Awake.
He was awake, kind of, and somewhere in the back of his head was the muzzy pounding jackhammer that said it hadn't been his choice to be asleep. Oh, that was really gonna wind itself up into something hellish when he woke up some more.
Still.
Check.
Breathing beside him.
The body that went with the breathing shifted just slightly, metallic whisper under the brush of fabric.
He barely managed to hold his own pattern of breath.
Fucking pathetic how hearing that actually made him feel so much better, when he'd be a shitload further ahead with El free and clear on the outside.
But Christ, he wouldn't have liked to be sitting here alone, wondering if there was any hope for the cavalry or if El was already serving as a grow bag for the local cacti.
"Ah, so you're awake now."
A voice river-pebble-smooth and familiarly smug, one of the voices that still had an image to go with it - slicked-back greying hair and big eyebrows dancing prominent through the thumping that was substituting for his brain right now. Too much of the rest lost to the fuzziness, but he knew the way the bastard's lips curled, too-confident and schmoozing.
Honaker.
Okay, okay, that made some things better and some things worse. No drills, no drills at least for now, and just knowing that much made a pretty fucking big difference right there, even knowing everything else.
But shit, Honaker knew he was awake now, and maybe he'd hit on that from El's tip-off or maybe Sands had tensed up himself, but whichever low subtlety he'd picked up on, it was a fucking bad sign.
"Don't bother faking, Sheldon, it's really not worth it."
The words carried and echoed in a big, hollow, open way - a warehouse, then.
That didn't have to mean Mazatlán. Honaker had them sprinkled around various places all over Mexico.
He lifted his head higher, and huh, he actually had his shades on, familiar plastic curve settling back close against his nose. Thoughtful of someone, or more likely they just got bored with the view.
He angled his face up to meet the voice. "Hi there, Robert. Nice of you to tip off the cartel."
"I was feeling a bit curious about some of the stories doing the rounds. Obviously I didn't want to send my people to find out how much was true." Sands didn't have to hear the smile in the words, he could practically see it glued on - the fucker never stopped smiling. Guy really liked to show his teeth, in the literal sense even more than the metaphorical.
"I hope you got the answers you wanted."
"Most of them."
Well, that explained why he didn't have a bullet in his skull yet, though it was starting to feel like he did.
There were other people breathing in here too, not just the three of them; a couple more at range weapon distance, way too far off to get jumped.
He sat up a bit straighter, slow, cautious. No objections from his body apart from his shoulders and wrists, because his hands were unsurprisingly tied behind the chair. Not metal cuffs, but nasty plastic zip-strips with no movement at all between his wrists, and the possibility of cutting off his circulation or crushing his nerves if he wriggled too much. That was just fucking lovely.
"You know, I was expecting our friend Señor Guajardo to contact me again after our first deal went so well," Honaker said. "When all those months passed and he didn't, I checked around a bit, and I found he'd vanished. And more than that, for a guy who got about so much, some people who really should have known him seemed not to."
Sands was still assessing his way down his body, carefully tensing muscle groups for reaction, and shit, his ankles were thoroughly strapped to the chair legs too. "So you naturally thought of me. That's nice to know." Honaker talking was good, he just had to keep feeding him the lines, draw him on if he stalled. He hadn't been killed outright, so there was a door here someplace, he only needed Honaker to point him at the right lock to work on.
"As it happens, I'd been thinking of you for a while. Didn't your friend here mention that? Well, maybe he didn't, he doesn't seem to talk much."
Oh, fucking Christ, how long had he been out?
No. El's breathing was steady, natural if a bit heavy - he was pissed, but that was all.
"I always liked him better that way," Sands said brightly. And he sure as fuck hoped El would stay that way for the duration - he was usually pretty good at keeping shut and letting Sands deal with the chit-chat, but this time they were really gonna be ski-ing across the avalanche slopes.
