Darkness Rising
A Once Upon a Time in Mexico story by Merrie
Disclaimer: Unfortunately SJ is not mine, but Jeffrey, Roland, Susannah and Emily are. Um, wanna trade? No? Damn.
Characters: SJ, Jeffrey, the voice inside of his head, Roland Rivers, and a few others.
Author's Note: To Miss B, my lovely beta reader, and to Halia who has created a truly awesome cover art for this story. Since ff.net eats up internet addresses, I won't put it here. But if you'd like to see it, lemme know in your reviews and I'll send you a link. It's beautiful!!
And to the rest of my dear, dear reviewers, you guys make my day!! *hugs*
Rating: R for naughty language, and graphic violent imagery. Enjoy! ;-)
Chapter Seven: Rivers and Sands
Sands didn't know what the fuck was going on, but he didn't like one bit of it. He had barely made it out of the restaurant without getting caught. But now with everyone concerned about the old woman he had set on fire, he was home free. The thought had barely crossed his mind when he nearly knocked some poor unsuspecting fool to the ground in his haste.
"Hey, watch the fuck where you're going, mister," the affronted man yelled at him, raising his hands to push back at him before stopping suddenly. "You! You bastard! You killed Yvette, didn't you! Agent Rivers promised to shoot you, but I guess I'll have to take care of you myself instead," the burly man ground out.
'Agent Rivers? Is that the bastard that almost had us just now? At least we've got a name for him now rather than the officer.' Jeffrey pointed out. 'Now who the fuck does the moron think he is? No, don't listen to me, Sands you idiot, watch him!' Jeffrey's warning came too late as Ryan's fist connected with his nose, throwing his head to the side in a spray of blood and saliva.
"I should kill you, you bastard!" the man shouted, pulling his arm back for another punch that Sands had no intention of letting him land. He pulled out the gun from the waistband of his pants and shot him twice at point- blank range in the chest, grimacing as the man's blood covered him in a hot gush. He quickly put his gun away again and continued his escape.
***
Roland just stood and watched at the paramedics wheeled the woman away, not bothering to chase after Sands. He was most likely long gone by now if he had any brains at all. And pulling off a stunt like this and escaping when he should have been in his custody certainly showed a brilliant mind, if more than a little psychotic. He rubbed a hand across his face and attempted to wipe some of the sweat away when he heard the shots. There was no mistaking the sound. They were gunshots, and they were close. Was it too much to hope that one of the police officers called on the scene had gotten Sands as he had been trying to escape?
He tore out of the restaurant in the direction of the shots as if death itself was on his heels, pulling his handgun from its holster as he ran. He burst out through the back of the restaurant to find a small group of people gathered in a circle around a place on the ground that he could not see. But in his time spent in the CIA, he had seen such gatherings before of horrified gawkers. Either someone was horribly injured, or someone had been murdered. Although he was praying for the first, with the way his day was going it was most likely the later.
He ran to the gathering shouting, "CIA! Let me through!" making sure that his gun was up in the air and pointed away from any civilians. The crowd parted as if he had threatened to shoot them if they didn't move rather than ordered them to. Once he got to the center of the circle, his eyes fell upon the body there and he crouched down to examine it more closely. It was Ryan, the bartender of the Yellow Chicken. The man that had made him promise to shoot Sands when he had him. It looked as if Sands had gotten to him first, though. He was shot twice at close range, burn marks from the muzzle flash of Sands' gun clearly visible around the edges of the wounds. Not that he had any proof that Sands had done it though, he simply knew that the bastard had. The thought that he seemed to know Sands so well gave him pause. He hadn't even met the man, for Christ's sake! But somehow, that didn't matter. He knew the man. From the moment he had met his eyes in the restaurant, Sands' dark brown colliding with his own pale blue, he knew that this was what he was meant to be doing.
Roland had never been one to believe in fate, but something pulled at him in that restaurant when he had seen Sands for the first time. Something told him that Sands would single-handedly change his life forever, for better or for worse. He had tracked down criminals before, he had had to kill men in the line of duty; it was his job. But not a one of those criminals made him feel as ill at ease as Sands had. It was almost as if he could relate to him somehow, which was ridiculous because they were obviously complete opposites.
Sands, while he had fair skin, was dark, slight in stature, and had the slender build of a runner. Roland was all the opposites of these. Although he did match Sands' skin tone, he had pale hair and eyes, topped 6'4'' and had a stockier build. A part of him whispered that it wasn't what was on the outside that mattered, but the inside. Their thoughts and personalities were what they really had in common. But that wasn't entirely true either, was it? Roland wasn't a criminal. Sure, he might color outside the lines of the law every once and awhile, but he had never gone so far as to actually break one of them. And he had certainly not killed anyone before. Well, anyone innocent. At least, he hoped he hadn't killed anyone innocent. But to think on that paved the road to madness, and that could not be allowed.
No, he would find Sands, and make sure he got the death penalty no matter how alike they supposedly were. The odd thing about it was that he would take no pleasure from it. He should have been chomping at the bit to see a psychotic like Sands executed for the crimes he had committed, for the people he had killed, but in fact the whole situation left a rather bad taste in his mouth.
He shook his head briefly to clear his thoughts and turned back to the situation at hand. He had made sure that no one touched the body until the police and an ambulance had arrived, and it was his duty to wait on scene until a detective arrived to take his statement. When he heard the tell- tale signs of sirens, however, he found that he had no intention of doing his duty. Well, not his duty concerning the dead body and the consequent interrogations with the local cops who had a thing for grilling federal agents like himself, anyway. He would shirk one duty for another. He wasn't about to let Sands get away with this. He knew where the man lived and what he looked like now. It was only a matter of time before they had their confrontation.
***
'Don't go back to the Jag, fuckmook. Leave it. It's no good to us anymore. I knew you shouldn't have driven that damn car,' Jeffrey grumbled. While Sands agreed, he didn't like his mistakes shoved in his face. Especially not by someone who was a part of him.
