The woman kept Sands in front of her as they walked across the room and out the door into the night, the muzzle of her gun pressed into the small of his back. She forced him to push blindly through the crowd, shouldering people aside, earning him a deluge of angry curses that he barely heard.

He tripped and nearly fell walking down the cracked concrete front steps, making the woman curse him and dig the gun even harder into his back. A few choice words did come to mind, as well as the desire to yank out one of his own guns and blow her away, but he knew he would be dead long before he could reach them and bring one to bear on her if he tried anything.

He kept his expression carefully neutral, letting none of his frustration show. Inwardly, he berated himself.

'What the **** is wrong with you? You're Sheldon Jeffrey Sands of the CIA for Christ's sake! How the hell did you let yourself get caught like that? She waltzed right up to you with a gun, pretty as you please, and you didn't even notice!'

'I. Can't. See. Fuckmook. Oh God... I can't see...'

'Get a ****ing grip. You can freak out later.'

Sands swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. He couldn't help thinking, over and over, that if he still had his eyes, this wouldn't be happening. He would have had some warning, could have- he permitted himself a bitter smile -seen it coming.

The woman forced him to take a sharp left. The ground under his feet changed abruptly from dirt to uneven cobblestones, and he tripped again. The woman, not expecting this, shoved the gun even harder into his back out of purest reflex, sending him sprawling face-down.

Never one to waste an opportunity, he rolled onto his back, pulled out two guns with blurring speed, and started shooting. He kept firing until both guns gave a hollow click- out of ammunition. He lay perfectly still, his heart pounding, listening with all his might. He heard nothing but the sound of distant traffic.

He let out the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, and started to get to his feet. Something coldly metallic brushed against his temple.

"That was stupid," the woman's voice drawled, close to his ear. "But from you, hardly surprising. Just drop those, and any others you might be carrying. Nice and slow."

"Well," Sands said insolently. "If that's how you like it."

He dropped the empty guns, carefully drew the still-loaded weapons that had been holstered at his sides, and dropped them as well. He heard her kick them, sending them skittering away across the cobblestones.

"You know," he said conversationally, "I don't believe I heard you move before. Is that a trick they teach all Mexican women?"

The woman laughed mirthlessly. "Oh, no, Agent Sands. That's a family trait."

"Oh," Sands said, his tone casual and relaxed. "You must be Marisa. Estrella talks about you a lot."

************************************************************************

Estrella sat perfectly still, watching Diego closely. He was still smiling benignly at her, but there was a new edge of smugness to his expression as well. He asked mockingly, "Giving up so easily?"

Estrella leaned back in her chair, resting her feet casually against the base of his desk. "Shouldn't I?"

Diego shrugged. "I have no objections, I'm just-" A volley of gunfire rang out, cutting him off.

El stiffened slightly next to her. She mentally recited an impressive string of curses, and whispered, "Sands..."

Diego grinned. "So much, I think, for your friend the American."

"You know what, Diego?" she said softly, tilting her head to the side slightly and smiling pleasantly. "**** you."

She lashed out with both feet, slamming the desk into his body with as much force as she could muster. Diego was smashed back into the wall with a crunch of breaking bone- what, Estrella couldn't tell.

He opened fire reflexively, but she and El were both already moving; she hit the wooden floor and rolled, he drawing his own gun and firing one shot. The bullet pierced Diego's skull, ending his life in a spray of red.

A moment passed in deafening silence.

A few dollar bills fluttered through the air, settling like falling leaves on the wreckage of the desk and chairs, and on the body of the traitor.

El holstered his gun, and Estrella sprang lightly to her feet. El surveyed the body with a mixture of amusement and irritation, saying, "He could have shot me!"

Estrella grinned. "Oh, come now. The great El Mariachi, killed by one loser with a handgun?"

El gave a fluid, expressive shrug. The barest hint of a smile played across his lips as he said, "Well, perhaps not."

As one, they turned and walked away, never looking back.

************************************************************************

The gun pressed harder against Sands' temple. "Get up!" Marisa snarled.

He did so, taking his time about it. She stepped back a pace, taking her out of immediate striking range. That was one of the first things he had learned with the CIA; close quarters practically negate the advantage of a gun.

Pain in his partially-healed leg was a sharp counterpoint to his rising headache. Falling had done him no favors.

"Start walking," she ordered, her voice harsh.

Sands pretended to consider, then said softly, "No."

She snarled and struck him across the face with the butt of the gun. He screamed, the empty sockets of his eyes blazing with the white fire of agony. He staggered, thinking dimly that he heard footsteps, but the next moment he was sure that he had imagined it.

No one would come to save him. El and Estrella were probably already dead, or if they were not, what would it matter? He was nothing but easy money to Estrella, and meant even less to El.

No one would come to save him.

No one.

As his thoughts faded to blackness, Sands allowed himself to hope, briefly, that he wouldn't wake again.

************************************************************************

Estrella sprinted down the packed dirt of the road, towards the source of the gunshots. The streets of this area of Cancun were sparsely lit at best, and she was forced to watch her footing carefully. El ran easily beside her, breathing slowly and evenly.

The ground changed abruptly to cobblestones, and she slowed to a jog, then a walk, glancing into the deep pools of shadow on the street ahead, watching for movement, any movement...

There.

Two people, one of them holding a gun.

Estrella drew her own gun and advanced, using the darkness as cover and camouflage.

The person with the gun- a woman, she could now see -struck the other, and he fell. Estrella snarled a curse and snapped off a shot at the woman, but she spun on her heel and fled, running down the alley away from them.

"I'll follow her- get Sands!" said El shortly, and he too sprinted off into the darkness.

Estrella dropped to her knees at the agent's side. His face was nearly white, and his dark hair framed it perfectly in a mockery of a halo. Under other circumstances, she might have laughed at that; if Sands was any kind of an angel, it would be a fallen one.

She checked the pulse at his throat- it was strong and even. Breathing a quiet sigh of relief, she lifted his head and shoulders carefully off the ground, holding him gently against her.

After a moment he coughed a little and groaned under his breath.

"Sands?" she asked cautiously. "Are you alright?"

"I don't know," he drawled. "What do you think?"

"I see you met Marisa," she said conversationally, matching his dry tone perfectly.

"You have a truly charming family," he retorted, sitting up. He swayed, shaking his head a little. "Where's El?"

"He went after Marisa," she said, gesturing vaguely down the alley, then rolling her eyes at her own folly.

"She ran?" he asked, sounding genuinely surprised. "Why?"

"I shot at her," Estrella told him.

"But you didn't kill her."

"No."

Sands was silent for a long time.