Chapter 2
The Plan is Revealed
Disclaimer: Everyone belongs to Robert Rodriguez. I'm only playing with them again.
Author's Note: Thanks so much to everyone who wrote and reviewed this story. I had hoped that you all would like it, and the reactions I've received have left me thrilled and amazed. I hope the continuing story doesn't disappoint.
El knew within seconds that he had made a fatal mistake. He should never have agreed to go with Sands. Years of being cautious were wasted. It was all over. The only question now was whether it would be a bullet in the head or several in the chest.
The parking lot behind the cantina was small, and for employees only. Two big green dumpsters stood at the end of the lot, and behind them was a tall wooden privacy fence. At this hour all the spaces were taken, but there was no one standing out here, no one to bear witness to El's murder. The people who owned these cars were currently inside the cantina, serving drinks and washing dishes and completely unaware that a man was about to be shot to death.
A strange car was parked in front of the dumpsters. It looked like a beat-up Chevy. The engine was running, and the headlights were pointed at the back door, bathing El in their cold glare. He squinted at the car, but could not tell how many men were inside. At least two, he guessed. Possibly more.
He tried to stall for time. It was Saturday night, after all. Surely someone would walk out the back door soon. If he could just postpone the final moment, he might make it out of this alive.
"What is it that you want?"
Sands sighed. The gun remained pointed at his head. "I know we have a lot to catch up on, but now is really not the time, El. Just give me your gun, and get in the car."
The pistol was still covered by his jacket, but there was no point in denying that he was armed. That would only piss Sands off. "You did not answer my question."
"I could answer it with a bullet." Sands made a clipped gesture with the gun. Under the wash of the headlights, the sunglasses neatly divided his face into two separate planes of black and white.
The driver's side door of the Chevy opened. El raised his hands, wincing in anticipation of the barrage of bullets sure to come his way.
A figure stepped out of the car. Not a tall one. Again, he breathed a tiny bit easier to realize it was not Cucuy. This man was actually fairly short, and slender. He held a gun in both hands as he walked slowly around the car, keeping El in his sights at all times.
And then El blinked in shock. Because the new gunman was not a man at all. He was just a boy.
He guessed the boy's age at somewhere around thirteen or fourteen. Tall for his age but still not a man's size. Steady hands. And clearly taking orders from Sands.
The CIA officer smirked at El's shock. "Now be a good mariachi and give Chiclet here your gun."
Chiclet? El stared at the boy, his mind whirling with questions. Who was he? Why was he traveling with Sands? Why was he so comfortable with a gun?
"Do it, señor," said the boy named Chiclet. His voice matched his frame, on the cusp of manhood. "No one has to get hurt."
"Well, not El, anyway," Sands amended. The boy grimaced, then nodded in agreement.
The whole thing had taken on a vaguely surreal note. El looked back and forth from the boy to where Sands stood stock still, his gun still aimed at El's forehead. "I don't believe this."
"You can assess your sanity later," Sands snapped. "Get in the car." When El did not move, he fired a single shot.
Instinctively El ducked, but even as he did, he realized the bullet would have missed him. Sands had aimed over his shoulder.
"I could herd you," Sands said, "but you are fast wearing out my patience, El."
The next shot would not miss. Keeping one hand up, El reached for his weapon. No one from the cantina had come running at the sound of the pistol shot, which he had expected, but it was still disappointing. After everything he had done for these people, it would have been nice for at least one of them to return the favor.
He pulled the gun from his belt and had just begun to hold it out when he let his gaze shift beyond Sands, to the driveway leading from the parking lot. He froze. "Who is back there? Who is with you?"
The boy startled and glanced behind him. Sands, however, did not so much as flinch. The gun in his hands never wavered, although he did cock his head slightly. "Chiclet?"
"No one is there," the boy said. "He is lying."
The corner of Sands' mouth quirked. "Nice try, El."
Conceding defeat, El tossed his gun onto the asphalt. His attempt at distraction had failed. Now he was unarmed, with only his wits to get him out of this mess.
He slouched toward the car, his hands still in the air. The boy backed away as he approached, but kept the gun trained on him. Sands remained where he was, only the muzzle of the gun following El's progress.
There was something strange about this whole affair. Sands could have easily killed him a hundred times by now. Yet Sands and this boy Chiclet were taking great pains to get El to play along with some secret plan they had concocted. He had no idea what that plan might be, but whatever it was, they obviously needed him alive. He seized on this thought. It was his only hope. "Whoever is paying you--" he started.
