Yes, people, I did my homework on my little CIA trick. It really does
work. Please don't ask me how I found that out. *evil grin*
************************************************************************
Sands was developing something of a sixth sense for navigating without the use of his eyes. He could tell, for example, that the room they had just entered was of a decent size, not particularly large, and that it likely contained a fair amount of furniture. His boots scraped ever so slightly on the carpeted floor, making a soft scuffing noise at each step as he followed Estrella.
After no more than three steps into this new room, however, she froze in her tracks, causing him to run into her from behind and nearly fall. He cursed under his breath and recovered his balance, focusing all his remaining senses to see if he could find out what had startled her.
Ramirez, evidently unconcerned, had kept walking, and Sands heard the creak of a chair as the man sat down. He picked out the slight rasp of the former FBI agent's breathing, and Estrella's, and pushed them to the back of his mind, listening for anything that didn't fit the pattern they made.
Before long, he had his answer.
There was someone else in the room.
Stepping carefully to Estrella's right so that Ramirez could see him more clearly, he said cheerfully, "Why Ramirez, you didn't mention you had another guest!"
"Did he not?" said a slightly hoarse deep voice, from somewhere in front of Sands and to his left.
"El."
"Sands."
"What the **** are you doing here?" Sands demanded. Estrella had started moving again, towards the mariachi, but Sands stayed where he was, arms casually at his sides- near the guns at his hips.
"I thought that Estrella might come here, if there was trouble in town," El said quietly.
"Uh-huh."
"He has been here two days," Ramirez offered. "He said he thought she might need my help, so he waited for her here."
"I... see," said Sands pleasantly, sarcasm playing counterpoint to his light and amiable tone. "So, El, is that the only reason why you're here?"
El said nothing, and after a moment Sands gave him a condescending smile.
"Come on, El," Sands cajoled. "You're here because you somehow found out about the Guerro meeting, aren't you?"
"Yes," said El quietly.
"Why would you care about something like that?" Sands asked softly, dangerously.
"The cartels are out for your blood," the mariachi said. "I want to know why they suddenly want to talk to you instead of just shooting you."
"Perhaps they've heard about my stunning good looks and want to meet me in person just for that," Sands suggested dryly, waving a hand in front of his ruined eyes, hidden behind his sunglasses.
"What is your plan for approaching them? Where are you to meet?" El asked, ignoring Sands' joke.
"Cancun," Estrella spoke up for the first time.
Even Sands was surprised. "What's in Cancun but stupid American tourists?"
"American money," said Estrella darkly.
"Yeah, well, there's American money in Puerto Vallarta too, and that's a lot closer than Cancun," Sands pointed out. "Why couldn't they meet us there?"
"I don't know," said Estrella, sounding irritated. "Why don't you ask them that when we get there? I'm sure they'll be happy to explain it to you."
"We? You mean you and me."
"Me also," El said firmly. "It is too dangerous for Estrella to take you to this meeting alone."
"And what the **** is that supposed to mean?" Sands snarled, taking a threatening step towards the mariachi. He heard Estrella move pointedly out of the way, and Ramirez got up out of his chair.
"Estrella?" said Ramirez, a little too casually. "Could you come with me for a few minutes?"
************************************************************************
"Coward," Sands muttered as Estrella and Ramirez beat a hasty retreat to another part of the house, though whether he was talking about her or Ramirez remained unspecified.
Turning his attention back to the mariachi, he said in a mock-patient voice, "Estrella doesn't need to be baby-sat by you, El. She knows these cartel types extremely well, and she can more than look after herself."
"Perhaps I did not like the idea of leaving her alone with you," the mariachi said, but there was no 'perhaps' in his tone.
Sands favored him with a lopsided grin. "It's a little late for that."
"What do you mean?" El demanded sharply.
Sands' smile widened. He had forgotten just how much he enjoyed messing with the mariachi. He knew it was probably a stupid, bordering-on- suicidal thing to do, but hey, why stop when you're having fun?
"El, my friend," said Sands, now positively smirking. "I think you know very well what I mean."
"You..." El trailed off.
"Oh, yes."
The mariachi was silent for a very long time.
"What's this?" said Sands in a soft, malicious voice. "Does the famous El Mariachi have feelings for Estrella Barillo? How... cute."
Still El said nothing, so Sands continued.
"So much for that part of your legend..." he murmured as if to himself, but loud enough for El to catch every word.
"What are you talking about?" El growled, but Sands could hear the defensiveness in his voice.
"When they tell your story," Sands explained patiently. "They always talk about your deeply touching faithfulness to your dead wife. Amazing, isn't it, how quickly stories go from truth to tale to outright... lie?"
Sands heard the creak of springs as El sprang up from the couch, and he stepped back quickly- but not quickly enough. The mariachi's punch caught him full in the face and knocked him off his feet.