"Shut up, you bastard. You think I don't know that? And the apartment's no doubt being watched as well if that Agent Rivers is half as intelligent as he seems," Sands grumbled.
'Play tourist for a while, idiot,' Jeffrey suggested.
"What? What do you mean, 'play tourist?'" Sands asked, clearly confused. He felt his eyes roll as Jeffrey elaborated.
'Well, we are in Washington fucking DC, aren't we? Look at this place. There are tourists everywhere you fucking look. Blend fucking in. You do know how to do that, don't you?' Jeffrey said in a clearly mocking tone of voice.
Sands didn't bother to comment, instead he made his way to the first gaudy gift shop he could find. The first thing he had to do was to change out of his clothes. While silk and leather was more than fun to wear and be seen in, it was also very noticeable.
Upon entry of the store, his senses were immediately assaulted by the utter gaudiness of the place. His nose wrinkled, and he felt his rather snobbish upbringing crash down on him like a hammer. People like him were simply not seen at places like this.
'Oh shut the fuck up, you big pussy. I swear, have you always been this stuck up? Get that stick removed from your ass and try to have some fun for once, Sheldon. God, you make me want to puke sometimes,' Jeffery said sullenly. Sands didn't know quite what to say to that, and now wasn't the time or place to respond to him anyway, so he held his tongue.
"Can I help you sir?" an overweight man at the front counter called out upon hearing the chime of the bell hanging over the shop's door ring as Sands entered. The man was obviously a sports fan. Either that or a complete idiot. Most likely both. He was decked out in sports wear from head to foot. All of DC's teams were adequately represented from what he could see. The Redskins, the Capitols. Each had their place on his hulking frame.
Sands had to press down his disgust at the sight of such a man before answering. "No, that's alright. I'm sure I'll be fine on my own," he said, affecting a bit of a Midwest drawl to cover his obviously local accent. If he was going to play tourist, he might as well get started.
The man nodded, and turned back to his magazine. A Sport's Illustrated, Sands was unsurprised to note. He rolled his eyes and began searching through the cheap clothing racks before stopping upon something that sparked Jeffrey's attention.
'Get that shirt,' Jeffrey said. It was not a request. Sands rolled his eyes and pulled out the shirt to look at it more closely. It was black with a line of white print on the left breast almost too small to make out. He held it closer to read it. "Nosey Little F'r, Aren't You?" the shirt said. He rolled his eyes again.
"You would like a shirt like that, wouldn't you?" he mumbled under his breath, too quiet for the shop owner to hear. Not that he was really paying attention to him, anyway. Sands could rob the man blind before he even bothered to look up from his magazine.
'What are you talking about? That shirt's hilarious! Just because not all of us like to dress up in silk and leather like you do, you pansy, doesn't mean that we don't have any taste.'
"That's exactly what it means," Sands grumbled, but carried the shirt along with him anyway. At least it was black.
'Oh, fuck you,' Jeffrey groused. 'See if I help you next time when you're on the run, Sheldon,' he seethed.
"There better not be a next time. And don't call me that," Sands said, his voice raised to almost speaking level now.
'Listen; don't freak out, you wuss. Just pay for the damn shirt and let's get the fuck out of this hell hole,' Jeffrey said, to anyone who might be listening sounding almost apologetic. To Sands' ears however, the only one who could actually hear him, it sounded as if he were being given a load of bullshit. But he did as Jeffrey suggested and made his way to the counter, but not before picking up a cheap pair of black plastic sunglasses to cover his face. 'Good thinking. Now you're learning, Sands,' Jeffrey rewarded him with the use of his last name again.
Sands didn't bother to answer, but merely startled the shopkeeper out of his sports induced stupor to pay for the items he wanted. He would have to make do with the leather pants. Places like this only sold sweat pants, and it was definitely too fucking cold outside to go around in a pair of sweatpants.
'Not to mention the fact that you'd never be caught dead in a pair, would you?' Jeffrey couldn't help but comment.
Sands didn't rise to the bait, much to Jeffrey's annoyance. He paid for the items, made sure to get a bag to carry his old shirt in, and asked, "Do you have a bathroom I could use?" Sands asked once more in the Midwestern drawl. "The bathrooms on the tour bus leave something to be desired, you know what I mean?" He winked at the man, who laughed and directed him to a public restroom to the back of the store. "Thanks, friend. You're a life saver," he said with a wide smile. The man simply nodded and turned back to his magazine.
'Can we shoot this guy?' Jeffrey asked as he walked through the store to the bathroom. 'Not that we necessarily should, but it'd be a hell of a lot of fun!'
"No, I'm not fucking shooting him. Besides, I'm almost out of bullets," Sands whispered.
'Poor excuse,' Jeffrey muttered. Sands rolled his eyes and entered the small bathroom and locked the door. He quickly took off his leather jacket and untucked and unbuttoned his black silk shirt and took the t-shirt he had purchased out of the bag. Realizing he had nothing to cut the tags off with, he cursed and ripped the tag itself off while leaving the plastic attachment on the shirt. It was the best he could do. He pulled on the t- shirt, gently balling up the silk and securing it in the bag. He then took a look at himself in the mirror, the black plastic sunglasses in hand. 'Not bad, but you really need to get over this fascination with a black on black wardrobe. It gets annoying after awhile,' Jeffrey groused.
"Oh shut up. I like the black. And I wore red yesterday, remember?" Sands pointed out.
'You only wore red because I forced you to. And you still wore black pants.'
"Fine, whatever. I don't want to fucking argue about this," Sands said wearily.
'You always fucking say that. What if I want to fucking argue sometimes? I like to fucking argue you big pussy. You don't like to hear people argue do you? It makes you uncomfortable. It reminds you of the times our fucking parents argued, doesn't it? Boo-hoo, poor Sheldon doesn't like to hear people argue because it brings back horrible memories from his childhood. God you are pathetic. If I could find a way to separate myself from your sorry ass, I'd be gone so fast you'd get whiplash from the sensation,' Jeffrey grumbled.