Sands did not let him finish. "Just get in the fucking car, El." He strode forward, moving to the other side of the car so he could get in the passenger side.
Knowing what was expected of him, El stepped up to the driver's side. He opened the back door. "Are you at least going to tell me where we are going?"
Sands opened his mouth to respond, but the boy interrupted. "It's almost ten o'clock!" he yelled.
For the first time all evening, some of Sands' unnatural composure left him. He visibly flinched. "Get in the car," he ordered. "Now."
El reacted without thinking. He threw himself into the seat. On the other side of the car, Sands did the same, slamming his door shut at the same time as El.
But the boy, the boy who looked vaguely familiar to El's baffled eyes, did not get in the car. The boy ran toward the cantina, stopping only long enough to scoop up the gun El had dropped. He flung open the back door and then disappeared inside the cantina.
"What is this?" El muttered.
Beside him, Sands sat very still and very tense. "Maybe he placed an order to go."
El turned to stare at him. The interior of the car was shadowed and stuffy. He could barely make out the beads of sweat on Sands' forehead.
The cantina door opened again. The boy came running out. Before he had made it halfway across the parking lot, several people had emerged behind him. They were shouting and gesturing wildly, and every single one of them looked terrified.
"Oh my God," El breathed.
"Move your ass, Chiclet!" Sands shouted.
The boy ran hell for leather toward the car. He slid in behind the wheel and gunned the engine. He reached for the car door and pulled it toward him, but not hard enough, and it flapped open again as he tromped on the accelerator.
"Get down!" Sands slid down in the seat until he was almost lying on his back, his legs pressed against the upholstered back of the passenger seat. His right arm remained across his chest, his gun still pointed at El's head.
Utterly confused but determined to stay alive, El did as he was told.
The car shot forward. From his vantage point on his back, El could not see the fear on the faces of the people fleeing the cantina. But he could hear it in their screams, and he shivered. To the right of the dashboard, a small clock said that it was 9:59.
The boy had to have the seat pulled forward, but he was one hell of a driver. He guided the Chevy down the driveway that paralleled the cantina, and out into the front parking lot. El eased himself up just enough to peek over the edge of the window. Out here the chaos was greater. People were getting into their cars and backing away so quickly that one woman was nearly run over. Others ran for the street, while still more poured from the gaping front doors of the building.
"Madre de Dios," El breathed. "What is happening?"
The boy yanked on the steering wheel. He finally heaved his door closed, and the Chevy just missed running down a woman wearing a low-cut black dress. Then they were on the street itself, leaving the cantina behind.
"Isn't it obvious?" Sands said. "We're saving your life."
El twisted around in his seat. Through the back window, he watched as the cantina exploded in a ball of fire.
For several miles El could not think at all. He kept trying to understand what had happened, but it was all too confusing.
Sands had saved his life. Sands was keeping company with a thirteen-year old boy. Sands was very clearly insane.
But Sands had not only saved his life, he had allowed the boy to save as many as possible from within the cantina. And by ordering El to drop below sight, no one could say for sure that he had not died in the blast intended to kill him.
That was one thing he was sure of. The bomb in the cantina had been meant for him. At some point the cartels had discovered his location. No doubt he had sung to a few of them as they sat at their tables and drank their beers and pretended to be regular customers. After a few visits had proved his identity to their satisfaction, they had decided to take action. One of them – perhaps the new dishwasher who had mysteriously quit this morning – had planted the bomb. And then they had sat back and waited for El Mariachi to die.
He looked behind him again. There was nothing to see except a pale smear of red light on the far horizon. Soon even that would be gone.
He turned around, exhaling hard. So many explosions in his life. And for what? None of them had ever meant anything. None of them, save for one.
The bookstore in Santa Cecilia. The explosion that had changed his life. He remembered saying, I wasn't always like this, and Carolina had said, I can see that. And she had meant it. She had come between him and the darkness. She had taken his hand and led him out from that place of shadows, where the only light came from muzzle-flashes and explosions.
But Carolina was gone. Their beautiful daughter was gone. Again there was nothing to stand between him and the darkness. He had nothing left. He did not believe in God anymore. He had his music, but it provided him little comfort. The old injury to his left hand had healed enough to allow him to play the guitar again, but not as he once had. That was why he only played two nights a week. He simply could not manage anything more.
Which left him with very little. With a thrill of horror, El realized it would be incredibly easy to slip back into the old ways. All he had to do now was . . .
