Another day, and another payphone. El was beginning to wonder if they'd work through the city's whole supply before Honaker finished with his games, but this time he was given a cash figure, as Sands had predicted. "Arrange the payment and collect at 1pm."
He was told neither where to go, nor where to send the money. It seemed Honaker would only do business with people who had their own ways of finding out.
Sands took over the phone then, trailing fingers across the buttons to tap in an international length number. There were some numbers he wouldn't ever have stored in his cellphone, but if Sands had been a little less untrusting and relied on written notes instead of so much on his memory, he would have found his life much harder now.
El walked away before he was told to fuck off, watching from along the street.
Sands lounged against the surround, one arm resting on the metal, the phone tucked between his shoulder and ear, half-hidden by his hair. The jacket he'd bought hung away from his body, loose, hiding the lines of the guns. Another tourist calling home, the only flaw the way his hand stayed on the keypad, but that wouldn't stand out if he didn't already know.
This was what other people saw, the ones who met him in passing and didn't use their eyes to look.
He hung up a few minutes later, shifted away from the phone box to slouch back against the wall. Entirely in his place, his face turned into the sun reaching over the buildings opposite, every hint of that intensity and focus burned back into directionless, casual ash.
Lying ash that could reconstruct itself into murder at any instant.
Sands attracted eyes and attention, and often he wanted both. But now the eyes of the people around fell on him and moved on, only the briefest catch as they slid over him.
El was the one standing and staring.
Sands swept his head around at his approach, his smile bright and, for once, close to genuine. "Well, it looks like you're on. I sure hope you know how to play to an audience, because this one calls for a truly entertaining performance."
He smiled slightly. "Oh, I think I'll manage."
He'd never be the effortless chameleon that Sands could make himself when he chose to, but Sands had no idea how often he'd relied on it in the past.
He drove out to the warehouse, taking the fastest, most obvious route along the arterials, no real traffic hassles at this time of day. When he pulled up outside, the man from the bar looked out to identify him, and then the big delivery doors opened and he was waved inside. He swung the car around and backed in.
The warehouse was big, and much of it empty, a void rippling with the noise of his engine and the metallic squeak and bang of the doors as they closed. It was unevenly lit by high windows, with no other entrance that he could see.
They searched him, predictably. He wore a Glock for show, which they took, but they didn't find the other.
Footsteps from the back of the warehouse fired his attention that way, someone behind the boxes stacked near one wall. "Hi there, come on in," he called over as he strode into sight, the English dipping and rising just too much on each word. "I don't usually bother with the introductions, we both know what we need to know."
This wasn't the voice from the phone, or the man from the bar. This man was entirely about the image, slick in a well-cut suit with precisely combed and parted hair, and a smile of perfect teeth that made El wonder how much he'd paid for it. Everything about him was sleek, practiced charm, and it did nothing to disguise who he essentially was.
His own weapons would have come from someone like this originally, he knew, but they took a very indirect route. The people he dealt with were nothing like this. Those people lived in dusty towns, taking the money they needed from wherever they could get it. This man lived his life exactly how he wanted it, and grew ever richer selling the blood and misery of thousands.
He was exactly the type of man El killed.
He forced himself to smile back, though it wasn't as friendly. "I like to be direct myself."
"Well, social niceties have their place all right, but I'd say it's more at a dinner party than in business. Have a seat." He waved him on through to an office area, and a desk and chairs much plainer than he would have expected from this man. He guessed Honaker didn't spend much time here.
Unlike the man from the bar, El watched him and couldn't be sure where his guns were.
"I'm glad you called," Honaker said as he took his own seat across the desk. "I'd been wondering if you would."
"You were recommended," he said.
Honaker smiled, pleased. "I try to keep a good reputation. A reliable service is the key to being successful in any business." His grin widened, his eyes wrinkling down almost convincingly. "Of course, you came recommended too, and everything seems to be working out smoothly. My bank tells me the financial angle's coming along."
"It should be straight-forward." If he would rely on Sands for anything, it would be to have his money where he wanted it to be.
Honaker seemed amused by his concise answers, swinging his elbows up onto the desk and linking his hands together beneath his chin. "I can see why certain people respect you, and I admire your caution in a new business arrangement." He tilted his head and raised his eyebrows a little. "Maybe next time we'll be able to fit you out with a bigger order?" Even when he was so obviously fishing, he kept the too-friendly smile, designed to slip past any possible offence.
