Chapter 3
The Enemy of My Enemy is my Friend
Disclaimer: Robert Rodriguez owns them. I am not Robert Rodriguez. Therefore, I do not own them.
Since the botched coup, Sands had done a lot of things that would have been inconceivable in his previous life. Some were things he had never imagined. Others were things he had occasionally thought about, but under very different circumstances. Circumstances that involved him still possessing both eyes, for instance. Nonetheless, he felt he had reached a point where nothing could surprise him anymore.
So it was something of a surprise, albeit a mild one, to find himself in this place. Shoulder to shoulder with El Mariachi. Planning to take out the bad guys. Together. It sort of defied belief, if you could dig it.
Sands could dig it.
It had been a long three years. At various points in the past he had thought he had finally reached the end of the line, but he had always found a way to keep going, to survive, to stay in the game and play one more hand. He had fought and clawed his way up from the darkness to get where he was today. Of course he was still standing. He wouldn't have it any other way. No one manipulated him and got away with it. He was the one pulling the strings and calling the shots. That was how it worked. That was why he here tonight, sitting in the backseat of a smelly Chevy with his gun pointed at El Mariachi's head.
The car was just coasting forward now. He could hear El's tense breathing, and a faint rattle from the handcuffs as the mariachi shifted position.
Sands was not impressed. Had he truly meant El harm, the mariachi would have been dead a hundred times over by now. For someone who had half of Mexico hunting for him, El was not a very smart guy. First he had let Cucuy find him all those years ago, and now he had let Sands practically abduct him from the cantina. He just hoped El was still good with a gun, or things were about to get very interesting.
The car came to a halt. Chiclet rolled down the window. Humid night air crept in, battling the Chevy's ancient air conditioning. A voice asked if this was the mariachi.
"No," Sands said in flawless Spanish. "It's just some guy I picked up at the cantina so I could have a random fuck."
El's breath whooshed out in an indignant huff.
The lookout grunted. "Go on. They're waiting for you."
"Good." Sands permitted himself a faint smile.
Chiclet rolled up the window, and the car started forward again. On his left, El remembered to breathe again.
It was a shame El spoke such good English. He would have liked to ask Chiclet how the mariachi looked. He wanted to know how scared El was. He wanted to know how the last three years had treated El. He wanted to know if El seemed like a man who was ready to die, or if El too was willing to do whatever was required to stay alive and on his feet.
Oh well. Some other time. And at any rate, he would find out soon enough just how far El was willing to go in order to survive.
The drop-off point was nothing special. He had arranged it all by phone two days ago. Early this morning he and Chiclet had driven out here and scoped the place out. Or rather, Chiclet had done all the scoping, while Sands had listened hard and laid his plans. The land here was flat in all directions, and covered with the scrub brush that Sands swore was Mexico's official plant. There were no buildings other than the ramshackle remnants of what might have once been a house. A rusting water pump stood near the road; he had run his hands over it this morning for a good long time before deciding it would not provide any cover for a man seeking shelter from flying bullets.
In other words, the drop-off point was a perfect killing ground. Just what he had wanted.
The car began to slow down again. Sands faced forward, his head slightly cocked, the better to hear what El was up to. He had long ago come to terms with his blindness, but at times – like right now, for instance – he would have sold his soul for even five seconds of sight. "For the benefit of our dear mariachi friend, tell him what you see, Chiclet."
Chiclet cleared his throat. The kid had been with him ever since the day it had all begun (or ended, depending on how you looked at things). Sands knew damn well why the kid had left his home and attached himself to a cold-blooded killer. He had never asked, and Chiclet had never volunteered the information, but he knew the truth anyway. That was why they got along so well. Chiclet always knew when to speak up and give him the appropriate info for their situation, But he also understood the value of silence, and when to shut the hell up. More than that, the kid had proven to be a good shot, and most importantly, a natural thief and spy. They worked well together, and Sands knew he owed his life to the kid. That was okay. He didn't mind being beholden a to kid. Not when that kid was Chiclet.
"Five men," Chiclet said now. Quickly he described their positions, fanned out in a semi-circle that effectively blocked the road. Sands nodded to himself. Everything was just the way he had arranged it. "All armed. Two Jeeps. Their lights are on," he added helpfully. Not that it mattered to Sands, but El would be glad to hear it.
Sands frowned. Only five men. That was what he had told them, of course, but that would not stop them from doing things their own way. He would bet good money there was at least one other man out there, either hiding in the ruins of the house or lurking behind it.
"There is a wooden house to the left, off the road. The roof has fallen in and the wood is rotting. There's a water pump in the yard." Chiclet's tone was flat. Unless things went terribly wrong, his guns would not be needed tonight, but from the sound of his voice, he was ready all the same. Sands approved.
"There is probably another man in the house," El said. He shifted on the seat, the handcuffs jingling in harmony with the chains on his jacket. "Maybe more."
At last, a sign of intelligence from the mariachi. Things were looking up.
"I only see five," Chiclet said.
"Four men to a Jeep," said El. "There should be eight of them."
"No," Sands said. "Three men to a Jeep. Chiclet and I ride in one, you ride in one." He smirked, knowing El could not see him, but not caring. "Remember, they think I'm with them."
