Chapter 8
The Charge of the Light Brigade
Disclaimer: Nope, still not mine. I'm making no profit off this story.
Author's Note Part 1: I live in an area of Florida that is forecast to be hit by Hurricane Wilma this weekend. I will try my best to keep updating this story in a timely manner, but if I suddenly drop off the face of the earth, you'll all know why.
Author's Note Part 2: Lately I've been feeling pretty insecure about my writing, and I wanted to say an enormous thank you to everyone who wrote to me and offered encouragement. You guys are the best. Thank you so much.
And now on with the story.
Flustered and unsure what to do next, El drove them to a shopping mall. When Chiclet realized where they were, he gave El a "you're-absolutely-crazy" look, but at least he got out of the car.
For an hour they walked through the mall, stopping occasionally to wander through a store chosen at random. El glanced over his shoulder often, his hand hovering over the gun hidden under his jacket, but he saw no one following them. The mall's security guards seemed perfectly ignorant and lazy, not out on the lookout for two escaped criminals.
Eventually he decided they were safe enough. He led Chiclet to the food court and they sat at an empty table. It was Friday afternoon, and at this hour of the day the mall was as empty as it ever was. There were a few old people, a pair of slouching teenage boys who should have been in school, and some American tourists looking around and pointing at everything. Earlier El had seen a few people who looked as though they were taking a late lunch hour from the office to do some shopping, but they were gone by now. For the time being, the food court was a perfect sanctuary.
"What do you want to eat?" he asked.
Chiclet gave him an angry glare, clearly disgusted that El could even be thinking about food at a time like this. Undeterred, El left the table and walked over to the nearest vendor. He bought two slices of wilted pizza and two cups that had more ice than Coke in them, then returned to the uncomfortable plastic chair he had claimed for himself.
The pizza was rubbery and half-cold. El ate it anyway. "You should eat something," he said.
Chiclet gave him another disdainful glare, then resumed staring into space. El was not too familiar with teenage boys, but he remembered being one himself, and he knew he had never passed up an opportunity to eat. Obviously Chiclet was feeling rather upset right now. And while he had no sympathy for Sands, he did feel bad for the boy.
Besides, here was his chance to get Chiclet on his side.
He cleared his throat. "There was nothing you could have done."
The boy's jaw tightened mutinously, but he did not reply. He was intelligent; he had to know that if he had stepped out of the car and tried to stop the cartel from kidnapping Sands, he would only have made himself a target.
And perhaps, El thought, that was why Chiclet was so upset. The boy was feeling guilty that he had not done more to save his friend. He shook his head. He supposed he would never understand why Chiclet was so attached to Sands. In fact, he wasn't even sure he wanted to understand it. Some mysteries were best left unsolved.
"Will they come after you next?" he asked. Chiclet was only a boy, but from the cartel's point of view, he was guilty through association.
"No," Chiclet said dully. "I don't know."
"What will they do now?" El asked. He felt a little strange asking a thirteen-year old boy for guidance, but Chiclet was the only source of information he had now.
"I don't know," Chiclet said again. He stared at the floor.
"If they know about you," El said, "they will expect you to run. They may be looking for you. We should lie low for a while."
"Another cheap motel?" Chiclet asked softly. The barest suggestion of a sneer overlaid the words.
"Unless you know someplace else we could go," El said. He felt sorry for the boy. No doubt Chiclet had been on the run for years. He wondered if the boy had seen his family at all since leaving Culiacán.
"No." Chiclet sighed and stood up. His food was still untouched. "Let's go."
They used the last of Sands' cash to get a room in a hotel on the northern side of the city and buy a dinner that neither of them ate. Chiclet paced the worn carpet, his hands socked together in the small of his back. Watching him, El was filled with his own nervous energy, so when the boy suddenly turned on him, he was nearly startled out of his own skin.
"We have to save him," Chiclet said.