"This isn't about a job, for now it's just personal supply," he said. "Some things were 'mislaid' in Colombia." He didn't follow the international news, but he heard enough to know Colombia could be relied on for violence and rebels.
"Well, sorry to hear you've had problems, I know things can get a little tricky sometimes." He blinked rapidly several times in the pause. "But since it's brought you to me, I guess I can't honestly be too sorry."
Honaker wasn't feeding him a single genuine reaction, his whole over-the-top attitude a projected screen for what was really going on in his mind. And he was good at it, his body language and habits a practiced enough lie that El could see the falsehood, but few of the real truths lying behind it.
"Ah, here's your order." Honaker waved a hand vaguely past El, to where two men set a large case on the floor by his car. "Feel free to inspect, of course."
"I don't think I need to." He wanted to leave this place and this man, and it could not be soon enough. "I was told you're a professional. Of course, if that turns out not to be true, I'll come back."
Honaker laughed. "You know, I like you. I'm sure you'll be back for all the right reasons, and we can do business again."
"Oh, I think so." He hoped keeping his answers short would discourage the man from more conversation.
Honaker waved over at the two men who stood by the case, and they loaded it into the trunk of his car. They made no move towards the interior, where his guitar case was loosely covered by a blanket.
El thought that should be his cue to leave, but Honaker just sat watching him. His own eyes were on the car, but he could feel it, and he didn't like it, his instincts drawing him back around to check on him.
Which seemed to be exactly what the man was waiting for. "You know, I was thinking the other day about our mutual acquaintance." His tone said casual conversation, but his eyes were too singly focussed. "You wouldn't happen to have heard anything of him recently, would you?"
El shrugged. "Only that he's most likely dead."
"I'd heard that very same thing, actually," Honaker said cheerfully, "but his old associates don't seem quite sure. They're still looking."
His mind flickered through the implications, and his guts slammed into cramping sickness.
He'd gone to find Sands in Culiacán knowing the cartel would be looking for him, but that changed nothing for El. All his plans had revolved around his old enemies.
He had taken the man back to his home, and he hadn't given a thought to the CIA.
He had also been quiet almost too long.
He tilted his head and wrinkled his forehead slightly. "You think they're onto something?"
"The stories going around are interesting." Honaker smiled and raised his eyebrows. "Maybe a touch on the fantastical side, but interesting all the same."
"I know the ones. They're crazy." He could imagine how the truth would have been further distorted since the versions he'd heard in Culiacán three months ago.
His smile only got bigger. "Hey, some are definitely crazier than others, I'll give you that. But some of them mention a kid too."
He didn't react at all this time.
He'd hoped the boy would have faded out of the facts by now; it made a much better tale if the blind man stalked and killed alone, instead of clinging to the hand of a ten-year-old. But someone was obviously still selling a version of the truth.
"Some of them also say he had three arms," he said.
Honaker only watched him across the desk, the silence reaching out, and El narrowed his eyes. "You think he's still alive."
Honaker put his hand to his cheek, fingers rubbing slowly at his temple. "I've got to say probably not, but, you know, if anybody would've wriggled away with their skin, it would've been him. I'd love to know for sure, either way."
His face was entirely open, friendly, and his eyes were entirely not. Honaker admired Sands, yes, but he would betray him in a moment. El too, if he had any idea who was really sitting here.
He wanted to kill him.
He wanted to kill him, and instead he sat and watched him, watched him smile in his tailored suit, and he tried to act bored by it. He tried to act... exactly like Sands would.
He didn't know how this could get any more sickening.
"Knowing for sure would only spoil a good story," he said.
"Ah, so you're a cynic, Señor Guajardo." He almost sounded disappointed.
"I know what's realistic."
Honaker sighed dramatically. "You could be right. A mystery's probably more entertaining than an old corpse." He gave a quick smile and held his eyebrows raised. "But if you hear anything new, remember, I'm always interested."
El smiled back. "I'll keep that in mind," he told him, taking care to keep the truth of it from his eyes.
"Well, I'll definitely look forward to hearing from you again, whatever the reason." Honaker rose smoothly to his feet, leaning forwards to extend his hand across the desk. "It's been good to meet you."
El stood too, taking the offered hand as briefly as would avoid an obvious insult. Honaker's grip was as pristine as the rest of his image, smooth, dry palm and long fingers with neat nails. "Thanks for your help," he said, casually neutral.
