Chapter 18
All or Nothing
Disclaimer: El and Sands belong to Robert Rodriguez. I'm only borrowing them for my own twisted purposes. I'll put them back when I'm done. I promise.
Author's Note: Here it is, the last chapter. Epilogue follows, with some more notes from me.
In my wildest dreams, I never imagined I would be standing here doing this, El thought.
"Here" was the lushly appointed bedroom of the Secretary of Tourism. "This" was holding a gun on a very terrified old man.
It was all very unreal. A security alarm blared in the background. Someone was pounding on the door and demanding to be let in. The Secretary cowered in his bed, his eyes very wide. A bedside table lamp was turned on, casting a dim pool of light on the Secretary, while leaving El in shadow.
Sands was talking.
Or rather, Sands was threatening. In a very calm, rational voice. That was what made him terrifying. El watched him and El listened to him, and El remembered why he had wanted to kill Sands within ten seconds of first meeting him.
He had forgotten how dangerous Sands was.
The Secretary of Tourism was not allowed to forget. The old man bobbed his head and squawked out an answer whenever Sands paused. His eyes darted back and forth between the dark sunglasses on Sands' face, and the light reflecting off the gun in El's hand.
"It was always crazy, I told him so!" the Secretary of Tourism babbled. "He should never have gone ahead with it!"
Sands smiled. "I'm sure you did all you could," he said soothingly. From his calm demeanor, you would never have guessed that the world around him was splintering into chaos.
When he heard the sympathy in Sands' voice, the old man blanched.
It was time to go. The police would arrive soon, and the locked door would not keep out a truly determined man for long. El cleared his throat.
Sands understood. "Well, we'll be off now." He gave the Secretary another chummy smile. "Just ask yourself. How much do you enjoy this life? And how long do you think you could survive out there on the street? How long before you woke up one night to see this staring back at you for real?" He pointed to El and smirked.
The Secretary looked at El, swallowing hard, as if he was trying not to vomit. "I'll tell him," he promised eagerly. "First thing in the morning!"
"I know you will," Sands said.
And that was only the first target.
To El's surprise – wary at first, then growing steadily more relieved – it was all very easy. Although he hated to admit it, he was nervous. Words were not his weapons. Even with a gun in his hand, he still felt too naked. Too vulnerable. And by nature, El did not like easy. Easy made him suspicious. But this time, easy turned out to be all right.
As he had promised, Sands remembered everything, from the location of their target's house, to the layout of the grounds, to how many men stood in the gatehouse at the end of each driveway. El was amazed by the depth of his knowledge, and even more impressed when he remembered that Sands had learned all these things after losing his sight.
And Sands did all the talking. Security alarms rang and dogs barked and footsteps pounded past the windows, but Sands ignored it all. He spoke quietly, forcing his victims to actively pay attention. His threats were delivered calmly, with no shouting or wild gesturing.
In contrast, El's role was simple. He only had to stand behind Sands and look ominous. He put on his best glower and never once let the barrel of the gun waver from his target's forehead. Their chosen target always just stared at him, eyes wide with fright. El stared back, doing his best to look like a cold-blooded killer who actually enjoyed shooting old men in the face.
One of them – perhaps the Secretary of Health, but he couldn't be sure – went for a gun when he discovered them in his bedroom. El fired a single shot into his pillow, and the old man froze in terror, and after that it went down just like all the others. He was the only one who even tried to fight back, though. All the others just sat there and listened.
Not that Sands gave them much choice.
El was not unaware of the irony of his situation. The things he had once hated the most about Sands were the very traits he needed right now. The man who had once been a danger to Mexico was on the loose once again, and this time, El encouraged him every step of the way. They needed Sands' talent for manipulation and deceit, and his ability to threaten with only a soft word.
In between targets, they talked quietly of what had happened during the previous confrontation. Sands listened as El described the encounter, and the next time, he incorporated new material based on what El had said. The Secretary of Tourism was first on their list, and he had been one very scared man. By the time they reached their final target, Sands had his speech down so well that El was surprised the Secretary of Agriculture didn't piss himself.
Will it work? That was what he wanted to ask as he drove south, toward Acapulco. The question haunted him. He longed to ask Sands, but he was afraid of the answer. Afraid that even after everything they had done tonight, it would still not be enough.