"Well boo-hoo, you're stuck with me you bastard. So you might as well learn to live with it. Before I drug you into oblivion and never have to put up with you again, that is," Sands said smugly.
'You wouldn't dare,' Jeffrey said, his voice turning cold.
"Try me, you asshole," Sands shot back. "And don't call me Sheldon," he said, glaring at his image in the mirror, imagining it as Jeffrey. The image merely glared back.
'Sheldon, Sheldon, pathetic little Sheldon that still can't stand to remember his parents' fighting when he was younger. The parents that he killed,' Jeffrey said mockingly.
Sands couldn't take it anymore. He pulled back his hand and punched his mirror image right in the face, the glass shattering around his fist. That would shut Jeffrey up for awhile. He grimaced and pulled his now cut and bloodied hand out of the mirror fragments, not bothering to look at it. Instead, he stared back at the mirror where images of himself, of Jeffrey, reflected them back to him from every shattered fragment. It was sobering, to say the least.
"Hey! What the fuck is going on in there! I heard something break! You better not be breaking something in there!" the portly man's high baritone called out from the store. Sands put on his glasses, Jeffrey smirked at the mirror, and together the two of him walked out of the store, not bothering to pay any attention to the fat sports fan any longer.
***
"Name, Sheldon Jeffrey Sands, wait, Sheldon? Oh that poor bastard. No wonder he had his initials put on his credit card," Roland read along with the information he had dug up in the police records about his quarry. "D.O.B 13 February, 1966. Good Lord, the kid's only 27 years old?" Roland stared at the screen incredulously, his own 38 years hanging a bit heavily on him before reading on. "Parents, Anthony and Sara Sands, both deceased. And this just kept getting better and better," he commented with a shake of his head. "It looks like I'll be bringing down a billionaire. My first," Roland said with a half grin. Sands' father had been one of the richest men in the country if not the world upon the advent of his death. And with no siblings to share an inheritance with, Sands had gotten it all at the young age of only 17 years old. "Lucky son of a bitch," Roland grumbled.
But then this was interesting. While there was no evidence proving foul play, it was suspected by more than one member of the law enforcement agencies set on the case that the young heir might have had a hand in his parent's death. Roland quickly scanned over the article that someone had thoughtfully included in the file. The headline was bold and black, attempting to shock whoever glanced at it, "BILLIONAIRE AND WIFE KILLED IN BLAZE. 17 OLD SON ONLY SURVIOR, INHERITS ALL." There was even a picture of young Sands on the cover, the same cold eyes he had seen in the restaurant staring unflinchingly at whoever had taken the picture. Roland also noticed that from his expression he didn't seem to be the least bit upset at his parent's untimely death.
"Probably torched them himself, that bastard," Roland muttered under his breath. He had dealt with Sands' type before. Psychotics weren't typically born, they were created. And more often than not, that creation came about sometime during childhood. Anthony Sands had been a ruthless businessman, Sara Sands merely a trophy. Neither seemed very doting parents. Roland knew he was pretty much going on pure speculation here, but he had good instincts, and had learned to listen to them. They had saved his ass more times than he cared to count.
He surreptitiously looked over his shoulder to make sure he wasn't being observed. While what he was doing by searching the DCPD database wasn't illegal per se, it wasn't exactly legal either. If he had bothered to ask before hacking into their system to get the information he wanted, they probably would have said yes. Probably. But he hadn't wanted to wait to go through the bureaucracy that a request like that would ultimately bring, so he had taken the slightly less legal route. A part of him cautioned him at this action, worrying that he was sacrificing his career in a chase that was beginning to turn obsessive. All Roland could think about was catching Sands. From the moment he had laid eyes on him the restaurant, he knew that catching him would either make or break his career. Putting the man to justice responsible for Yvette's death had now become secondary in his mind, and he knew he would be damned because of it.
"Excuse me, sir. Your telephone is ringing." A young voice startled him out of his thoughts. He looked up from the file to find a young dark haired woman speaking to him.
"What?" was the only kind of reply his brain seemed to be able to make at the moment.
"Your phone, it's ringing. You might want to answer it," the woman said with a roll of her eyes before walking away.
It was then that the sound of ringing finally made its way to his ears. Fuck, his phone was indeed ringing, and he hadn't even noticed. "Sloppy, Roland, very sloppy," he berated himself before sticking a hand in his jacket pocket to pull out his cell. "Rivers," was his only salutation.
"Agent Rivers? Where the hell have you been? I've been trying to reach you for the last 10 minutes! My life is in danger!" Mrs. Marta Sprout yelled in his ear. She really seemed to have a bad habit of doing that which he intended to talk to her about.
"Don't be so melodramatic, Mrs. Sprout. What do you mean your life is in danger?" he rolled his eyes at the tone in her voice.
"Mr. Sands! He knows I turned him in! He saw me calling you in the restaurant!" she shouted.
Roland froze. This could not be good. "What do you mean he saw you? He was back in the kitchen with you?" Roland asked incredulously, but the edges of fear began to itch at his spine.
"I called you from the dining room. I wanted to keep an eye on him to make sure he didn't leave before you got there," she sounded almost guilty, but still undeniably frightened.
Roland clenched his eyes shut tight and cursed softly. This dumb cow had most likely signed her own death warrant. "Where are you?"
"I'm at a payphone near the restaurant. I'm afraid to go home, Agent Rivers. I saw what he did to that woman. He'll do the same to me, I know it!" She was close to weeping at this point.
"Stay there, I'll get to you as soon as I can. Do you hear me?" Roland said firmly. There was no answer. "Marta? Are you still there?"
"Hello, Agent Rivers," a new voice drawled into the phone. "Gee, I'm awfully sorry, but dear Mrs. Sprout had an errand to run. I'm afraid you won't be seeing her again," the man on the other end said, a smirk apparent in his voice.
"Sands. You bastard, what have you done to her?!" He was the one shouting into the phone this time.
"There's no need to get upset, Agent Rivers, we couldn't let her get away now could we?"