El took a deep, calming breath. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, trying not to sink into the mattress. He suddenly felt like a parent again, dispensing wisdom in the face of youth. Only his daughter had never been this old, and she never would be. "That would be a mistake. They will expect it."
"I don't care." The boy's eyes burned intently. "We have to go save him. We can't leave him there. They'll kill him."
El could not deny that this seemed likely. In fact, the chances were very good that Sands was already dead and lying in a hastily-dug grave on Juan Garcia's estate.
"I know where Garcia lives," Chiclet said. He stopped pacing and stood before El. "We've been there before. I'm going. And you're coming with me."
"They will shoot you if you try," El said. He could not pretend false concern for Sands, but he did care what happened to the boy. Chiclet was an innocent bystander who had merely been at the wrong place at the wrong time. It was not his fault that he had gotten involved with Sands.
Now was not the time to talk about daring rescues. Now was the time for taking control of one's life. It was time for Chiclet to return to his family in Culiacán. Time for El to go back to his little house and his job at the cantina. The owners would rebuild after the explosion. There would be a need for music and singing. The city of Guadalajara had just celebrated the annual Mariachi Festival, and the people would be happy to welcome him back. He could slip back into his old life and pretend that this week had not happened, that it had all just been a very vivid, very strange dream.
"They don't care about me," Chiclet said. "I'm nothing. Sands is the one they want."
"It is too dangerous," El said. He looked at the boy, trying to imagine him reunited with the parents who probably worried about him every day. "We should leave this place."
"I am going," Chiclet said. He lifted his T-shirt and pulled the pistol he wore tucked in the waistband of his jeans. "And you're coming with me. You can be my hostage. I will trade you for Sands."
"You would really hand me over to the cartel?" El asked. The boy's words hurt him, although he would have died rather than admit it. He had hoped that after a week, Chiclet might see him as a real person and not just a threat, or as "the mariachi." Apparently he had been a fool to think that way.
"I would, if I had to choose between you and him," Chiclet said. His hand was steady on the gun.
Had the boy been any younger, El would have considered physically subduing him. But Chiclet was almost a man now, and he had to be treated as one. Only logic would work here. "I mean no offense," El said carefully, "but your plan is not a good one. I don't think any cartel would believe that you managed to make me your prisoner."
Quicker than thought, Chiclet whipped his hand to the right. Brilliant pain flared in El's cheek, then subsided to a muted glow. While he was still reeling from the blow, Chiclet darted forward and pulled El's pistol free. By the time he was able to look the boy full in the face, Chiclet had both guns aimed at his head.
"I mean no offense, señor," Chiclet said, "but you are wrong."
El touched his cheek, wincing with the hurt. He was shocked. Chiclet had pistol-whipped him!
"Why do you care what happens to him?" he asked, desperate to know. "What has he ever done for you, besides take you from your home and your family, and drag you all over Mexico?"
Chiclet looked at him over the guns. It was clear that the boy was torn between a desire to speak up and defend his hero, and the need to remain silent and not give El the satisfaction of an answer.
The chirrup of a cell phone saved him from having to make a decision.
El jumped in surprise. He had not known the boy even carried a cell phone. Evidently Sands wasn't the only one good at keeping secrets.
Chiclet thrust El's pistol into his belt, then reached into his back pocket and extricated the phone. He flipped it open and held it up to his ear without even glancing at the caller ID. "Sí."
The person on the other end spoke. Chiclet nodded. "Sí." He glanced up at El, then nodded in response to a question he had been asked. "I know." His knuckles were white where he clutched the phone. "No." He shook his head once, then again, more emphatically. "No."
El stood up. "What do they want?"
Chiclet waved him off. He bent his head, focused on the phone and the person on the other end. "Sands." A world of relief throbbed in that one word. "Are you all right?"
So then. Not dead. El felt a strange mixture of relief and annoyance. Part of him had hoped Sands had been killed already. It would have been easier to dissuade Chiclet that way. Everyone could have gotten on with their lives that much sooner.
Chiclet shook his head harder now. "No," he said loudly. "Wait! Don't!"