Please, he thought, praying to the God he had only recently rediscovered, please let this work.
"You know, El." Sands' voice startled him out of his thoughts, making him jump a little. "If this doesn't work out, you and I should consider a career in bank robbery."
Last year even the very thought of spending more time with Sands would have filled El with disgust. Now he just snorted in amusement. "Only if I don't have to wear a ski mask."
Sands laughed. "Deal."
At noon, Sands made a call.
The hotel in Acapulco was very swanky, making El feel distinctly nervous. He stood out in places like this. Yet Sands seemed completely at home, despite the strangeness of his surroundings. El could not decide if that was because he felt secure again after last night's events, or if the very unfamiliarity of the place gave him confidence.
As part of its amenities, the hotel had a courtesy phone for its patrons, set in a secluded niche off the lobby that provided a reasonable amount of privacy. El stood directly beside Sands, so close their shoulders were touching. Sands held the phone so they could both hear the man on the other end.
"Hola!" Sands sang cheerfully. "Como 'stas?"
"Sands!" The man on the other end was practically screaming. "Is that you?"
"None other," Sands said.
"What in the hell is going on?" the man demanded.
"I was hoping you could tell me," Sands said.
The man on the other end was silent for a while. El liked that. Silence meant that things were happening in the background. Silence meant he was trying to decide what to say, how much he could get away with telling Sands, and how much he could keep to himself.
Sands waited patiently. He was very still. El shifted a little, leaning a bit closer to the phone while trying to ease his shoulder off Sands'. The close contact did not bother him, but he supposed Sands might not like it.
"They're scared," Sands' contact finally said. "Scared shitless. What did you do to them?"
"That's not the right question," Sands said.
"Okay, what did you say to them?" the man asked.
"Now you're on the right track."
"Son of a bitch," the man breathed in admiration. "You told them to back off, didn't you? You told them, and they're actually doing it."
A flurry of hope stirred in El's chest. It was working! Instinctively he turned his head to the left, intending to catch Sands' eye and share a conspiratorial smile. But Sands of course was not looking in his direction. And when he turned his head, all he saw was the dark shadow of an empty eyesocket behind opaque sunglasses.
"Well, now, that's good to hear," Sands drawled. "If that's the truth."
Sands' contact uttered a faint laugh. "You know I wouldn't lie to you."
"I know you used to know you couldn't," Sands admitted. "But it's been a while."
"Hey, I haven't forgotten!" the man insisted. "I know where we stand. But you know, since it's been so long, you might want to 'forget' a few things, too."
Sands shrugged, the movement causing El's shoulder to rise and fall as well. "I could," he agreed. "And it is kind of hard for me to remember just where I stored those photos."
The man on the other end sighed with relief. "Good, okay. Thank you. Listen, I have to go, they're calling an emergency meeting. Will you call back?"
"I don't think I need to," Sands said. "You enjoy your meeting." He hung up the phone, almost clocking El in the chin with it.
El stood back, putting some space between them once again. "It's working," he said.
Sands turned around to face him. "So it would seem." He smiled. "Want to go sit on the beach and get drunk?"
El thought that sounded just fine.
When the cell phone rang, they both jumped. Then El realized it was not the new phone, the one he had just purchased a year-long contract for. It was the old phone.
They were on the beach, at an outdoor cantina situated right on the sand. Behind them, American girls giggled and screamed with laughter, and tinny music came through the speakers. When he and Sands had walked past the bar, some of the girls had eyed him with frank appreciation – while others had smiled suggestively at Sands. El had quickly moved on through, out to the tables on the sand.
He had lost track of how long they had been sitting here. Long enough for them to accumulate a few empty glasses on the wicker table between their lounge chairs. Long enough to start to feel the first stirrings of panic. Now he had to force his racing heart to slow down so he could focus on what Ramirez was saying.
"Where are you?" he asked.
The former FBI agent sighed. "I am in Culiácan. And I see you are not."
El did not say anything. He had never been one to state the obvious.
"When did you leave?" Ramirez asked.
"Recently," El said. He supposed the state of the apartment would say it all. They had thrown out all the food that might spoil, and the rent was paid up for two months. El had left one light on in the front window, but unplugged the others. He wondered when Ramirez had arrived, and by how narrow a margin they had missed each other.