"Ah, I generally prefer my guests to be more sociable myself. I found I was left with a few questions about my visitor, and questions always make me want the answers." Honaker liked to talk, and his voice still swung exaggerated same as it always had, calculated to make him seem a dipfuck, over-friendly, easy to underestimate. Must be a real serious habit by now, 'cos he knew it didn't work with Sands. "I knew who he wasn't, but then I had to wonder who he was."
Sands twitched up one corner of his mouth and flicked his eyebrows high. "Well, I got bored and picked myself up a fucktoy. When in Mexico, do as the tourists do."
"That seems a tiny bit shallow, even for you, Sheldon."
"Why should everybody else have all the fun? The body's decent and the voice has a certain something - I can't be so sure on the rest, but it doesn't bother me too much." El was going to want to kill him for this later, but he could keep himself entertained working round that one when later happened and he was still bullet-lite.
Something creaked right by Honaker - behind him. Quick slide of shoe on floor, and Honaker's voice coming from normal height; he wasn't sitting, but he was definitely leaning on something. Partial dividing wall, or desk maybe.
"I just can't help thinking it's funny how when someone pokes at you just a little bit, you come straight back to this one. And then the two of you take off, running together like sheep. You'd think that was interesting in my position, right?"
"Well, he knows one end of a gun from the other, as you probably noticed." Sands dropped the smile and flat-lined his tones all across the chart. "But if you really need me to get blunt, Robert, and I would have thought it was blindingly obvious even to you, he's got eyes, and I don't." Abrupt shock back into life, slow and drawling. "Let me tell you, when you put out the call for applicants to play guide for blind, hunted gringos, the line doesn't stretch too far along the block."
Another creak, slow, pitch rising, and what the fuck was that? The glimmer in his head between the blackening thumps was telling him wood, for sure, but he couldn't make out more
"So what would his angle be in all this, then? The deal's starting to look a bit one-sided the way you're telling it."
Sands tilted his head and smiled right up at him. "I'd love to say it's because I'm just that hot a fuck, but more likely it's because I pay him so well."
Honaker's voice slowed, stringing the speculation right out. "You know, I appreciate you're missing out on the display here, but he's sitting there looking at me like he wants to rip my throat out with his teeth. And I think he'd do it too."
Fucking Christ, couldn't El manage the meek act just for ten fucking minutes? He'd had to suck it down and play helpless some in the last few months, he didn't see why El Moody Mariachi shouldn't suffer it too.
"Well, he's got quite a temper on him, you know these Latin types. And you've done more than enough to piss him off." Sands widened the curve of his lips to show leering teeth. "He only likes bondage when it's consensual."
"So you're not going to object when I have a couple of guys take him out back and shoot him?"
He pulled his mouth in tight, and wrinkled his nose lightly. "It would seem a pity, since in theory I'd need to find another lay, but I take it your plans for me don't include me going right back on with my life?" He left a pause hanging for the answer that wasn't going to come. "So on balance, it really makes no difference, I suppose. Do what you like."
If Honaker sent a couple of goons with guns somewhere quiet with El, there was a very good chance it wouldn't be El getting his brains blown out.
But Honaker started laughing then - continuous sound ringing high from walls and roof, lots of metal, and this was definitely a big warehouse, and empty - and rearranged himself against whatever thing he was propped on. "It's a nice try, Sheldon, but really, given the jacket on the table and the interesting guitar case, I think not."
Yeah. Too much to hope for that Honaker's people wouldn't have taken the time to search the place.
He huffed out air through his nose and briefly lifted an eyebrow. "Oh, well, it was worth a rehearsal."
"How like you to get yourself a legend for a bodyguard. I really am impressed."
Sands smiled, smooth and self-deprecating. "I just work with what's available. It's knowing how to make it available that takes the talent." He was racking up the negative El points with about every second sentence, but the mariachi was sticking to the Strong and Silent archetype just fine so far. Sands was starting to wonder how much further he'd get to push it before he hit the limit, and El came crashing in with the desert plateau in December lines.
