground to a halt, and he heard the creak of Estrella's door opening, and the sound of her feet on the gravel outside. He cautiously opened his own door, surreptitiously checking his guns as he did so, loosening two of them in their holsters at his hips. Then he stood up and closed his door as quietly as he could in one fluid movement.
He followed the sound of Estrella's footsteps as she walked up to the house, stopping when she did, presumably at the front door. He stood just behind her and slightly to her right.
She knocked loudly on the door, and a moment later Jorge Ramirez answered it.
Ramirez yanked the door open, and stopped short, saying, "Estrella Barillo! What are you doing here?"
"I was hoping we could sleep over, Jorge," said Estrella pleasantly.
"You had trouble in town?" he inquired, his tone still light, but with an edge to it.
"Si, un poco," Estrella answered. "Cartel y la policia."
"A bit more popular than usual, aren't you?" Ramirez observed.
"Oh, it isn't me," Estrella said in false modesty. "No, I'm afraid credit must go to my friend, here." She put a hand on Sands' shoulder, making him flinch as bruises under her palm made their complaints felt. He fought the urge to snap a few fingers.
"Sands?" Ramirez asked hoarsely after a nasty silence. "What are you doing here? I thought you were dead."
Sands grinned, knowing the effect, with the blood on his face, must be horrific, and he enjoyed every moment of it. "Come on, Jorge," he said in false good humor. "You saw me after the coup. I was still standing then, why shouldn't I be still standing now?"
"You were dying on that street," said Ramirez quietly. "And you knew it."
"Well, that's very perceptive of you," Sands sneered. "What clued you in, all the blood?"
Ramirez didn't answer him, but shifted his attention back to Estrella, saying, "You may stay here tonight, Estrella Barillo, but only because of the debt I owe you. After this, my debt will be paid in full. Do you understand?"
"I understand," Estrella replied gravely.
They followed Ramirez into the house, Sands staying close behind Estrella so that he could follow in her path of travel, eliminating the need to feel for obstacles in his way. Eliminating the need for him to acknowledge his blindness in front of Ramirez.
"What does Ramirez owe you for?" Sands murmured to Estrella as they walked.
"I saved his life, once," Estrella answered. "Long ago."
************************************************************************
Author's Comments (an exact quote, to be specific):
"Okay, that's great. Not a damn thing happened in four pages. Spiffy."
Sands: Not my fault.
"Yeah, right. It's ALWAYS your fault."
Sands: So how about the next chapter. It's the big dance number, isn't it?
"Heck no! But it's... interesting."
Sands: And unedited.
"I'm working on it, I'm working on it."
Sands: So long as I don't get hurt in it, I'm happy.
"..."
Sands: %^$(*&%(*%
At last he said hoarsely, "Help me up."
"What?" Estrella cried. "Surely all your bones are broken!"
Forcing a smile, he shook his head slightly, then winced and stopped. "I was trained to avoid taking too much damage from something like that."
"Too much damage! What, is there a secret CIA trick to getting hit by a car?"
"Something like that," Sands agreed, holstering his gun, bracing his free hand against the ground, and pushing himself up into an unsteady sitting position. "The trick is to relax at impact- you just let the car throw you, deadweight."
"And that is all there is to it, I suppose," she said, sarcasm just barely concealing the quiver in her voice.
"Listen," he said, turning his face towards her and smiling tightly, "Your concern is really very touching, but right now, all I want to do is to get the **** out of here. Comprendes?"
"Yo comprendo," she said coldly.
"Good," he said absently, feeling around on the ground and hating every moment of it. "Where the **** are my sunglasses?"
Wordlessly she handed them to him, and he put them on.
She got him up onto his feet by main force, and he leaned heavily on her arm for a few moments, shaking his head to try and clear it. Later, he knew, he'd have one hell of a headache.
************************************************************************
Once in the car he shook off her helping hand and settled himself comfortably in the seat. He reached up behind his right shoulder, drawing the seatbelt down, and fastened it with a snap.
A moment passed in silence, and then Sands snarled a half- intelligible curse and unfastened it again, rubbing a hand across his chest where the belt had touched him.
Next to him, he could feel Estrella's curious glance. "What?" he demanded crossly.
"Does it hurt you?" she asked, sounding concerned.
Sands scowled. "No, it doesn't," he said shortly.
"Then what?" she persisted, and he heard her turn to face him.
"That's none of your damn business, is it?" he asked in a falsely cheery voice.
Taking the hint, she turned back around, started the engine, and pulled out of the station, silent once more, but Sands could still feel her question hanging in the air between them, like some invisible thundercloud. 'Hell,' he thought grimly, 'Maybe it is visible? How the **** should I know?'
'So go ahead, answer her,' said the small voice in his mind. 'See what she makes of it. Go on, it'll be fun.'
'Right,' he thought cynically, 'Fun.'