"Is Sands with you?"
"Yes," El said. He glanced to his left. Sands lounged in his beach chair like a man without a care in the world. His head was tilted back so he could get the sun on his face. The drink in his hand was pearled with moisture, and a ring of condensation marred the surface of the tabletop beside him.
"Archuleta went back to Texas," Ramirez said.
"Back to San Antonio," El said, keeping one eye on Sands. "Why?"
"This was never my intention," Ramirez said. "What happened… That was not me. I had hoped it was not my friend. I was wrong."
El did not reply right away. He was watching Sands, who had not moved, but who nonetheless looked like a sleek jungle cat ready to pounce. "I am sorry you lost your friend," he said carefully.
"He isn't Danny," Ramirez said. "That was my mistake. Thinking that he was the same as his brother."
El nodded. He knew firsthand that it was not always a good thing to be compared to your brother. More than once he had wondered if Cesar would have turned out differently had their father not constantly compared them, and always found Cesar lacking.
"Were you followed?" El asked.
"No." Ramirez's voice grew distant and El heard the sound of a bottle being opened. "There is no government presence in Culiácan at all, that I can see."
Despite himself, El smiled. "Good."
"You did it," Ramirez said. It was not a question.
"We did it," El said, with another glance at Sands. Sands saluted him with his drink, but did not say anything.
"Thank Christ," Ramirez breathed.
"Keep one eye open at night," El warned. "They may not give in without a fight."
Ramirez snorted. "They are welcome to try." Even over the phone, El could hear the grim smile in his voice.
It was a shame he would never see the man again. "Take care," he said.
"Same to you," Ramirez said.
El hung up.
Two hours later, just as he was beginning to think the call would never come, the cell phone rang. The new one.
Sands had programmed the ringtone to play "La Cucaracha." El gave him a quick glare as he flipped the phone open. He had no idea when Sands had done that, or even how he had managed, but in his present state of mind, he had no time for silly games.
"Here. Give it to me." Sands snapped his hand in El's direction.
For a moment El thought about refusing, and answering the call himself. Then he realized he had no idea what to say to whoever was on the other end. He gave the phone to Sands.
"Who is this?" Sands said by way of greeting.
El glanced about at the tourists on the beach. It seemed that everyone must know what was happening here; everyone must look at him and know he was a wanted man. His palms grew slick with sweat, and he had to force himself to take a deep breath and remain calm.
Beside him, Sands broke into a wide grin. "Diego! How the hell are you?"
El could almost see the man on the other end cringe. And then he realized that Sands had just spoken the contact's name. Nor had it been an accident. He had wanted El to hear it, to know just who to reach within the government, should things go badly.
Sands listened to what Diego had to say. Occasionally he offered a light, "Mmm-hmm." He did not speak. El fought the urge to lean in close so he could hear, like he had done in the hotel, and balled his sweaty hands into fists.
The other man seemed to talk forever. Just when El thought he could not stand it for one more second, Sands stirred.
"Well," Sands drawled, "I think we have an arrangement here."
El let out his breath so hard his shoulders sagged. His chin dropped onto his chest. He felt weak with relief. They had done it!
"Just remember," Sands said, "should any of us ever get so much as a hint that we're being followed, the deal is forfeit. And then, my dear Diego, all bets are off." The cold promise in his voice reminded El sharply of the one time he had sat across from Sands and been able to look the man in the eye.
Sands flipped the phone closed. He turned toward El. "It's done," he said.
They drank their dinner that night. El was aware that he was pleasantly intoxicated, but it hardly seemed to matter. Why should he care? Today he had won his freedom.
He still could scarcely believe it. He had won. It was over. It seemed unreal. He remembered throwing the cell phone into the ocean, to the accompaniment of Sands' laughter, but he still expected to hear it ring. To hear a man on the other end speaking in low tones. To look up and see the barrel of a gun aimed at his forehead.
The cynical part of his mind – the part that had so far resisted the lure of succumbing to alcohol's warm embrace – said that it wasn't really over. That part of his mind reminded him that Sands had spoken the truth when he had said they would never really win. But for once El was determined to ignore that voice. Just this one time, he would pretend that things were truly going to work out all right, that he had truly won, that he was truly free.