"Stop!" he yelled. He pounded on the window. "Stop! Stop the car!"
The boy named Chiclet glanced in the rearview mirror, but did not let up on the accelerator. It could not have been clearer that he took orders only from Sands, and that El was wasting his time.
All right, then.
He lunged to his right. A split-second later, the muzzle of a gun was shoved against his cheek. "By all means," Sands said softly.
Hissing with fury, El sat up straight again. "We have to go back."
"You really don't get it, do you?" Sands shook his head. "We have to get as far as possible from that place." His voice was light again. He put a slight stress on the word we, managing to make it sound extremely distasteful, as if he wanted to distance himself from El as much as he could while sitting not a foot away from him.
"But those people," El stammered.
"Are probably all standing in line in the parking lot, waiting to be interviewed by the reporter for the eleven o'clock news," said Sands.
El stared at him. The sunglasses Sands wore were a little too big, and a little too cheap. He hated them, and he hated the man wearing them. A sudden thirst for violence seized him, making him want to rip those glasses off and punch Sands in the nose until blood spattered them both.
He clenched his hands into fists and kept them securely on his lap. "Why did you do this?"
"It's all about keeping the balance, El." Now Sands sounded bored, like he had been asked that question so many times he no longer cared to answer.
The boy flashed his turn signal and turned left onto a narrow road. They were headed north, El saw, toward Guadalajara. "Where are we going?"
"Oh," Sands said. "I almost forgot. These are for you." He transferred the gun from his right hand to his left, and rummaged in the pouch of the seat in front of him. He drew out two items. In the darkness, El could only tell that one was metal and one was not.
"What is it?" El asked.
Sands sighed impatiently. "Chiclet."
The boy glanced in the rearview mirror again. His face was tight with tension, but again El had a nagging feeling that he should recognize him.
The interior light switched on. Immediately the headlights dimmed, revealing the poor wiring in the car. The light inside was not very strong either, but it was enough. El looked down at what Sands was offering him, and recoiled.
"No," he said.
"El," Sands said warningly. He waved the objects, making one flutter and the other give a metallic rattle. "You're really not in any position to bargain."
Quickly he weighed his options. He could attack Sands, and risk getting shot or killed. There was a possibility that the boy would be shot in the ensuing scuffle, and the car would crash. The resulting chaos of a crash would provide the perfect cover for an escape, but El was reluctant to injure the boy. Even if he was partners with Sands, the boy was still just that – a boy.
He eyed the handcuffs. "I thought you were saving my life, not ending it."
Sands dropped the handcuffs onto the seat. The blindfold drifted down to cover one of the metal loops. "You're being awfully short-sighted here."
"How is that?" El asked, injecting as much sarcasm as he could into his voice.
"Well, you see, up ahead there are some bad guys. In fact, they're waiting for us. They think I'm working with them to find you and bring you in."
Dark rage swelled within him. The line he did not want to cross again loomed dangerously near. Just one step, and he would forever live on the other side, in the darkness. He gripped his shaking fists, struggling not to give in to his anger. "I knew it, you bastard. As if you would ever save my life."
"El, El, El. You're still not seeing the big picture." Sands acted as though he did not even see El's fury. In that same maddeningly calm voice he said, "The fine gentlemen I just mentioned only think I am working with them. How else could I get them to tell me their plan? How else would I have known about the bomb in the cantina?"
El had no response to this. Sands was CIA. There was no limit to the man's capacity for manipulation. He did not believe a single word Sands told him.
But one fact remained inescapable. Sands had saved his life at the cantina.
"They're the bad guys, El." Sands made a short gesture with his gun and grinned. "And I'm going to take them out. With your help, of course."
A flood of astonishment washed his anger away. Sands wanted his help? And then an instant later he felt stupidly embarrassed. Of course Sands wanted his help. This was Culiacan all over again. And that is what I would like from you. To help me keep the balance by pulling the trigger. Sands only wanted to use him. When he no longer served Sands' purpose, he would die.
Still, it was a chance. As long as he pretended to go along with it, he would stay alive. And the longer he stayed alive, the sooner he would find his chance to escape.
So he made a face like he was mulling it over, paying attention to their surroundings as Chiclet made a series of turns onto progressively dustier roads. "Who are they, these bad men?"
"Cartel, of course. But then, you already knew that, didn't you?" said Sands.
He snorted in derision. Of course they were cartel. Who else would it be? His battle with them would never be over. He had told his American friend once that it would all end with Bucho's death, but nothing could be farther from the truth. Killing his brother had only kept the wheel turning.
