8. Sunday Morning Comin' Down

It doesn't seem like I've been asleep for any length of time at all when I'm awakened by a terrific racket. My first groggy thought is that Manolo has shown up at six a.m., and I'm going to smoke his little butt - I grab the gun I took from Sands's armory and parked next to the bed in the infirmary - when I finish waking up and realize that the level of noise I hear is excessive even for an eleven-year old.

Someone is moving in the half-light outside the barred window in my room - the outline visible against the shade - and without a thought, I raise my pistol, sight, and drop them with one shot. The infirmary is the only room on this side of the house with an unblocked window - and it has a wrought-iron grille. Sliding my feet into my New B's and shrugging on my tee shirt, I grab my purse and the rest of my gear with my free hand and make for the hallway.

George - or whatever his name is - has one of his big, deadly guns in either hand and alternates shots between the front door and the patio doors at the back of the building.He catches sight of me, downgrades me as a threat, and squeezes off another shot at the back door.

Moving rapidly down the hallway, I peer into the kitchen and pop off a round at someone trying the door to the front courtyard. A glance in George's direction shows a man crawling toward him - Sands! The blind man finds the open guitar case, identifies its contents, and his face becomes a smiling death's head.

"I think that's all of them," says George, forestalling the former agent, who looks gleeful at the prospect of joining the firefight. "I counted five."

"There were seven of them," says Sands, listening. He must have ears like a bat; even without the PSCS, he's heard my sneakered approach and George knocks his arm away from the shot he's fixing to send in my direction.

"I got two," I announce, "one around back and one trying to get in through the kitchen."

"Oh, Christ, not her," Sands groans.

I level the gun I'm holding. Wouldn't it be ironic for him to die by his own gun from a bullet fired by his so-called ally? "Give me one good reason not to shoot you."

"You'd have to explain it to RC." There is that.

"Besides that."

"That's all the reason you need, sugar buns," smirks Sands.

Taking into account where George is standing in relation to Sands, I put a bullet less than a foot from Sands's right ear, pleased to see him jump. "In order to save the asshole, I had to shoot the asshole."

"Children, play nice," scolds George. He's reloading his weapon as he speaks. "I think we might want to get out of here for the time being. When whoever sent them here realizes they're out of contact, they'll come in greater numbers."

"I need to get some things," says Sands, already moving toward the hallway. I step aside, wary until he's out of sight.

"You might want to finish getting dressed." George is smiling. "We're not in that much of a hurry."

Blushing, I kick off my shoes, slither into my jeans, put the New B's back on and settle my bag over my shoulder, with a glance inside to make sure my original gun is still in place. It is, and so is the one I picked up in the plaza. I'd forgotten about that one. "I'm ready." He's watched the whole procedure with amusement, and I don't think he missed my pink cheeks.

Sands comes back with something that looks like an old-fashioned doctor's bag. He's still carrying the gun from George's case. Let's be clear here: I don't like him. That babysitting crack put him on my shit list but good. RC was right, as usual: I don't trust Sands one inch. Now, I don't know if I'd go so far as to say I feel sorry for him, but damn. Eyes drilled out? That's some cold shit. And snide cracks aside, he's coping a helluva lot better than most people would.

Which is why I fish around in my bag and pull out the primary unit. "Sands. Here."

"What?" He stands a few feet away. I've got the PSCS in my left hand, gun in my right. He's got a gun in his right hand, the bag in his left.

"Your glasses. I haven't had a chance to check them for damage, but -"

"Okay. So put 'em on for me, would you, sweetcheeks?" His stance is alert.

Clenching my teeth, I step forward, ready to take him with me if he decides to be the maggot my boss thinks he is. I place the frames on his narrow face, and tab on the power source. Sands sighs. I see him visibly relax. "Thanks," he says, not sounding overly sarcastic. "Thought they were gone. That would really cramp my style."

"Yeah, especially since you might actually have to be polite to the person who builds them."

"Like I said, it would really cramp my style."

George clears his throat, and we head for the door.