The gunshot was perfectly audible. El heard it and felt his blood run cold.
"No!" Chiclet shouted. "No!" Then, in response to something spoken in his ear, he calmed down. "I won't," he said softly. He was staring into space again, his eyes very wide. "Tomorrow morning," he said. "I know."
He ended the call and flipped the phone closed. He did not look up at El.
"What happens tomorrow morning?" El said.
"They will kill him, if I do not bring them to you."
"Did they shoot him?"
"Yes."
"Are you sure?" El asked. He was fairly certain honesty was not high on the list of a drug lord's character traits.
"I heard it!" Chiclet glared at him. "They let him talk to me for a little while, then they took the phone away and they shot him. I heard. . ." He swallowed hard. "He was hurt."
El conceded the point. After spending three years with someone like Sands, the boy surely knew what the aftermath of a gunshot wound sounded like. And Sands was just the kind of person to make sure Chiclet knew he was in pain, just to give the boy further guilt and motivation to save him. "You expect them to just let Sands go, if you turn me over to them?"
"That's what they said." The boy sounded sulky.
"But you don't believe them," El said.
"You were the one they wanted!" Chiclet snapped. He was quivering all over with suppressed emotion; his face was very pale. "It was always only you. Sands can make another deal with them. They'll take him back. Things will be like they were before."
"As long as they get me," El said. He was appalled by the boy's lack of sympathy for his plight.
"Once the trade is made, you can do whatever," Chiclet said. "Kill them all if that's what you want. I don't care." The tremor in his voice belied the harshness of his words, however.
"Kill them all," El repeated. How many times had he done just that? How many bars emptied of the living in his quest to find Bucho? How many churches filled with dead men?
Just how many lives could be laid at his feet?
Chiclet turned to him, not commanding now, but appealing. "Please. You have to do this."
Just one week ago he had fled the bomb at the cantina. He owed his life to Sands. He could not forget that. Nor could he deny that a part of him craved the violence Chiclet so freely offered. He felt nothing but hatred for the drug cartels of this country. If he could destroy one of them, he would gladly do so, and sleep easily that night.
"How many?" he asked.
"I don't know," Chiclet said. "Probably all of them. They'll all want to see El Mariachi."
"And Sands? Will he fight?"
"Of course," Chiclet said. "Just get a gun in his hands."
El nodded thoughtfully. Even blind, Sands was an excellent shot. He had learned that during the gunfight on the dusty roadside, although of course he had not known the truth of what he was seeing until the next morning. Given half a chance, and assuming he was not injured too badly, Sands would do just fine in the coming battle. With a rifle, he would probably do even better than just fine.
With a sigh, El realized that it was already a done deal. Although he had not said a word out loud, he had already agreed to Chiclet's proposal. He was mentally gearing up for battle, taking stock of his arms and his allies, figuring out the best way to approach things.
"All right," he said wearily. "Let's do this."
They left the hotel just after dawn. September was coming to a close, and the nights were growing cooler; El was glad for his jacket. He would have preferred another day to get ready, but time was working against them. Fortunately they had plenty of ammo, as the scuffle with the cartel last week had been a quick one, rather than a drawn-out fight necessitating several reloads.
Chiclet drove the Chevy, his face pinched with tension. El sat beside him, tapping his fingers on the doorframe. He wished he had a guitar with him. Plucking out individual notes had always helped ease his nerves, and right now he would have welcomed the comfort of music.
He was unarmed, for of course Garcia's men would frisk him before letting him anywhere near their boss. Chiclet, however, was heavily armed beneath a black jacket. The boy wore sunglasses similar to Sands', causing El to wonder if the imitation was intentional or not.
Garcia's villa was set off from the road and enclosed by black iron gates, just like any self-respecting drug lord's home should be. A guard sat inside a gatehouse, ready to turn away any lost and innocent drivers just looking for a place to turn around. As Chiclet brought the car to a halt outside the gates, the guard picked up a phone and spoke into it, his heavy brows drawn together into a frown.