"I don't trust you," he said.
"Chiclet will give you your gun back when we get closer," Sands said. "But we won't even get past the lookout if you aren't wearing that blindfold and those cuffs. Now put them on." The casual lilt was gone from his voice. He sounded like a killer now.
El glared at him, wishing once more that he would take off those stupid sunglasses. He didn't like not being able to look his enemy in the eye. "What do you get out of this?"
"Dough, of course."
Naturally. With extreme reluctance, El reached for the handcuffs. He slipped one metal loop about his left wrist and tried to close it.
Unsure whether he should laugh or throw the stupid things at Sands, he said, "These are broken."
"Yes, I am aware of that," Sands said with exaggerated patience.
El frowned. The end of the cuff was crumpled, and would not fit into the slot designed for it. Neither shackle would close. But if he turned them on his wrists and held his arms against his body, the gap in the loops would not be visible. Anyone looking at him would think he was securely bound.
This was for real, he suddenly understood. Sands was indeed planning to take out the men waiting ahead. And he truly did need El's help to do it.
It was somewhat humbling to realize that so far Sands had been a man of his word.
El picked up the blindfold, noting the way the handcuffs slid up and down his wrists as he moved his hands. He tied the black strip of cloth about his forehead, leaving it there so he could pull it down when they drew nearer to the point of confrontation. "You have more guns?"
"Always," Sands said.
El nodded. "What happens after we are done here?"
"That depends. You're assuming there's going to be an after."
"What happens?"
"We'll talk about it then."
"No," El said firmly. "We talk about it now."
"There is no time," said the boy named Chiclet. He had watched this exchange in the rearview mirror. "We're almost there."
"Oh, good," Sands said brightly.
The boy brought the car to a halt. He opened the glove compartment and brought out a complicated tangle of leather straps and guns and boxes of ammo. El felt his spirits grimly lighten at the sight of all the weaponry.
The leather turned out to be a pair of shoulder holsters. Sands put these on with practiced ease, arming himself with quick, efficient movements. El watched carefully, looking for any signs that Sands was nervous or in unfamiliar territory. To his chagrin, he was forced to admit that the likelihood of ever taking Sands by surprise was slim to none. The man was just too prepared, too capable.
The boy held out one last gun, turning in his seat to offer it to El. "This is yours, señor."
El took back his pistol, relieved to feel its weight again. Only a few minutes ago he would have used it to shoot Sands without hesitation, but now he made himself sit still. The time would come. But not yet.
"Not yet," Sands said. He held out his hand. "I'll take that."
"You said--"
"Here's the plan, El. When we get there, you're going to stay put. I'm going to get out of the car, walk around to your side, open the door, and pull you out. There'll be some talk. I'll probably shake you a little, maybe even smack you upside the head, depending on how I feel." Sands gave him a quick grin. "Then you spring at me, pulling your gun from my belt. I shout, 'Oh no, he's loose!' and then you and I kill all the bad guys. Savvy?"
El savvied. He handed his gun over. "Don't hit me," he warned.
Sands did not move. He just sat here, holding his hand out. "You're not writing this script, El. Got it?"
El stared at him. Behind those dark sunglasses, he could almost feel the weight of Sands' stare burning into him. He slapped his pistol into Sands' waiting palm.
With a shaky sigh, the boy began driving forward again. El rotated the handcuffs so their charade was hidden. "And the boy?"
"The boy knows what to do," said Sands. "Don't worry about him."
There were lights in the darkness up ahead. The lookout, Sands had said. It was time. Steeling himself, he reached up and pulled the blindfold down over his eyes.
Absolute darkness dropped over him. In instinctive panic, he turned his head from side to side, seeking light, needing to see something, anything. His breath came in short pants.
"Sucks to be blind, doesn't it?" Sands said. There was a curious tightness to the words.
"How much further?" he asked. Talking helped to ease his fear. It reminded him that he was not alone and lost in the dark. He was with someone, even if that someone was a man he hated.
"Almost there," said the boy named Chiclet. And suddenly, without sight to interfere, El remembered him. He had seen the boy in Culiacan, when he had walked through the town before the coup. The boy had been riding a bicycle, selling bubble gum to tourists. He had been wearing a yellow T-shirt then, reminding him poignantly of another boy in a yellow T-shirt, in Santa Cecilia.
"All right, El." Sands' voice interrupted his reverie. "It's show time. Think you can remember your lines?"