And with the wondering, he was listening for El - listening, instead of tracking the background there-ness with Honaker sucking all his attention through the ache and the tilting nausea. El breathing that bit heavy, high and almost whistling through his nose, no hint of softer air-flow between lips.
Holy Christ, Honaker hadn't gone and gagged him?
It might actually make sense, stop El tipping off Sands on what Honaker already knew, no unforeseen interference with the flow of conversation.
But if he had, it was something of a miscalculation, because Sands was left entirely free to say whatever the fuck he liked.
His attention flipped right back to Honaker as he launched into the casual dinner-style chat again. "Unfortunately your inspired solution has turned itself into my minor problem. You can see the difficulty I have here. You I could kill right now and get my payment with no questions asked, but if I hand the cartels some dead Mexican and tell them he's El Mariachi, they just might not believe me."
Oh, Christ, but that was almost funny. With El's habit of sticking his fingers all over every available surface and weapon, it'd take the cartel maybe half a day to get some pet police stooge to check the prints on a corpse - and it would never occur to someone as innately cautious as Honaker.
Sands had thought vaguely about buying El some mittens and strapping them to his fucking hands, but he was a few years too late in the game to bother.
He let himself smile a little. "So don't shoot him. I'm sure the cartel will oblige once they're happy with the ID."
"I already thought of that, but rumour suggests keeping him alive might be too much trouble. I wonder if it would help if I arranged it so he can't see? You're the voice of experience, Sheldon, what do you think?"
For about a second, he didn't think anything at all.
And then his brain overflowed with too many images, too bright, too vivid, snatches of technicolour thought all scrambling over one another to reach the top of the pile and swamped back under in an instant by the next, all blood and lurching horror, and he was gonna throw up, really gonna throw up any second now -
- and he wouldn't do it.
All sense of El beside him had dropped away, too still and no breath.
He wouldn't do it.
Honaker had never been a guy for torture, saw it as vulgar the same as a briefcase full of cash. He liked to hold himself several steps clear of the unpalatable criminals, keep that neat and tidy image. Sands was in general agreement with the whole torture thing - it was completely lacking in finesse, too crude and unreliable to be generally useful, too easy to be entertaining.
He might have made an honourable exception for Little Bitch Barillo, though, if he'd had a bit more time available and actually been able to keep himself upright.
Honaker's threat was an idle one, fishing around for a response. And he'd got one, yeah, but it didn't tell him shit. Anyone who'd had their eyes poked around in while they were awake to think about it wouldn't react so well to being reminded.
Sands let himself smile, careful and slow. "Sadly, it doesn't seem to be as reliable a method as you might suppose. You could double check that with Barillo or Montejo."
"Ah, so that was you at Montejo's house." Honaker's voice brightened right up another couple of lux on the dimmer dial. "I was wondering. Obviously it was him," heavy emphasis on the word as a big pointing finger, "but the reports coming from the various parties who took an interest all suggested more than one attacker."
Sands curled his smile deliberately wider. "You know I couldn't have done it without you, Robert."
"It's always good to have another satisfied customer. I'm glad you feel you got value for money." Honaker sounded almost genuinely cheerful at the compliment. Almost. "Well, you might be right about the seeing thing, but I think I'll blindfold him anyway."
El flicked back into existence alongside him, breath, and the deep-shuddering click of a joint released from rigidity.
Breath that flowed smooth at speed, unrestricted, obvious in the absence of high notes. Interesting. "I always preferred him gagged myself, but I realise you don't have that concern." El was cooperating well so far, but Sands would take an opportunity for a reminder.
"You know, I find it intriguing you're not trying to cut a deal with me, sell him out to save your own skin."
Sands shrugged to the limits of his cuffs, uninterested. "It wouldn't have worked."
"Neither did your little fucktoy speech, and you still played for it."