We? So the bastard had an accomplice. But that didn't make any sense. From what he had read, Sands had always been a loner. And serial killers always worked alone. They wouldn't want an outsider sharing in on their fun. So who was he talking about? "What do you mean, we? I didn't see anyone else in the restaurant with you," Roland asked. The line stayed quiet for a moment, and Roland's brow furrowed. Had Sands not heard him? Was he still there? "Are you still there, asshole? It wasn't a hard question," Roland said, a sneer crossing his face.
"Nevermind," Sands said, actually sounding flustered. Roland's eyes widened at this reaction. Something he had said had confused him, but what? It had been when he had asked about an accomplice. Sands didn't seem to have an accomplice, but he had said we. Roland decided to file this away to think about later.
"You killed her, didn't you? Just like you killed Yvette," Roland snarled.
"Yvette? You knew Yvette? Is that was this is all about? You're chasing me because I killed some blonde bimbo?" Sands sounded shocked.
Roland saw red. "You bastard. She was my friend, and you don't even care that you killed her, do you?"
"Ahh, I see. She was more than your friend, wasn't she? I can tell by the tone of your voice. She's too young to be your wife, so she must have been your lover. I assume a man your age is married, Agent Rivers. Does your wife know you're fucking someone on the side?"
"Fuck you," Roland ground out. Sands was clearly trying to bait him, and unfortunately it was working all too well. He needed to take a deep breath and clear his head.
"Aww, what's wrong, Agent Rivers? Did I strike a nerve?" the man asked gleefully.
"Mark my words, you sadistic bastard. I will find you. And when I do, you will pay," Roland seethed, his knuckles white where he was gripping his cell phone.
"I don't think so. Oh, would you like to say goodbye to Marta? How rude of me to intrude on her conversation for so long. Hold on, let me get her," Sands said, and Roland could hear him moving around in the background. "Now say hello to Agent Rivers, Marta," Sands could be heard saying.
"Roland?" came Marta's trembling voice through the line.
"Marta! Talk to me! Are you alright? Has he hurt you?" Roland yelled frantically through the phone.
"Roland! Don't let him hurt me, please!" she pleaded with him, her voice dissolving into sobs.
"Yes, please don't let me hurt her, Roland," Sands' voice came back through the line. "Roland? Roland Rivers? What the hell kind of name is that?" he asked mockingly.
"You're not one to talk, Sheldon," Roland seethed. "Let Marta go. She's not a part of this. Just let her go, and we can meet to talk."
"Say goodbye to Marta, Agent Rivers," Sands said, his voice cold and unfeeling across the line. "Oops." A gun shot blasted through the phone and Roland winced at the noise. "Too late," he said in a flat tone of voice. "Be seeing you, Agent Rivers." With that, Sands hung up the phone.
The dial tone blazed like a klaxon in Roland's ears, but he made no motion to hang up the phone. He made no motions at all. Then, as if someone had remembered to turn on the 'ON' switch, he suddenly came to life, chucking his phone across the room and screaming at the top of his lungs in his rage.
***
Sands raised one hand to rub at his ear while putting the gun back in its place with the other. "Note to self, shooting someone in an enclosed space is not a good idea," he muttered.
'I could have told you that, idiot,' Jeffrey said.
"Oh really? How? Have you shot someone in close proximity before? No, I don't think so. So kindly shut the fuck up," Sands grumbled before carefully stepping over Marta's body, careful not to get blood on his black leather boots.
Jeffrey grumbled that he had killed someone in close proximity before, but it was under his breath and Sands paid him no mind. He had other things to worry about, like getting the hell out of an obvious murder scene before the cops showed up. But he wasn't worried. He pulled on the black stocking cap he had taken off of Marta before killing her, wouldn't want to get blood on it, and had found a hair tie in her purse with which he pulled his shoulder-length hair back securely. Combined with the glasses, he blended in quite effectively with the crowds, even though being dressed completely in black from head to toe in all likelihood should have brought him more attention. People seemed to unconsciously avoid him, which made him smile.
'You need to get a new gun,' Jeffrey commented suddenly, startling Sands for a moment. 'Find somewhere safe to ditch this one and find a new gun. The .22's nice and easy to conceal, but come on, it lacks a certain presence, you know what I mean? And a silencer wouldn't be a bad idea either,' Jeffrey said, sounding thoughtful. 'And take care of your goddamned hand, for Christ' sake. You're dripping blood all over the place.'
Sands looked down at his mangled right hand for the first time since leaving the tourist shop. It was indeed a mess, shiny bits of reflective glass glinting at him viciously in the sunlight among a sea of bloody red. "Fuck," he muttered at the sight.
'See? I fucking told you. You'd lose your fucking head if I wasn't around to tell you to pull it out of your ass, Sheldon,' Jeffrey said scathingly.
"Don't call me Sheldon, you bastard," Sands said, not really paying attention to what he was saying, simply speaking in response. His attention was still drawn on his hand. He hadn't even noticed it was hurt. But God almighty, it hurt like a motherfucker now. Perhaps he should go to a hospital?
'Too risky. Hospitals keep records. And I'm sure there are quite a few people out there looking for us. The cops don't like it when you go around killing people, I suppose,' Jeffrey said with a laugh.
"Yeah, I suppose," Sands muttered. He had to get some bandages at least, and clean out all of pieces of broken mirror before they got infected.
'Go into a fucking drugstore if you're going to be a wuss about it. There's one a few blocks over. But then, we need to get a new gun. You understand me, fuckmook?'
"Yeah, yeah. I understand," Sands muttered before making his way down the street, smirking at the shocked sounds and screams behind him as people began to discover his work.
TBC
A/N: Well, this chapter was fun. At least, I had fun anyway. I hope you did too. Sands and Jeffrey are fun to write, and Roland is turning out to be a good nemesis. Well, at least I think he is anyway. SJ certainly is slipping, isn't he? Two dead bodies in one chapter. Tsk Tsk. :-) Anyway, please send me your reviews!! They are greatly appreciated!!!