"If you must know," he said at last, careful to keep his tone matter- of-fact, "It reminds me rather vividly of being strapped to that table."
She was quiet for a long time, and Sands waited in genuine curiosity to hear what she would say, or indeed if she would say anything at all.
At last she said simply, "I'm sorry."
"For what?" Sands inquired contemptuously. "For asking about it? For your family cutting my eyes out and leaving me to die?" He half-hoped she would lash out at him, just so he could vent some of his pain and frustration on her, but she did not.
She didn't even answer.
************************************************************************
Sands spent the remainder of the trip pretending to be asleep. He tilted his seat back and interlaced his fingers behind his head, resting as comfortably as he could.
His adrenaline had long since worn off, and he was starting to feel the effects of his earlier battle with the police. Namely, he hurt. A lot. He was bruised from neck to knees, the palms of his hands were scraped and raw from breaking his fall, and his arm was throbbing with pain from his newly-acquired bullet wound.
He was, however, vaguely grateful that Estrella wouldn't have to dig another bullet out of his flesh, as the shot had only grazed him.
His thoughts turned to their destination, and to Jorge Ramirez. The man was presumably back in retirement, and living somewhere out in the middle of nowhere. Why Estrella thought Ramirez would be willing to help him was beyond him, but he supposed he would find out.
He was distantly aware that his not knowing should be bothering him a lot more than it was. For all he knew, she could be leading him into some kind of elaborate trap- selling him out to the cartel, perhaps. But no, it didn't fit. She could have just let them take him at the house in town, or let the police catch up with them, but she hadn't done either.
'We've been over this before,' he pointed out to himself. 'The best price she's going to get for you is from the Guerro meeting, not from the Barillos or el presidente's police. So it stands to reason that you could trust her to a certain extent for the time being- it's in her own best interest to keep you safe.'
'The key thought here being "to a certain extent"' he admonished silently.
'Of course.'
Growing bored with his own company, he dropped his sleeping act and sat up, asking brightly, "So, are we there yet?"
************************************************************************
Ramirez's driveway was long, twisting, and unpaved. The car bounced along the uneven road, causing Sands' head to smack against the window, making him swear and worsening his headache considerably.
At last the car ground to a halt, and he heard the creak of Estrella's door opening, and the sound of her feet on the gravel outside. He cautiously opened his own door, surreptitiously checking his guns as he did so, loosening two of them in their holsters at his hips. Then he stood up and closed his door as quietly as he could in one fluid movement.
He followed the sound of Estrella's footsteps as she walked up to the house, stopping when she did, presumably at the front door. He stood just behind her and slightly to her right.
She knocked loudly on the door, and a moment later Jorge Ramirez answered it.
Ramirez yanked the door open, and stopped short, saying, "Estrella Barillo! What are you doing here?"
"I was hoping we could sleep over, Jorge," said Estrella pleasantly.
"You had trouble in town?" he inquired, his tone still light, but with an edge to it.
"Si, un poco," Estrella answered. "Cartel y la policia."
"A bit more popular than usual, aren't you?" Ramirez observed.
"Oh, it isn't me," Estrella said in false modesty. "No, I'm afraid credit must go to my friend, here." She put a hand on Sands' shoulder, making him flinch as bruises under her palm made their complaints felt. He fought the urge to snap a few fingers.
"Sands?" Ramirez asked hoarsely after a nasty silence. "What are you doing here? I thought you were dead."
Sands grinned, knowing the effect, with the blood on his face, must be horrific, and he enjoyed every moment of it. "Come on, Jorge," he said in false good humor. "You saw me after the coup. I was still standing then, why shouldn't I be still standing now?"
"You were dying on that street," said Ramirez quietly. "And you knew it."
"Well, that's very perceptive of you," Sands sneered. "What clued you in, all the blood?"
Ramirez didn't answer him, but shifted his attention back to Estrella, saying, "You may stay here tonight, Estrella Barillo, but only because of the debt I owe you. After this, my debt will be paid in full. Do you understand?"
"I understand," Estrella replied gravely.
They followed Ramirez into the house, Sands staying close behind Estrella so that he could follow in her path of travel, eliminating the need to feel for obstacles in his way. Eliminating the need for him to acknowledge his blindness in front of Ramirez.
"What does Ramirez owe you for?" Sands murmured to Estrella as they walked.
"I saved his life, once," Estrella answered. "Long ago."
************************************************************************
Author's Comments (an exact quote, to be specific):
"Okay, that's great. Not a damn thing happened in four pages. Spiffy."
Sands: Not my fault.
"Yeah, right. It's ALWAYS your fault."
Sands: So how about the next chapter. It's the big dance number, isn't it?
"Heck no! But it's... interesting."
Sands: And unedited.
"I'm working on it, I'm working on it."
Sands: So long as I don't get hurt in it, I'm happy.
"..."
Sands: %^$(*&%(*%