"So only one man is hiding," El said. The handcuffs about his wrists rattled again. Sands thought about mocking his nervousness, then decided it was better not to. He didn't want the mariachi falling to pieces before the fun even began. He could do this on his own, but he preferred not to. The payoff would be so much greater if El believed they were truly allies fighting the same battle.
The car stopped. Chiclet turned off the engine. "Show time," Sands whispered.
He got out of the car, cursing under his breath when he missed the door handle the first time. He stepped out, grinning widely. "Señores! As promised, I have brought you El Mariachi."
The five men – who were not cartel, by the way, but he was not about to tell El that – did not speak. Sands walked around the back of the car, trailing his fingers over the metal to guide his way. At times like this, he almost did not miss his eyes. He did not need sight to kill. Adrenaline and something else, something sweetly sinister, sang in his veins. He clamped down on a ridiculous urge to giggle.
He reached the driver's side passenger door and opened it. He reached in and grabbed El's upper arm. "Get up," he said harshly, and yanked the mariachi out of the car.
El came willingly enough, stumbling a little as his feet hit the ground. It was a sweet moment, and he savored it, taking vicious satisfaction in knowing that someone else shared his blindness, even if it was only temporary. He pulled El two steps to the left, keeping the mariachi off balance. But only two steps. That put enough distance between himself and the car so that everyone could see his prisoner, but also kept him close enough that a single dive would bring him within the vehicle's comforting shelter.
If everyone had done what they were supposed to, there was now one man standing directly in front of him, approximately ten feet away. One man would be ahead and to his left. The others were all on his right. And Manuel would be in the middle, as befitted his rank. Sands addressed his words to him now. "Here he is. The little mariachi that has caused you so much trouble." He gave El's arm a hard shake. El tensed, but said nothing.
"He escaped the bomb," said Manuel. His voice came from the exact spot Sands had guessed it would, and the anticipation building within him cranked up another notch. The urge to laugh was very strong now. So far, everything was going perfectly according to his plan.
"I told you he would," Sands said. "Why do you think I insisted on being there? The man can smell a trap a mile away." He turned toward El. "Too bad you couldn't smell me, hey El?"
El cursed and twisted in his grip, trying to pull free. Sands did not let him. Not yet.
"Take off the blindfold. I want to see his face," said Manuel.
Sands bit the inside of his cheek to keep from braying with laughter. It was just too easy! He had not scripted this encounter, because he had known he would not need to. They all thought they were so clever, and the whole time, they were doing exactly what he wanted them to do.
He reached for El's face. El flinched away from his touch, and Sands bit down harder, his shoulders hitching with suppressed laughter. He wrapped his fingers around the blindfold. "Now," he breathed.
El twitched. Sands tugged off the blindfold.
And El sprang into action.
The mariachi's hand scrabbled at his belt, then yanked the pistol free. An instant later, El's bulk hit him solidly in the side, sending him reeling to his left. Metal jingled as the handcuffs fell to the ground. Sands stumbled and fell to one knee. "Shit!" he yelled in fury. It was no act. El's little bumper-car move had thrown him off balance and now he longer knew what direction he was facing, or how far he had gone from the car.
Manuel's men yelled out in alarm. The first shots were fired. They did not, Sands noted distractedly, come from El Mariachi.
He stayed down low, pulling a gun with his free hand. On his right, El finally joined the fight. The sound of gunshots was almost deafening at this close range, but Sands had already heard what he needed to hear. He knew where the enemy was now.
Bullets whined into the dust. So far Manuel and his men didn't suspect a thing. If any of them wondered why he did not shoot El, they did not say anything. He heard a body thump into the car and guessed that was El seeking shelter.
Holding both guns, Sands stood up. Calmly he began to fire. A body dropped into the dirt. Another man cried out in pain. And now that it was too late, they started to realize what was happening.
"Kill him!" one of them shouted.
Sands ducked and threw himself toward the car. Time to hide. He was a target now.
Bullets plowed into the car. Glass shattered. Shouts of confusion and anger rose over the gunfire. "Cabron!" screamed Manuel. "You think you can betray me?"
"Well, yeah," Sands said, and finally let himself laugh. There was no way he could hold back any longer.
"You are crazy," El panted. The mariachi was on his right, breathing heavily.
"I know," Sands laughed. "Come on, El, let's finish this."
Two minutes later it was done. All five men were dead. The smell of gunpowder was powerful. Sands stood very still, his head cocked, listening hard.
"There is still a man in the house," El muttered.
"Get him," Sands said. "Chiclet and I will cover you."
El was silent for a while, no doubt giving him an ugly glare. He said nothing, an innocent expression on his face. At last, still muttering, El walked off. The jingling chains on his jacket and pants betrayed his every move. Sands liked that. It was easier to keep track of someone when they made a lot of noise.
A minute later, a single gunshot rang out. "He did it," Chiclet said. The kid sounded relieved. He had not participated in tonight's slaughter, which was just as well. Chiclet was a good shot, but he had too much conscience.
"Are you hurt?" Sands asked. He had heard the windshield of the car shatter under the gunfire, but there had been no time to wonder if the kid was all right.