A Once Upon a Time in Mexico story by Merrie
Disclaimer: Unfortunately SJ is not mine, but Jeffrey, Roland, Susannah and Emily are. Um, wanna trade? No? Damn.
Characters: SJ, Jeffrey, the voice inside of his head, Roland Rivers, and a few others.
Author's Note: To Miss B, my lovely beta reader, and to Halia who has created a truly awesome cover art for this story. Since ff.net eats up internet addresses, I won't put it here. But if you'd like to see it, lemme know in your reviews and I'll send you a link. It's beautiful!!
And to the rest of my dear, dear reviewers, you guys make my day!! *hugs*
Rating: R for naughty language, and graphic violent imagery. Enjoy! ;-)
Chapter Seven: Rivers and Sands
Sands didn't know what the fuck was going on, but he didn't like one bit of it. He had barely made it out of the restaurant without getting caught. But now with everyone concerned about the old woman he had set on fire, he was home free. The thought had barely crossed his mind when he nearly knocked some poor unsuspecting fool to the ground in his haste.
"Hey, watch the fuck where you're going, mister," the affronted man yelled at him, raising his hands to push back at him before stopping suddenly. "You! You bastard! You killed Yvette, didn't you! Agent Rivers promised to shoot you, but I guess I'll have to take care of you myself instead," the burly man ground out.
'Agent Rivers? Is that the bastard that almost had us just now? At least we've got a name for him now rather than the officer.' Jeffrey pointed out. 'Now who the fuck does the moron think he is? No, don't listen to me, Sands you idiot, watch him!' Jeffrey's warning came too late as Ryan's fist connected with his nose, throwing his head to the side in a spray of blood and saliva.
"I should kill you, you bastard!" the man shouted, pulling his arm back for another punch that Sands had no intention of letting him land. He pulled out the gun from the waistband of his pants and shot him twice at point- blank range in the chest, grimacing as the man's blood covered him in a hot gush. He quickly put his gun away again and continued his escape.
***
Roland just stood and watched at the paramedics wheeled the woman away, not bothering to chase after Sands. He was most likely long gone by now if he had any brains at all. And pulling off a stunt like this and escaping when he should have been in his custody certainly showed a brilliant mind, if more than a little psychotic. He rubbed a hand across his face and attempted to wipe some of the sweat away when he heard the shots. There was no mistaking the sound. They were gunshots, and they were close. Was it too much to hope that one of the police officers called on the scene had gotten Sands as he had been trying to escape?
He tore out of the restaurant in the direction of the shots as if death itself was on his heels, pulling his handgun from its holster as he ran. He burst out through the back of the restaurant to find a small group of people gathered in a circle around a place on the ground that he could not see. But in his time spent in the CIA, he had seen such gatherings before of horrified gawkers. Either someone was horribly injured, or someone had been murdered. Although he was praying for the first, with the way his day was going it was most likely the later.
He ran to the gathering shouting, "CIA! Let me through!" making sure that his gun was up in the air and pointed away from any civilians. The crowd parted as if he had threatened to shoot them if they didn't move rather than ordered them to. Once he got to the center of the circle, his eyes fell upon the body there and he crouched down to examine it more closely. It was Ryan, the bartender of the Yellow Chicken. The man that had made him promise to shoot Sands when he had him. It looked as if Sands had gotten to him first, though. He was shot twice at close range, burn marks from the muzzle flash of Sands' gun clearly visible around the edges of the wounds. Not that he had any proof that Sands had done it though, he simply knew that the bastard had. The thought that he seemed to know Sands so well gave him pause. He hadn't even met the man, for Christ's sake! But somehow, that didn't matter. He knew the man. From the moment he had met his eyes in the restaurant, Sands' dark brown colliding with his own pale blue, he knew that this was what he was meant to be doing.
Roland had never been one to believe in fate, but something pulled at him in that restaurant when he had seen Sands for the first time. Something told him that Sands would single-handedly change his life forever, for better or for worse. He had tracked down criminals before, he had had to kill men in the line of duty; it was his job. But not a one of those criminals made him feel as ill at ease as Sands had. It was almost as if he could relate to him somehow, which was ridiculous because they were obviously complete opposites.
Sands, while he had fair skin, was dark, slight in stature, and had the slender build of a runner. Roland was all the opposites of these. Although he did match Sands' skin tone, he had pale hair and eyes, topped 6'4'' and had a stockier build. A part of him whispered that it wasn't what was on the outside that mattered, but the inside. Their thoughts and personalities were what they really had in common. But that wasn't entirely true either, was it? Roland wasn't a criminal. Sure, he might color outside the lines of the law every once and awhile, but he had never gone so far as to actually break one of them. And he had certainly not killed anyone before. Well, anyone innocent. At least, he hoped he hadn't killed anyone innocent. But to think on that paved the road to madness, and that could not be allowed.
No, he would find Sands, and make sure he got the death penalty no matter how alike they supposedly were. The odd thing about it was that he would take no pleasure from it. He should have been chomping at the bit to see a psychotic like Sands executed for the crimes he had committed, for the people he had killed, but in fact the whole situation left a rather bad taste in his mouth.
He shook his head briefly to clear his thoughts and turned back to the situation at hand. He had made sure that no one touched the body until the police and an ambulance had arrived, and it was his duty to wait on scene until a detective arrived to take his statement. When he heard the tell- tale signs of sirens, however, he found that he had no intention of doing his duty. Well, not his duty concerning the dead body and the consequent interrogations with the local cops who had a thing for grilling federal agents like himself, anyway. He would shirk one duty for another. He wasn't about to let Sands get away with this. He knew where the man lived and what he looked like now. It was only a matter of time before they had their confrontation.
***
'Don't go back to the Jag, fuckmook. Leave it. It's no good to us anymore. I knew you shouldn't have driven that damn car,' Jeffrey grumbled. While Sands agreed, he didn't like his mistakes shoved in his face. Especially not by someone who was a part of him.