The two men who had loaded his car still stood near the trunk. He demanded the return of his Glock wordlessly from the one who had searched him, sliding it back into its holster.
The man from the bar had the doors opening as he climbed into the car, and he drove straight out. As he turned onto the road, they were already closing again behind him with their harsh rattle.
Making the turn at the end of the street was enough, settling back further into the seat, losing the pointed awareness of how the air moved through his throat and into his lungs.
The drowning relief on exiting places and situations was becoming too familiar since he'd met Sands.
He took the minor roads to wander north through the city, switching direction and keeping watch on the mirrors. He could feel the Ford's altered responses, the weight shift and the lowered suspension, the greater momentum of the tail as he cornered. Its acceleration hadn't been good before, and it suffered noticeably now. He hoped they weren't going to have to rely on it; it would be a serious problem if they were ever followed.
He saw nothing.
Every city had its places where people would take care not to notice what went on around them, and those parts were easy enough to tell. He traced one of them close to the railway lines, letting the cracked roads lead him past buildings increasingly battered and peeling, where there were fewer faces and none of them American.
He pulled into a service alley, rancid with garbage in the heat, and opened the trunk.
Honaker was too curious, and reminded him too much of Sands. The surface was different - Honaker's was pure silvered reflection, where Sands more often wore the darker obscurity of one-way glass - but it was still a mirror, protecting the same viciously pitched mind from those too stupid to see beyond it.
He had no fears about opening the case - Honaker would have let him inspect everything, and he wasn't expecting anything crude and obvious. He didn't know exactly what he was looking for, but he knew weapons, and he started by removing everything from the case and pushing it into the garbage skip behind a bar. He stripped down the guns one by one in the trunk, the lid resting on his shoulders to stop anyone watching from the windows above. He was expecting to be ignored, but there was no point in being stupid.
Sands was right in one way - every gun was beautifully crafted and in perfect condition, freshly cleaned and minimally oiled and lubricated to avoid dust. He'd never used the Barrett M99-1 - and he couldn't imagine what Sands had in mind for such a weapon anyway - but he knew a number of smaller calibre bolt-action rifles, and the principles were the same. Plus, there turned out to be a manual if he'd needed it.
With the guns reassembled, he checked through all the boxes of ammunition and grenades. He found nothing that didn't belong.
He closed the trunk and left, still watching the mirrors as he drove.
He parked back at the hotel and went directly to Sands' room. He didn't knock, just used the key he'd taken and let himself in - he believed now that Sands wouldn't shoot him accidentally, and knocking would be no help if it was deliberate.
He stood his guitar case by the door and walked to the table where Sands sat, leaning his hip on the edge. "Give me a cigarette."
"Don't you think you should get your own?" Sands asked. "Maybe I'll buy you a pack for your birthday."
He ignored that as he took and lit the cigarette Sands offered. "I won't do that again," he said. "I'll shoot him first."
Sands gave a slow, closed-lipped smile, his words spun just as long. "So you got to meet the man himself? He must have been interested."
He put the lighter back on the table, low hollow tap of plastic on wood. "He says the CIA are looking for you."
Sands showed no reaction, no hint of surprise or concern. "Well, of course they are. The Company doesn't like agents who just disappear. It's not tidy." He paused while he clicked flame to his own cigarette. "Someone can't cross the t's on their report and sign it off, when they'd really like to be able to file it away in a dusty, spider-decorated basement and forget I existed."
El breathed out slow, watching smoke spread away from him, stretching to fill the room. "You're sure that's all it is?"
"Right now, they're looking for a body in a ditch. They're just going through the motions." His mouth twitched at the corner. "It only gets messy if I turn up alive."
"Which you are about to do," he reminded him.
Sands turned his head up towards him slowly, until he was staring into his own reflection in the black arc of lens. "No. I'm not."
So anyone who would say otherwise was going to die.
El could understand that. And he could accept anything that would keep himself and his town from that kind of investigation.
He'd been right about the cigarette, he thought, watching it smoulder down slowly towards his fingers. It was good, yes, but it was missing the unerring edge that the first one had carried.
That was no bad thing. He shouldn't make a habit of this again. Eight years ago, he'd been able to fight and survive on tortured lungs, but he wouldn't like to try it now.
He reached across, crushing his cigarette half-smoked into the ashtray without disturbing its position by Sands. He rose to his feet and collected his guitar case from the corner.
"So, where do we find out who's waiting for us in Culiacán?"