He hit the carpeted floor with a loud thud, swearing as agony lanced through his body as the injuries from his earlier fight with the police made themselves felt.
He waited for El to follow up with a second strike, but none came.
A moment later, he heard the man's footsteps, walking away.
************************************************************************
Ramirez led Estrella to the kitchen. They sat at the table, across from one another. He listened for a moment, but there was nothing to be heard of El and Sands' confrontation.
At last Ramirez broke the silence by asking, "Why did you save him?"
"What, Sands?" said Estrella lightly. "I think you know the answer to that." She rubbed her thumb against her fingers in the universal sign for money.
"There is more to it than money," the former FBI agent insisted, frowning at her.
Estrella sighed. "Look," she said at last, "I appreciate your taking us in like this on such short notice and such, but to be perfectly honest, my reasons for doing this are really none of your damn business."
Now it was his turn to sigh. "I suppose not," he said resignedly. Changing the subject, he asked, "You are, ah..." He trailed off uncertainly.
Estrella grinned at him. "Spit it out, Jorge."
He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "I have only two guest rooms, and somehow I don't think Sands would be too keen to share a room with El, and I was wondering if it would be, ah, acceptable for the two of you to share a room."
"We'll manage," she said neutrally. "We-"
She was interrupted by the distinctive sound of a punch, and a body hitting the floor. Ramirez started to rise, pulling a gun from under his jacket, but Estrella placed a restraining hand on his arm.
A moment later, El stalked through the kitchen, heading for the front door.
"What happened?" Ramirez called after him. "Where are you going at such an hour?"
"Out," said El shortly, and was gone.
Ramirez let go of his gun and sank back into his chair, rubbing a hand across his face and sighing. "I'm getting too old for this," he complained.
"Yeah, right," Estrella said wickedly. "More like you don't want to deal with Sands in a temper."
Ramirez gazed balefully at her through his interlaced fingers, but acknowledged, "Perhaps it would be best if you did. I'm going to bed; between El and Sands I've had more than enough excitement for one day."
"Goodnight, Jorge," said Estrella, getting to her feet. "I'll go see what I can do for Sands, shall I?"
As she was walking away, Ramirez called quietly after her, "Good luck; you may need it."
************************************************************************
A/N: This is getting ridiculously long, so I'm going to cut it here, and start up again in the next chapter, which should be up very soon.
Sands: Remind me why I keep getting hurt?
Intuitive: You keep asking for it.
Sands: I do not!
Intuitive: No?
Sands: Well... maybe a little... *insane grin*
Sands was developing something of a sixth sense for navigating without the use of his eyes. He could tell, for example, that the room they had just entered was of a decent size, not particularly large, and that it likely contained a fair amount of furniture. His boots scraped ever so slightly on the carpeted floor, making a soft scuffing noise at each step as he followed Estrella.
After no more than three steps into this new room, however, she froze in her tracks, causing him to run into her from behind and nearly fall. He cursed under his breath and recovered his balance, focusing all his remaining senses to see if he could find out what had startled her.
Ramirez, evidently unconcerned, had kept walking, and Sands heard the creak of a chair as the man sat down. He picked out the slight rasp of the former FBI agent's breathing, and Estrella's, and pushed them to the back of his mind, listening for anything that didn't fit the pattern they made.
Before long, he had his answer.
There was someone else in the room.
Stepping carefully to Estrella's right so that Ramirez could see him more clearly, he said cheerfully, "Why Ramirez, you didn't mention you had another guest!"
"Did he not?" said a slightly hoarse deep voice, from somewhere in front of Sands and to his left.
"El."
"Sands."
"What the **** are you doing here?" Sands demanded. Estrella had started moving again, towards the mariachi, but Sands stayed where he was, arms casually at his sides- near the guns at his hips.
"I thought that Estrella might come here, if there was trouble in town," El said quietly.
"Uh-huh."
"He has been here two days," Ramirez offered. "He said he thought she might need my help, so he waited for her here."
"I... see," said Sands pleasantly, sarcasm playing counterpoint to his light and amiable tone. "So, El, is that the only reason why you're here?"
El said nothing, and after a moment Sands gave him a condescending smile.
"Come on, El," Sands cajoled. "You're here because you somehow found out about the Guerro meeting, aren't you?"
"Yes," said El quietly.
"Why would you care about something like that?" Sands asked softly, dangerously.
"The cartels are out for your blood," the mariachi said. "I want to know why they suddenly want to talk to you instead of just shooting you."
"Perhaps they've heard about my stunning good looks and want to meet me in person just for that," Sands suggested dryly, waving a hand in front of his ruined eyes, hidden behind his sunglasses.
"What is your plan for approaching them? Where are you to meet?" El asked, ignoring Sands' joke.
"Cancun," Estrella spoke up for the first time.
Even Sands was surprised. "What's in Cancun but stupid American tourists?"