"Shut up, you bastard. You think I don't know that? And the apartment's no doubt being watched as well if that Agent Rivers is half as intelligent as he seems," Sands grumbled.
'Play tourist for a while, idiot,' Jeffrey suggested.
"What? What do you mean, 'play tourist?'" Sands asked, clearly confused. He felt his eyes roll as Jeffrey elaborated.
'Well, we are in Washington fucking DC, aren't we? Look at this place. There are tourists everywhere you fucking look. Blend fucking in. You do know how to do that, don't you?' Jeffrey said in a clearly mocking tone of voice.
Sands didn't bother to comment, instead he made his way to the first gaudy gift shop he could find. The first thing he had to do was to change out of his clothes. While silk and leather was more than fun to wear and be seen in, it was also very noticeable.
Upon entry of the store, his senses were immediately assaulted by the utter gaudiness of the place. His nose wrinkled, and he felt his rather snobbish upbringing crash down on him like a hammer. People like him were simply not seen at places like this.
'Oh shut the fuck up, you big pussy. I swear, have you always been this stuck up? Get that stick removed from your ass and try to have some fun for once, Sheldon. God, you make me want to puke sometimes,' Jeffery said sullenly. Sands didn't know quite what to say to that, and now wasn't the time or place to respond to him anyway, so he held his tongue.
"Can I help you sir?" an overweight man at the front counter called out upon hearing the chime of the bell hanging over the shop's door ring as Sands entered. The man was obviously a sports fan. Either that or a complete idiot. Most likely both. He was decked out in sports wear from head to foot. All of DC's teams were adequately represented from what he could see. The Redskins, the Capitols. Each had their place on his hulking frame.
Sands had to press down his disgust at the sight of such a man before answering. "No, that's alright. I'm sure I'll be fine on my own," he said, affecting a bit of a Midwest drawl to cover his obviously local accent. If he was going to play tourist, he might as well get started.
The man nodded, and turned back to his magazine. A Sport's Illustrated, Sands was unsurprised to note. He rolled his eyes and began searching through the cheap clothing racks before stopping upon something that sparked Jeffrey's attention.
'Get that shirt,' Jeffrey said. It was not a request. Sands rolled his eyes and pulled out the shirt to look at it more closely. It was black with a line of white print on the left breast almost too small to make out. He held it closer to read it. "Nosey Little F'r, Aren't You?" the shirt said. He rolled his eyes again.
"You would like a shirt like that, wouldn't you?" he mumbled under his breath, too quiet for the shop owner to hear. Not that he was really paying attention to him, anyway. Sands could rob the man blind before he even bothered to look up from his magazine.
'What are you talking about? That shirt's hilarious! Just because not all of us like to dress up in silk and leather like you do, you pansy, doesn't mean that we don't have any taste.'
"That's exactly what it means," Sands grumbled, but carried the shirt along with him anyway. At least it was black.
'Oh, fuck you,' Jeffrey groused. 'See if I help you next time when you're on the run, Sheldon,' he seethed.
"There better not be a next time. And don't call me that," Sands said, his voice raised to almost speaking level now.
'Listen; don't freak out, you wuss. Just pay for the damn shirt and let's get the fuck out of this hell hole,' Jeffrey said, to anyone who might be listening sounding almost apologetic. To Sands' ears however, the only one who could actually hear him, it sounded as if he were being given a load of bullshit. But he did as Jeffrey suggested and made his way to the counter, but not before picking up a cheap pair of black plastic sunglasses to cover his face. 'Good thinking. Now you're learning, Sands,' Jeffrey rewarded him with the use of his last name again.
Sands didn't bother to answer, but merely startled the shopkeeper out of his sports induced stupor to pay for the items he wanted. He would have to make do with the leather pants. Places like this only sold sweat pants, and it was definitely too fucking cold outside to go around in a pair of sweatpants.
'Not to mention the fact that you'd never be caught dead in a pair, would you?' Jeffrey couldn't help but comment.
Sands didn't rise to the bait, much to Jeffrey's annoyance. He paid for the items, made sure to get a bag to carry his old shirt in, and asked, "Do you have a bathroom I could use?" Sands asked once more in the Midwestern drawl. "The bathrooms on the tour bus leave something to be desired, you know what I mean?" He winked at the man, who laughed and directed him to a public restroom to the back of the store. "Thanks, friend. You're a life saver," he said with a wide smile. The man simply nodded and turned back to his magazine.
'Can we shoot this guy?' Jeffrey asked as he walked through the store to the bathroom. 'Not that we necessarily should, but it'd be a hell of a lot of fun!'
"No, I'm not fucking shooting him. Besides, I'm almost out of bullets," Sands whispered.
'Poor excuse,' Jeffrey muttered. Sands rolled his eyes and entered the small bathroom and locked the door. He quickly took off his leather jacket and untucked and unbuttoned his black silk shirt and took the t-shirt he had purchased out of the bag. Realizing he had nothing to cut the tags off with, he cursed and ripped the tag itself off while leaving the plastic attachment on the shirt. It was the best he could do. He pulled on the t- shirt, gently balling up the silk and securing it in the bag. He then took a look at himself in the mirror, the black plastic sunglasses in hand. 'Not bad, but you really need to get over this fascination with a black on black wardrobe. It gets annoying after awhile,' Jeffrey groused.
"Oh shut up. I like the black. And I wore red yesterday, remember?" Sands pointed out.
'You only wore red because I forced you to. And you still wore black pants.'
"Fine, whatever. I don't want to fucking argue about this," Sands said wearily.
'You always fucking say that. What if I want to fucking argue sometimes? I like to fucking argue you big pussy. You don't like to hear people argue do you? It makes you uncomfortable. It reminds you of the times our fucking parents argued, doesn't it? Boo-hoo, poor Sheldon doesn't like to hear people argue because it brings back horrible memories from his childhood. God you are pathetic. If I could find a way to separate myself from your sorry ass, I'd be gone so fast you'd get whiplash from the sensation,' Jeffrey grumbled.