Tomorrow he would have to be cold and hard and practical again. Tonight, he was going to celebrate.
The sun was setting, turning the ocean into molten gold. El drained his glass and set it on the table with the others. A waiter would come by eventually and remove the empties and bring him a new drink. A few hours ago he had thought about food, but then Sands had suggested a toast, and the waiter had brought them each several shots, and after that, thoughts of food had completely fled his mind.
He wondered where he would go first. Maybe he would visit his old friends in Guitar Town. Or hang out with Lorenzo and Fideo and drink all their tequila as a way of repaying them for their help. Or spend a night in vigil over Carolina's grave, where he had never dared to return, for fear of being picked up in such an obvious location.
Some of his good cheer evaporated, however, when he thought again about what Sands had said in Guayabo. That he would never know true peace.
It was not true, he decided fiercely, gripping his glass hard enough to hurt his hand. He would make it not true. Everything was changed, as of today. The cartels would probably always want his head, but at least now he could stop running from his own government.
Determined to stay in a good mood, he raised his glass. "To libertad."
Sands lifted his glass; only an inch of liquid remained at the bottom. "I'll drink to that."
El drained his drink. He could barely taste the alcohol anymore.
"So where do you go from here?" Sands asked. He made a sweeping gesture with the hand holding the glass. "The world is your oyster, El."
El gave him a sidelong look. He was not so drunk that he was ready to spill his plans to Sands. Or reveal that in fact he had no plans.
"I don't know," he said.
Sands nodded. "Okay."
The sun dropped lower in the sky, until it touched the ocean. El squinted at the brilliance in front of him, wishing he had his own pair of sunglasses. He thought about what Lorenzo and Fideo would say when he showed up at their door. He thought about Carolina, and their beautiful daughter, and how much he missed them. They would have loved the sunset. Their little girl would have played in the sand at their feet, and Carolina would have held his hand until the last light had fled the sky.
At last the sun slid beneath the waves, taking El's imagination with it, leaving only fiery streaks of color in the sky to show it had ever been there at all.
"Well!" Sands said briskly. He stood up. "I'm off."
El looked up in surprise. The vision of Carolina had been so real. It took him a few moments to return to reality, to remember where he was, and why he was here. "Can you find your way back alone?" A year ago he would not have needed to ask, but he was still not sure about this new Sands.
Sands gave him a humorless smile. He was stone-cold sober, El realized with some alarm. He wondered just how long Sands had been pouring his drinks onto the beach, leaving him to sit here and get sloshed. "Oh, I'm not going back to the hotel."
It took a moment for the words to register. Then El sat up in a hurry. "You're leaving."
"Gee, you catch on quick," Sands smirked. "Yes, El, I am leaving. Hasta la vista, and all that."
He got to his feet, feeling distinctly at a disadvantage when he had to look up at Sands, never mind that he was looking at a blind man. "But why?" he stammered.
"Because that was always my intention?" Sands suggested, in that tone of voice that indicated he was having doubts again about El's intelligence. "Remember, not planning to stay in Mexico?" He shrugged. "Besides, I've got some unfinished business to take care of."
"Unfinished business," El repeated. He did not like the sound of that.
Sands did not take the bait. He just said, "Yeah."
"Where will you go?" El asked. It was strange, how he wanted to prolong this conversation by asking question after question.
"Here and there," Sands said. "You just go on about your life, now that you have it back." He smiled, and for once, it was the genuine thing. "See, El, now we're even."
El understood. Sands had given him his life back, just as he had done when he had taken Sands out of that prison. "We are in balance?" he asked, with just a hint of amusement.
Sands' smile grew wider. "We're in balance."
"Don't come back," El warned. Their fragile truce would only hold if Sands kept his promise. There could be no more manipulating the people of Mexico. No more involvement with the cartels or the government. No more secrets and lies.
And he wanted that truce. He wanted to be able to think of Sands as someone who might have been a friend, instead of the man who had been his reluctant enemy.
Sands just grinned at him. "Be seeing you around." He turned and began walking up the beach. He was a little unsteady, unsure of himself without El to guide him, but he kept walking all the same. Behind him, the lights of the hotels lining the beach winked in the darkness, like tiny fireflies.
El watched him go. After a while, he sat back down and stared out at the waves. A little while after that, he closed his eyes and fell asleep.