"American money," said Estrella darkly.
"Yeah, well, there's American money in Puerto Vallarta too, and that's a lot closer than Cancun," Sands pointed out. "Why couldn't they meet us there?"
"I don't know," said Estrella, sounding irritated. "Why don't you ask them that when we get there? I'm sure they'll be happy to explain it to you."
"We? You mean you and me."
"Me also," El said firmly. "It is too dangerous for Estrella to take you to this meeting alone."
"And what the **** is that supposed to mean?" Sands snarled, taking a threatening step towards the mariachi. He heard Estrella move pointedly out of the way, and Ramirez got up out of his chair.
"Estrella?" said Ramirez, a little too casually. "Could you come with me for a few minutes?"
************************************************************************
"Coward," Sands muttered as Estrella and Ramirez beat a hasty retreat to another part of the house, though whether he was talking about her or Ramirez remained unspecified.
Turning his attention back to the mariachi, he said in a mock-patient voice, "Estrella doesn't need to be baby-sat by you, El. She knows these cartel types extremely well, and she can more than look after herself."
"Perhaps I did not like the idea of leaving her alone with you," the mariachi said, but there was no 'perhaps' in his tone.
Sands favored him with a lopsided grin. "It's a little late for that."
"What do you mean?" El demanded sharply.
Sands' smile widened. He had forgotten just how much he enjoyed messing with the mariachi. He knew it was probably a stupid, bordering-on- suicidal thing to do, but hey, why stop when you're having fun?
"El, my friend," said Sands, now positively smirking. "I think you know very well what I mean."
"You..." El trailed off.
"Oh, yes."
The mariachi was silent for a very long time.
"What's this?" said Sands in a soft, malicious voice. "Does the famous El Mariachi have feelings for Estrella Barillo? How... cute."
Still El said nothing, so Sands continued.
"So much for that part of your legend..." he murmured as if to himself, but loud enough for El to catch every word.
"What are you talking about?" El growled, but Sands could hear the defensiveness in his voice.
"When they tell your story," Sands explained patiently. "They always talk about your deeply touching faithfulness to your dead wife. Amazing, isn't it, how quickly stories go from truth to tale to outright... lie?"
Sands heard the creak of springs as El sprang up from the couch, and he stepped back quickly- but not quickly enough. The mariachi's punch caught him full in the face and knocked him off his feet.
He hit the carpeted floor with a loud thud, swearing as agony lanced through his body as the injuries from his earlier fight with the police made themselves felt.
He waited for El to follow up with a second strike, but none came.
A moment later, he heard the man's footsteps, walking away.
************************************************************************
Ramirez led Estrella to the kitchen. They sat at the table, across from one another. He listened for a moment, but there was nothing to be heard of El and Sands' confrontation.
At last Ramirez broke the silence by asking, "Why did you save him?"
"What, Sands?" said Estrella lightly. "I think you know the answer to that." She rubbed her thumb against her fingers in the universal sign for money.
"There is more to it than money," the former FBI agent insisted, frowning at her.
Estrella sighed. "Look," she said at last, "I appreciate your taking us in like this on such short notice and such, but to be perfectly honest, my reasons for doing this are really none of your damn business."
Now it was his turn to sigh. "I suppose not," he said resignedly. Changing the subject, he asked, "You are, ah..." He trailed off uncertainly.
Estrella grinned at him. "Spit it out, Jorge."
He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "I have only two guest rooms, and somehow I don't think Sands would be too keen to share a room with El, and I was wondering if it would be, ah, acceptable for the two of you to share a room."
"We'll manage," she said neutrally. "We-"
She was interrupted by the distinctive sound of a punch, and a body hitting the floor. Ramirez started to rise, pulling a gun from under his jacket, but Estrella placed a restraining hand on his arm.
A moment later, El stalked through the kitchen, heading for the front door.
"What happened?" Ramirez called after him. "Where are you going at such an hour?"
"Out," said El shortly, and was gone.
Ramirez let go of his gun and sank back into his chair, rubbing a hand across his face and sighing. "I'm getting too old for this," he complained.
"Yeah, right," Estrella said wickedly. "More like you don't want to deal with Sands in a temper."
Ramirez gazed balefully at her through his interlaced fingers, but acknowledged, "Perhaps it would be best if you did. I'm going to bed; between El and Sands I've had more than enough excitement for one day."
"Goodnight, Jorge," said Estrella, getting to her feet. "I'll go see what I can do for Sands, shall I?"
As she was walking away, Ramirez called quietly after her, "Good luck; you may need it."
************************************************************************
A/N: This is getting ridiculously long, so I'm going to cut it here, and start up again in the next chapter, which should be up very soon.
Sands: Remind me why I keep getting hurt?
Intuitive: You keep asking for it.
Sands: I do not!
Intuitive: No?
Sands: Well... maybe a little... *insane grin*