3. The Fallen Angel

Some of the preliminary work on the gloves has already been done, but I'm not sure how well they'll work in practice. The sensing film isn't made to flex, which rules out using it on the palms. I can see how it would help scan out to the sides if one were walking. The technical aspects of the project are interesting enough that I'm not really thinking about the application. I mean, what's the point of all this?

Bad Kate, overlooking the obvious. Maybe that's a sign that I've been submerged in corporate espionage and contract killing for too long. I've stopped asking "why?" and started saying "why not?".

A couple hours into it, I get to the point where I need to check the frequency of the primary unit. Sands has been sitting diagonally across the table from me, quiet. He's not making small talk, which I appreciate, although I'm almost itching from his scrutiny.

"I'll need to see those," I say finally, and pluck the primary unit away from him.

His hand comes up, just a fraction too late to stop me, and I freeze, the glasses in my hand, staring at him. "Jesus Christ."

"Had nothing to do with it, sweetcheeks." His tone is sardonic.

Sands has no eyes. He's not merely blind; his eye sockets are empty, giving him an eerie, skull-like appearence. He tucks a strand of hair back behind an ear, cocks his head, waiting, dark hollows rimmed with scar tissue macabre in his lean face.

Then a little memory with my mother's soprano attached says "Catherine, it's rude to stare at people." Not that he can tell I'm staring, but...Jesus.

"I take it that wasn't covered in your briefing?" he asks at last, sounding almost amused.

I shake my head, realize that's not going to cut it. "No. That was definitely not covered in my briefing."

He smirks. It still feels like he's watching me, as impossible as I now know that to be. He's listening, though: I can almost see his ears pricking as I pick up and set down tools on the table between us. The echoing silence is unnerving. "It's creeping you out, isn't it?" Sands sounds pleased.

"Yeah, just a little. What the hell happened?"

"I saw too much." There's a twisted smile on his lips. "Somebody wanted to make sure it didn't happen again. Will you stop that? Get back to work."

The sight of his ruined face makes me a little sick. He'd be a regular pretty boy, if not for those terrible gaping holes punctuating the bridge of his nose. I keep fumbling with things, trying not to look, trying not to think. What kind of person does something like that to another human being?

The same kind of person who'd skin a woman to make a girl suit, answers a different voice, one that's haunted me for years, the voice my worst nightmares sound like.

Perversely, that steadies me. I continue to modify the frequency settings. We've both been to hell and back. His torment is just more visible than mine, no pun intended. The face of an angel? Definitely a fallen angel, this Lucifer...

While I'm assembling the gloves one at a time, Sands begins telling me his story. He's articulate, intelligent; it's easy to listen to him as I work. He spins a wild tale of conspiracy, corruption and deceit. The charecters are larger than life: a politician who's too good to live, a guitar-playing patriot who cares only for revenge, theblack-hearted bitch who sold Sands out and laughed as his eyes bled down his face. A young boy saved his life, helped nurse him back to health, and now Sands has dedicated himself to keeping this patch of Mexico free of the cartels. He recounts a successful strike against them, made just a couple of weeks ago, with RC's help and my PSCS.

"That's the damnedest thing I've ever heard," I say when he's done. There was plenty of irony in his telling, but no self-pity. Sands is no weakling, whatever else he may be. RC described him as an amoral sociopath, but there are probably some people who'd say the same thing about me. "Here, try these on."

Sands is all business; once we've gotten the units synchronized, he wants to take it out for a trial run.

"It's getting late!" I protest.

"Oh, you mean it's getting dark out?" He chuckles. "I hadn't noticed. Come on, I'll walk you back to your hotel. You aren't staying here."

Hell, I'm not getting paid enough to spend a night under the same roof as this nutjob, even if it is strictly business, so I pack up my tools and follow him. It's not just getting dark; it's a little after midnight and there aren't a lot of street lights in this berg.

Sands melts into the darkness in his black outfit. Even allowing for the PSCS, it's impressive to watch him in action, knowing that he can't see where he's going. He's agile, moves like a dancer. There's a bit of a swagger to his walk, as I noticed before, and a slight limp. I noticed the swagger when he walked into the cantina some twelve hours ago. Walked in, and strolled over to me so smoothly that I didn't guess he was blind. How the hell did he do that? That's what's been nagging at me, I realize.

When we get to the hotel, I ask him how he did it. He grins. I'm glad he has the PSCS on just then, giving the illusion of normalcy to his face. "You mean you don't know? Guess it'll have to stay my little secret, then." He blows me an airy kiss as he turns to go. "Nice meeting you, Kate. Give my best to RC."