"Well boo-hoo, you're stuck with me you bastard. So you might as well learn to live with it. Before I drug you into oblivion and never have to put up with you again, that is," Sands said smugly.
'You wouldn't dare,' Jeffrey said, his voice turning cold.
"Try me, you asshole," Sands shot back. "And don't call me Sheldon," he said, glaring at his image in the mirror, imagining it as Jeffrey. The image merely glared back.
'Sheldon, Sheldon, pathetic little Sheldon that still can't stand to remember his parents' fighting when he was younger. The parents that he killed,' Jeffrey said mockingly.
Sands couldn't take it anymore. He pulled back his hand and punched his mirror image right in the face, the glass shattering around his fist. That would shut Jeffrey up for awhile. He grimaced and pulled his now cut and bloodied hand out of the mirror fragments, not bothering to look at it. Instead, he stared back at the mirror where images of himself, of Jeffrey, reflected them back to him from every shattered fragment. It was sobering, to say the least.
"Hey! What the fuck is going on in there! I heard something break! You better not be breaking something in there!" the portly man's high baritone called out from the store. Sands put on his glasses, Jeffrey smirked at the mirror, and together the two of him walked out of the store, not bothering to pay any attention to the fat sports fan any longer.
***
"Name, Sheldon Jeffrey Sands, wait, Sheldon? Oh that poor bastard. No wonder he had his initials put on his credit card," Roland read along with the information he had dug up in the police records about his quarry. "D.O.B 13 February, 1966. Good Lord, the kid's only 27 years old?" Roland stared at the screen incredulously, his own 38 years hanging a bit heavily on him before reading on. "Parents, Anthony and Sara Sands, both deceased. And this just kept getting better and better," he commented with a shake of his head. "It looks like I'll be bringing down a billionaire. My first," Roland said with a half grin. Sands' father had been one of the richest men in the country if not the world upon the advent of his death. And with no siblings to share an inheritance with, Sands had gotten it all at the young age of only 17 years old. "Lucky son of a bitch," Roland grumbled.
But then this was interesting. While there was no evidence proving foul play, it was suspected by more than one member of the law enforcement agencies set on the case that the young heir might have had a hand in his parent's death. Roland quickly scanned over the article that someone had thoughtfully included in the file. The headline was bold and black, attempting to shock whoever glanced at it, "BILLIONAIRE AND WIFE KILLED IN BLAZE. 17 OLD SON ONLY SURVIOR, INHERITS ALL." There was even a picture of young Sands on the cover, the same cold eyes he had seen in the restaurant staring unflinchingly at whoever had taken the picture. Roland also noticed that from his expression he didn't seem to be the least bit upset at his parent's untimely death.
"Probably torched them himself, that bastard," Roland muttered under his breath. He had dealt with Sands' type before. Psychotics weren't typically born, they were created. And more often than not, that creation came about sometime during childhood. Anthony Sands had been a ruthless businessman, Sara Sands merely a trophy. Neither seemed very doting parents. Roland knew he was pretty much going on pure speculation here, but he had good instincts, and had learned to listen to them. They had saved his ass more times than he cared to count.
He surreptitiously looked over his shoulder to make sure he wasn't being observed. While what he was doing by searching the DCPD database wasn't illegal per se, it wasn't exactly legal either. If he had bothered to ask before hacking into their system to get the information he wanted, they probably would have said yes. Probably. But he hadn't wanted to wait to go through the bureaucracy that a request like that would ultimately bring, so he had taken the slightly less legal route. A part of him cautioned him at this action, worrying that he was sacrificing his career in a chase that was beginning to turn obsessive. All Roland could think about was catching Sands. From the moment he had laid eyes on him the restaurant, he knew that catching him would either make or break his career. Putting the man to justice responsible for Yvette's death had now become secondary in his mind, and he knew he would be damned because of it.
"Excuse me, sir. Your telephone is ringing." A young voice startled him out of his thoughts. He looked up from the file to find a young dark haired woman speaking to him.
"What?" was the only kind of reply his brain seemed to be able to make at the moment.
"Your phone, it's ringing. You might want to answer it," the woman said with a roll of her eyes before walking away.
It was then that the sound of ringing finally made its way to his ears. Fuck, his phone was indeed ringing, and he hadn't even noticed. "Sloppy, Roland, very sloppy," he berated himself before sticking a hand in his jacket pocket to pull out his cell. "Rivers," was his only salutation.
"Agent Rivers? Where the hell have you been? I've been trying to reach you for the last 10 minutes! My life is in danger!" Mrs. Marta Sprout yelled in his ear. She really seemed to have a bad habit of doing that which he intended to talk to her about.
"Don't be so melodramatic, Mrs. Sprout. What do you mean your life is in danger?" he rolled his eyes at the tone in her voice.
"Mr. Sands! He knows I turned him in! He saw me calling you in the restaurant!" she shouted.
Roland froze. This could not be good. "What do you mean he saw you? He was back in the kitchen with you?" Roland asked incredulously, but the edges of fear began to itch at his spine.
"I called you from the dining room. I wanted to keep an eye on him to make sure he didn't leave before you got there," she sounded almost guilty, but still undeniably frightened.
Roland clenched his eyes shut tight and cursed softly. This dumb cow had most likely signed her own death warrant. "Where are you?"
"I'm at a payphone near the restaurant. I'm afraid to go home, Agent Rivers. I saw what he did to that woman. He'll do the same to me, I know it!" She was close to weeping at this point.
"Stay there, I'll get to you as soon as I can. Do you hear me?" Roland said firmly. There was no answer. "Marta? Are you still there?"
"Hello, Agent Rivers," a new voice drawled into the phone. "Gee, I'm awfully sorry, but dear Mrs. Sprout had an errand to run. I'm afraid you won't be seeing her again," the man on the other end said, a smirk apparent in his voice.
"Sands. You bastard, what have you done to her?!" He was the one shouting into the phone this time.
"There's no need to get upset, Agent Rivers, we couldn't let her get away now could we?"