He tilted his head and let the corners of his mouth rise. "Well, that was entertaining. Begging wouldn't have had quite the same style."
"And then there's the way he's willing to drag a blind man round with him instead of ditching you like so much dead weight."
The muscles flicked taut all down Sands' cheek, because that was just a little cocoa-heavy coming from a guy who always had a dozen people to hand and never cared to get himself dirty. "If you'd like to untie me, Robert, I can show you just how much dragging's involved."
"It's an intriguing offer, but no, I like you where you are for now. Your friend, though, I'd prefer to get rid of sooner, while he's still inclined to be practical."
Sands had a number of possibles to say to that, but the distinctive metallic click from Honaker sidetracked his thoughts a bit, and the single step forward leading to a cold circle pushing up hard under his chin prolonged it. It would have been a nice opportunity to disarm the fucker, if he hadn't had the full set of limbs tied and a couple of other guys playing guard on top of the samba beating in his head. Which was why Honaker hadn't even bothered cocking the thing till now.
"You and some of my people are going on a trip." Honaker's voice was aimed away this time, towards El, brushed aluminium smooth and suddenly without any hint of that surface friendly shine. "If anything happens on the way, if you escape or my people don't turn up to the meet, I'll shoot this one here in the head the second I hear about it. Got that?"
"Got it." El's accent as thick as it ever got through just those two words. Not spitting them out, holding them back, controlled, all slow and swirling with scorn - El knowing exactly what he wanted and fully prepared to play patient to get it. El thinking, planning, and Sands almost smiled because Honaker had no fucking idea.
The barrel disappeared from his skin, and Honaker stepped aside to rustle cloth by El at head level - presumably that would be the blindfold, now Honaker was done with his little demo drama. Then a couple of sharp plastic snicks down near the ground.
Sands angled his head back over his shoulder. "While we're reorganising the seating arrangements, I need to take a piss."
Quick air-movement from Honaker, and one of those other guys headed over towards them. "Just before you start thinking too hard, Sheldon, there's a man to your right with a gun on you in case."
Honaker really could be a stupid bugfuck sometimes. The lackeys hadn't been so quiet, and it figured they wouldn't be holding bow-tied bouquets. "Thanks for the info," he smiled. "I always like to know where I stand."
Rustling and scraping from his left as Honaker and El stood, and El was led off, stunted footsteps that scraped low over concrete with the regular chink of the spur. Maybe fifty feet before a door opened, metal squeaking over the influx of sound from outside - and then a sudden nasty flick-click of knife from Honaker's goon right beside him.
The guy cut the ties on his legs first, as Honaker had with El, and Sands eased his feet out slow, nothing that could be misconstrued as a kick, flexing and circling his ankles, releasing the tension on the muscles along his thighs. Single snip at his wrists, and his hands were free of the chair, but still tied to each other. "Get up." Looked like they were going to stay that way, and he brought his feet back under him, wobbling slightly as he eased up slow. Christ, every joint in his body had locked up, all his oil burned out through the exhaust a way back down the road.
One guy beside him, steering him with quick tugs on his arm, one guy hanging back a safe distance, and they were headed for the same door El had just used. Stumbling over the door rim with breeze and trees and no hint of traffic or people, and his guide held him straight for about fifteen feet, keeping the line of fire from the guy still inside. Tidy.
An engine sparked up to his left, deep and smooth, arcing round the building as it pulled away, and that would be El's delivery van on its way.
He knew vaguely which way was out now, if it was ever going to do him any good.
The guard following was finally out of the building, footsteps dirt-dead instead of concrete-metal echoes, and Sands was prodded sideways, the soil turning looser underfoot with small stones scattering before his toes. The hand on his arm tightened, stopping him, then fingers were at his fly, opening and reaching inside, and the tension punched shrill all through his teeth, because he could knee that fucker in the balls right now and kick his nose up through his brain as he curled down.
Except that would be the quick route to getting shot, and he wouldn't like it any more this time than he had before.
