5. Dangerous Assumptions

He's glaring at me; I've got a feeling he's got a few more notches on his gun than I do. In Spanish, he asks me who I am.

Now, I comprehende Spanish perfectly well. I took it as my foreign language requirement in high school, and later, in college, and I've made it south of the border several times during the course of work and play. I've never had any trouble making myself understood. However, it occurs to me that not letting him know right away that I speak the language might work to my advantage later.

"In English?" I say with just a hint of self-righteous tourista.

"American," he states, disgusted, the gun not wavering an inch.

"That's right."

Slowly, both of us warily eyeing each other, he pulls himself into a sitting position. Despite the crust of dried and drying blood on the side of his face and in his longish hair, he looks dangerous, not weak. His brown eyes are glassy, but he doesn't give an inch. How the hell am I supposed to interrogate his guy for what he knows about Sands? If he wasn't armed, duck soup, I could put a hurtin' on him, as they say back home - but I've already figured out that if I shoot him, I'd better kill him fast with the first shot, or I'm in big trouble.

"Who are you?"

"I'm looking for the man these belong to." I dangle the PSCS in my left hand, and he nods.

"Sands."

"Right again. What happened?"

"You're his...back-up?" He's studying me like I'm an artwork he might want to buy. The landscape is blonde, female, still on the sunny side of middle age, wearing jeans, New Balance crosstrainers and a Dixie Chicks tee shirt. (Hey, it was a Saturday. When I got dressed this morning, I was trying to look like an innocent yard sale-er.)

"For a guy with a head injury, you're a freakin' genius."

He moves cautiously, the gun tracking on me 100-percent as he crouches, then rises to his feet. He's in western boots, I'm in sneakers, but I'm almost five-eight, and he's got two or three inches on me, even allowing for the difference in heels. He's a big guy - solidly built, with shoulders out to there. "What's your name?"

"Kate."

"Well, Kate, when you find Señor Sands, tell him the next time I see him, I'm going to shoot him like a cook." His accent is just strong enough that the last word comes out "kook", and my lips twitch. Sands mentioned shooting cooks - I thought that was pretty lame, myself - sooner or later, all you're going to have left is mediocre cooks - but the way Big Mex here says it, tickles me. "You find that amusing?"

"Mister," I say, smiling, "You're assuming that Sands is going to survive me finding him."

At that, he smiles back. Not at me; more likely at the thought of Sands going down. He looks less dangerous then, more human - he wavers a bit; leans against the wall - the gun in his fist shakes. He seems to be staying conscious purely by an act of will. "Too many cooks -" he starts to say.

The gun clatters from his hand; his brows are knotted and his eyes roll back in his head. He slides down the wall.

Quickly, I nudge his gun out of reach with a nimble foot. He's not playing possum this time: he's out cold. Once I'm sure I'm not going to be startled again, I snag the fallen gun and gingerly insert it into my shoulder bag, which promptly doubles in weight. As I tuck my own gun into the waistband of my jeans, preparing to wrestle Mex down the alley to the Batmobile, I congratulate myself for not having to blow away such a good-looking guy.

What?

Oh great...my libido's come a-calling.