We? So the bastard had an accomplice. But that didn't make any sense. From what he had read, Sands had always been a loner. And serial killers always worked alone. They wouldn't want an outsider sharing in on their fun. So who was he talking about? "What do you mean, we? I didn't see anyone else in the restaurant with you," Roland asked. The line stayed quiet for a moment, and Roland's brow furrowed. Had Sands not heard him? Was he still there? "Are you still there, asshole? It wasn't a hard question," Roland said, a sneer crossing his face.
"Nevermind," Sands said, actually sounding flustered. Roland's eyes widened at this reaction. Something he had said had confused him, but what? It had been when he had asked about an accomplice. Sands didn't seem to have an accomplice, but he had said we. Roland decided to file this away to think about later.
"You killed her, didn't you? Just like you killed Yvette," Roland snarled.
"Yvette? You knew Yvette? Is that was this is all about? You're chasing me because I killed some blonde bimbo?" Sands sounded shocked.
Roland saw red. "You bastard. She was my friend, and you don't even care that you killed her, do you?"
"Ahh, I see. She was more than your friend, wasn't she? I can tell by the tone of your voice. She's too young to be your wife, so she must have been your lover. I assume a man your age is married, Agent Rivers. Does your wife know you're fucking someone on the side?"
"Fuck you," Roland ground out. Sands was clearly trying to bait him, and unfortunately it was working all too well. He needed to take a deep breath and clear his head.
"Aww, what's wrong, Agent Rivers? Did I strike a nerve?" the man asked gleefully.
"Mark my words, you sadistic bastard. I will find you. And when I do, you will pay," Roland seethed, his knuckles white where he was gripping his cell phone.
"I don't think so. Oh, would you like to say goodbye to Marta? How rude of me to intrude on her conversation for so long. Hold on, let me get her," Sands said, and Roland could hear him moving around in the background. "Now say hello to Agent Rivers, Marta," Sands could be heard saying.
"Roland?" came Marta's trembling voice through the line.
"Marta! Talk to me! Are you alright? Has he hurt you?" Roland yelled frantically through the phone.
"Roland! Don't let him hurt me, please!" she pleaded with him, her voice dissolving into sobs.
"Yes, please don't let me hurt her, Roland," Sands' voice came back through the line. "Roland? Roland Rivers? What the hell kind of name is that?" he asked mockingly.
"You're not one to talk, Sheldon," Roland seethed. "Let Marta go. She's not a part of this. Just let her go, and we can meet to talk."
"Say goodbye to Marta, Agent Rivers," Sands said, his voice cold and unfeeling across the line. "Oops." A gun shot blasted through the phone and Roland winced at the noise. "Too late," he said in a flat tone of voice. "Be seeing you, Agent Rivers." With that, Sands hung up the phone.
The dial tone blazed like a klaxon in Roland's ears, but he made no motion to hang up the phone. He made no motions at all. Then, as if someone had remembered to turn on the 'ON' switch, he suddenly came to life, chucking his phone across the room and screaming at the top of his lungs in his rage.
***
Sands raised one hand to rub at his ear while putting the gun back in its place with the other. "Note to self, shooting someone in an enclosed space is not a good idea," he muttered.
'I could have told you that, idiot,' Jeffrey said.
"Oh really? How? Have you shot someone in close proximity before? No, I don't think so. So kindly shut the fuck up," Sands grumbled before carefully stepping over Marta's body, careful not to get blood on his black leather boots.
Jeffrey grumbled that he had killed someone in close proximity before, but it was under his breath and Sands paid him no mind. He had other things to worry about, like getting the hell out of an obvious murder scene before the cops showed up. But he wasn't worried. He pulled on the black stocking cap he had taken off of Marta before killing her, wouldn't want to get blood on it, and had found a hair tie in her purse with which he pulled his shoulder-length hair back securely. Combined with the glasses, he blended in quite effectively with the crowds, even though being dressed completely in black from head to toe in all likelihood should have brought him more attention. People seemed to unconsciously avoid him, which made him smile.
'You need to get a new gun,' Jeffrey commented suddenly, startling Sands for a moment. 'Find somewhere safe to ditch this one and find a new gun. The .22's nice and easy to conceal, but come on, it lacks a certain presence, you know what I mean? And a silencer wouldn't be a bad idea either,' Jeffrey said, sounding thoughtful. 'And take care of your goddamned hand, for Christ' sake. You're dripping blood all over the place.'
Sands looked down at his mangled right hand for the first time since leaving the tourist shop. It was indeed a mess, shiny bits of reflective glass glinting at him viciously in the sunlight among a sea of bloody red. "Fuck," he muttered at the sight.
'See? I fucking told you. You'd lose your fucking head if I wasn't around to tell you to pull it out of your ass, Sheldon,' Jeffrey said scathingly.
"Don't call me Sheldon, you bastard," Sands said, not really paying attention to what he was saying, simply speaking in response. His attention was still drawn on his hand. He hadn't even noticed it was hurt. But God almighty, it hurt like a motherfucker now. Perhaps he should go to a hospital?
'Too risky. Hospitals keep records. And I'm sure there are quite a few people out there looking for us. The cops don't like it when you go around killing people, I suppose,' Jeffrey said with a laugh.
"Yeah, I suppose," Sands muttered. He had to get some bandages at least, and clean out all of pieces of broken mirror before they got infected.
'Go into a fucking drugstore if you're going to be a wuss about it. There's one a few blocks over. But then, we need to get a new gun. You understand me, fuckmook?'
"Yeah, yeah. I understand," Sands muttered before making his way down the street, smirking at the shocked sounds and screams behind him as people began to discover his work.
TBC
A/N: Well, this chapter was fun. At least, I had fun anyway. I hope you did too. Sands and Jeffrey are fun to write, and Roland is turning out to be a good nemesis. Well, at least I think he is anyway. SJ certainly is slipping, isn't he? Two dead bodies in one chapter. Tsk Tsk. :-) Anyway, please send me your reviews!! They are greatly appreciated!!!