El remained still. He supposed the guard was thrown off by the fact that he was just sitting there in the passenger seat like a guest coming to visit, not a hostage. Then again, last week he had appeared to be the ideal prisoner, cuffed and blindfolded, and look how that had turned out.
"Go on through," the guard said. He put down the phone and pressed a button that started the gates opening. "They will meet you."
Chiclet nodded, then drove through the gates. He did not ask if El was ready, or give any final orders.
The lane curved gently, weaving through the tall trees lining the road. Once or twice El thought he caught a glimpse of white stone, but then the greenery obscured the view again, so he could not be sure.
Chiclet drove around another curve, and then coasted to a stop. Three men armed with rifles barred the way.
"Here we go," El murmured. He got out of the car.
The men with rifles acted as an escort. One on either side of El and Chiclet, and one in back. They did not speak. They walked around another curve, and then the one in back barked a command. "Stop now."
El did as he was told. He raised his hands in the air and let them frisk him. The guard's hands moved impersonally over his body. "He's clean."
Chiclet held out his pistol. "Here," he said. "He's yours now."
The guard grunted in surprise, but took the gun. "Have any trouble with him?" he asked, one side of his mouth quirking with amusement.
"Not really," Chiclet said.
The began walking again. El cursed the loss of the pistol, but he recognized the cleverness of the tactic. By voluntarily surrendering his weapon, Chiclet had escaped further notice. The guards had dismissed him from their attention; all their focus now was on the great El Mariachi.
The lane bent around a final curve, and then they were there. The villa was light and lovely to look at. The gardens were gorgeous. El pursed his lips. It was an abomination to him that such beauty should exist because of drug money.
"Señor Garcia is waiting for you," said the guards behind him.
El nodded. This place made Cesar's villa look like a hovel. Everything was superior to his brother's home. Even the men standing at attention looked more like soldiers than the bumbling fools who had worked for Bucho.
Their guards led them to a cobblestoned walkway that bent around the side of the house. There would be a larger garden back there, El knew. He kept his back straight as he walked, ignoring the many eyes boring holes into him.
Halfway around the villa, he became aware of the sound of voices. Two of them. One was quiet and civilized. It belonged to Juan Garcia. The other voice was ragged and pleading. And it belonged to Sands.
El glanced to his left. Chiclet had heard, too. The boy had curled his hands into fists, and he was very pale.
"Don't. Please." They were closer to the garden now. El heard the pain in Sands' voice and felt a cold dagger of ice slide into his chest. He would not have thought he would be so affected to hear his enemy in pain, but he could not deny what he was feeling. The simple truth was that he could hardly wait to send a bullet flying into Garcia's forehead.
Chiclet began to walk faster. The guard on his left snapped at him to slow down, but the boy did not seem to hear.
Sands cried out loudly, the sound of a man in terrible pain.
El quickened his step, eager to get started with the business of killing. Adrenaline was flooding his senses, rendering everything sharp and clear. He saw every detail of the house on his left, and the guard at his right hand. He even saw the place where he would strike at the man, in just another few seconds…
At the rear corner of the house, the cobblestones fanned out to form a rectangular patio. Beyond the patio stretched an open expanse of garden. El saw an armed man standing beside a stone fountain, and then he stepped completely around the corner, and he saw everything.
Juan Garcia was sitting at a round patio table. The yellow and white striped umbrella that normally shaded the table was furled and lying lengthwise on the ground alongside his wrought-iron chair. A half-finished glass of iced tea was in his hand, as though he had just taken a drink. Six of his bodyguards were scattered throughout the garden, every one of them standing at attention and seemingly oblivious to the natural beauty surrounding them.
Seated across from Garcia was Sands. He was leaning back in his chair, smoking. A heavy pistol with a silencer screwed onto the end rested on the table beside his ashtray. Behind his sunglasses, he was smirking. There was not a scratch on him.
He said, "Nice to see you could finally join us, El."