"No," Chiclet said. "Are you?"
As always, the genuine concern in the boy's voice made something constrict in Sands' chest. It was something of a miracle, he thought, that after everything, Chiclet could still care what happened to him. "I'm fine," he said. There had been a few close calls tonight, but then, there always were.
"Garcia is going to be pissed," Chiclet said. He tried to make it sound as though this didn't bother him much, but Sands knew better.
It wasn't often that Chiclet contradicted him, but on the way to the cantina earlier this evening, the kid had expressed grave reservations about this plan. It was too dangerous, Chiclet had said. Was all this really necessary?
Sands had made no reply. Part of him had seethed with fury at Chiclet's ignorance. Another part of him had felt bitterly resentful that a thirteen-year old kid could question him and get away with it. Still another part of him had merely wondered the same thing as Chiclet, if such an elaborate charade was really needed. Just why, exactly, was he doing all this?
He still had no answer to Chiclet's question, but by now it was a moot point. Manuel and his men were dead, and the gauntlet had been thrown. The ball was no longer in his court.
"Garcia is going to be muy pissed," Sands said. He clapped Chiclet on the shoulder. "Now go fetch our mariachi friend."
Obediently, Chiclet trotted off. Sands did not holster his guns. Not yet. El might decide that he did not want to go back to being a prisoner.
It seemed to take a long time for them to return. Sands remained where he was, the ticking of the cooling engine on his right. Ahead, a man was groaning, but the sound was faint and thready; death was not far off. Sands thought about shooting him, but he did not know what was happening between El and Chiclet. If there was some kind of standoff, he did not want to startle them with a gunshot, and take away any advantage Chiclet might have.
He felt the thrill of a job well done. Three years of following someone else's orders had come to a bloody end tonight. After this, everything would be different. Tonight he had sent them a message. He was through with playing by the rules. Creative sportsmanship had finally returned to Mexico. From now on, he was going to do things his own way.
The groaning man finally died. Sands grinned a quick, hard grin.
He heard the sound of their footsteps returning, one light set and one heavier set punctuated by jingling chains. "He does not want to come with us," Chiclet said.
No surprises there. "Oh, really?" He aimed his words at that ridiculous jingle. "You seem to be laboring under the delusion that you have a choice, El."
The cold click of a gun being cocked was his only response.
Having El's pistol pointed at his head did not perturb Sands in the slightest. "Let me keep this simple," he said. "The men we killed tonight? They're pretty low-ranking, but someone is going to notice that they're dead. And then that someone will send more men after us. Now I'm sure you think you can make it on your own, but before you get to thinking too hard, may I remind you that not only did I find you, but they did, too." He lowered his voice. "And if they found you once, they can find you again."
"You have made powerful enemies tonight," El admitted. "But they are not my enemies. I want no part of this."
"They've been your enemies ever since they killed the woman you love," Sands said sweetly. "Or do you mean to tell me that you've forgotten all about your little Domino?"
El's breath stopped. Sands tensed, ready to dive into the dirt at a word from Chiclet. But apparently the mariachi must have held onto his self-control, because Chiclet didn't say anything. In the little mental filing cabinet he kept on everyone he had ever met, Sands filed away the card marked "Domino" and shut the drawer. That was all right. He had plenty of other ways to push El's buttons.
"I have not forgotten," El said. "I remember. . .everything."
"Then you know why I can't let you go," Sands said. "We're in this together now, El. Like it or not."
"Why?" El demanded. "Why did you drag me into your schemes? Why can't you just leave me alone?"
Sands shook his head, wishing he still had eyes so he could roll them. The great El Mariachi really could be such a whiner sometimes. "If I hadn't dragged you into this, as you put it, you'd be a crispy critter in that cantina right about now. Besides, you still want vengeance, don't you? I know your type, El. You can never be satisfied. You always want more."
"You are wrong," El said. "I am not that man anymore."
Sands shrugged, and holstered away his guns. "Whatever." He was fast losing interest in this conversation, and besides, he didn't have time for philosophical debates. "Just get in the car. We're going."
"Where?" El asked suspiciously.
"Guadalajara for starters," Sands said. "I have a hotel room there. Tomorrow morning we can make plans."
"Tomorrow morning I will be gone," El said. He stalked toward the car, every footfall, even every stupid jingle of his chains, managing to sound offended.
Aloud, Sands did not reply. To himself, he murmured, "No, you won't."
Chiclet walked up to him. "I don't trust him," the kid said in a low voice.
"Neither do I," Sands said. "But sometimes you have to choose the devil you know." He gave Chiclet a smile meant to be encouraging. "Vamonos."
A car door opened. El Mariachi got in and then slammed the door shut. Another door opened, and there came the sounds of Chiclet sweeping broken glass off the seat. The night was cooling off, and the smells of blood and gunpowder were thinning out. Sands walked around the car so he could join Chiclet up front. He was still smiling.
Author's Note: I'll be out of town this weekend, so responses on LJ and to reviews will be delayed, but as always, I will get back to you if you write me. Thanks again to everyone who has reviewed, and to Melody my wonderful beta reader.