Thanks for the reviews! You guys rock my socks. Hmm... Do you want to know something interesting? This story has three reviews... But fanfiction allows you to see how many hits your story has. This one has had seventy. Meaning that quite a few people are reading it and most definately not reviewing. Interesting. Enjoy!
It had been twenty-nine days since the failed Coup, and El Mariachi was on the run. The Barillo cartel had regrouped under new leadership, and the new leader wasn't- as Salome had put it- El's biggest fan. Let's face it.
El was- to the best of what he had heard- the cartel's highest priority at the moment; only slightly higher than the anonymous gunfighter that had killed the cartel's chief informant and alleged second-in-command-- Barillo's own daughter, or so El had heard.
At the moment, El was reclining in the passenger seat of Jorge Ramirez's rather messy car. Glancing at Ramirez, El concluded that killing Guevara and taking a few shots at Barillo had come at a great cost- Ramirez's house had been blown to pieces within an hour of Barillo's death.
It seemed that Ramirez was unaccustomed to being on the receiving end of a hunt: he was gripping the steering wheel a little too tightly to be entirely comfortable.
"Jorge."
Ramirez grunted in response.
"Would you like for me to drive for a few hours?"
Ramirez shrugged. "I suppose that depends on where you intend to drive."
El tilted his head back in a mixture of exasperation and confusion. "They're not going to stop hunting us."
"I know."
"They're going to try the Coup again, you know."
"Yes."
"No one will be there to stop it."
"I know."
"And you're okay with that?"
Ramirez glanced into the rear-view mirror and, seeing no one, slammed heavily on the breaks while turning towards El. "What do you want from me?"
El wiped blood away from where his lip had impacted the dashboard. "The cartel will still be running its operations out of Culiacan."
"And you think we're going back there?"
El was silent.
One day south of the boarder was all that Sands needed to realize that "cartel" was simply another expression for the word "cockroach." Or maybe one of those nifty little lizards who can regrow their tails."
A little snooping around here and there- checking in with old informants and such- had told Sands what he most needed to know: the cartel was still very much in order and wanted him dead. And they don't even know that it was me who shot Ajedrez. Pity, that; I could be quite the legend.
Of course, the cartel was as optimistic as a six-year-old who had just failed a test- if at first you don't succeed; try, try again. Another Coup was in the works- one that the CIA was clueless about. After all, Sands was one of only two Officers that had been stationed in Mexico (the majority of Clandestine Operations was stationed in the Middle East), and the other was a fuck-up who was responsible only for the southern-most region of the country. Other than that, Sands was alone. Yeah, I'm just that good.
Sands had to wonder how long it would take the Company to send a few men after him. Of course, it would never occur to them to check back with the cartel every-so-often. You know, chat over tea, have dinner, so on… And it wouldn't; that had been Sands' department.
Turdburglers.
And speaking of turdburglers…
"Looking" over the steam rising from his latest plate of puerco pibil, he listened to the approaching footsteps.
In that other life- that life that had ended thirty days ago- Alveraz had been Sands' second resource: the place he went on the rare occation that Belini didn't have the answers. Or was dead.
Sands couldn't help but notice that all of his senses- not only his hearing- had increased tenfold since the coup. He could feel the vibrations of Alveraz's footsteps through the floor- could smell and taste his atrocious cologne…
"What?" And the rasp of a voice. Unmistakable. Sands smiled.
"I have another assignment for you." Sands reached under the table and found (with minimal groping) the tin lunchbox that he had placed there earlier. He had studied it carefully with his fingertips before deciding that it bore a rather distasteful depiction of Scooby Doo. He extended it across the table; Alveraz's hand shot out and grabbed it forcefully. "Twenty thousand was your going rate, yes?" He could hear the box opening and closing.
"What do you need?"
Sands smirked. "A few things." He paused, listening hard. Hearing nothing. "I'd like for you to write this down. Your memory…" He trailed off, the smirk extending all the way to the realm of the 'gleeful smile'. He heard Alveraz grunt, rummage about, and grunt again. "Okay…" The smile faded. "What I'd like from you is the following… One, scope out the remains of the Barillo cartel. I want information pertaining to its new leadership and who they're hunting. Second. I'd like for you to have a look into the following names." He smirked again. "Would you like for me to spell them for you, or do you think that you can handle yourself?"
"Fuck you."
"Later. AFN Ajedrez tops the list. She was shot- possibly fatally- but it's good to know for certain where your enemies lie. You could look for the name 'Ajedrez Barillo'- I'm pretty certain that was her real name. Next, have a look around to see if Cucuy is really and truly dead."
"Cucuy? Your informant? Dead?" Sands could tell from Alveraz's voice alone that the expression written on his face rivaled that of a basset hound that needed to be put out. "You killed him?"
"Well," Sands drawled, lighting a cigarette gingerly as to avoid burning his fingertips, "if I were the one who killed him, I would know if he was alive, wouldn't I?" He took a deep draw and exhaled through his nostrils. "The truth of it all is that he double-crossed me, and that I have plenty of reason to believe that he's lying in a ditch or two somewhere. Which should be," he said, the drawl dropping as quickly as it had appeared, "a very good lesson for us all."
"Whatever."
"I'm glad to see that you understand. Last name, now. Ready? FBI Special Agent Jorge Ramirez. Retired, of course. That one is particularly important. I want to know where he is, what he's doing, who he's with… You get my drift?"
"Yeah."
"Good."
"Is that it?" The chair's legs scooted out, making a highly unpleasant noise as they scraped the ground.
"Sit down- did I say that I was finished? One last thing." The chair was jammed forward again. "Wow. You weren't kidding when you asked for a fuck, were you? You're all-too-anxious." Silence. "Hmm… Okay. I want you to go to Culiacan. Find a little boy- he rides a bike, sells bubblegum, is about nine years old, is very persistent regarding his sales, and is overall an extremely obnoxious person to deal with. Now. You'll likely find about ten kids who match this description, but you're looking for one with knowledge about a blind gunfighter. Savvy?"
There was a pause as Alveraz scribbled something down. Then- "I've heard rumors… A blind gunfighter. The Blind Gunfighter. You know him?"
Sands allowed his mouth to curve upwards. My reputation precedes me. "We've met."
"What do you want with the boy?"
"Just… Find him. The rest is for me to know… And for you never to find out."