He turned his head just enough to smile right at him. "I'd prefer doing it myself, if you wouldn't mind."
No answer, which was only what he'd expected. Honaker trained that into his people early.
At least the guy was wearing gloves. He probably didn't want his hand on Sands' dick any more than Sands wanted it there.
It wasn't the easiest thing taking a piss with some greasy turdfuck stranger holding him, but he wouldn't get another chance for a while now he'd asked, and he managed to relax enough to let it go, splattering onto the dirt.
He hoped it wasn't splashing his boots.
The fucker actually shook his cock when he was done to get the drips off, and that might have been more disgusting than being tucked back in wet.
This pleasant little interlude would have been the end of the .38 at his crotch anyway, even if he hadn't divested himself of it in favour of sleeping.
He was steered back inside the warehouse in a studied reversal of the previous actions; straight line through the door, pushed down into the chair to have his hands strapped to it, then his ankles, one guy always hanging well back. He knew the arrangements now and it got him nowhere, everything too practiced and slick.
Nobody else in here but the three of them; he wondered if Honaker was still around somewhere or if he'd gone with El.
No, he'd said he wasn't going. Shit, steering his thoughts right now was like ladling spaghetti with a coffee stirrer.
The footsteps of both his escorts echoed away over the concrete, door closing after them with a metallic ripple heavy through the building. The breeze was severed instantly, trees and birdsong damped down in muffled distortion.
Okay, this wasn't looking so good.
He had a time limit running on him, and no fucking clue what it might be.
Even if he knew where he was, and where El's handover had been arranged, it wouldn't mean a goddamn thing. Honaker was going to put a bullet in his head sooner or later anyway, and El would know it, so that threat had no hold on him. El would stick his spur in his chance wherever he saw it.
Though being El, if that crack in the door looked likely to hang open a while, he might leave it till the last minute to buy Sands some extra space. He could at least figure that bullet was unlikely to be coming any time in the next hour.
Of course, Honaker could have had him shot two minutes after El was out the door, but Sands was reasonably confident that wasn't going to happen. Honaker ran his business dealings on trust - anything less than complete honesty and his clients would vanish elsewhere and close down a nicely thriving little enterprise. To Honaker, this was just another kind of business transaction, and he'd apply those same rules. And as back-up for the supposition, if he'd planned on shooting him right away, he wouldn't have gone through that hassle with letting him take a piss. So, yeah, no bullet for Sands till some mysterious value of 'later'.
Which was a definite improvement on 'now'.
Unfortunately, he wasn't coming up with any obviously constructive ways to pass the time.
They hadn't even bothered leaving him any guards, because they figured he wasn't going anywhere, and it was a serious motherfucking irritation that they'd nailed that part solid. The plastic was tight round his wrists and ankles, and probably not something he could break loose of even with hours to play with, but if he had eyes, he'd have given it a decent shot.
They could've left him in here untied and he still wouldn't be going anywhere. No goddamn hint of where he was or where he should go. If he even found the gates, they'd pick him up a half a mile down the road when they got around to looking. And sure, he might kill one or two before they beat his face down into the dirt, but none of that would stop him ending up dead or right back here.
He was stuck playing a waiting game for the first part of this; he just had to figure out what he was waiting for.
If he knew his guy - and he did, no question he'd got that one down more than well enough, despite that niggling something he was still working on in his currently not-so-free time - El would be coming back. He'd come back for Honaker, for the threat to his life and because he was generally that pissed at him, and he'd come back for Sands because he was just that kind of guy. Even with the revenge angle taken out of it, he was too long on guilt trips to ever ditch an ally in the shit and run.
But he'd have to kill or evade Honaker's people, re-equip himself with some decent weaponry and get back here, wherever the fuck here was, with some kind of attack plan. All that was going to take a while.
And a while was going to be way too fucking late from where Sands was sitting, because he'd be missing most of his brain cells long before.
His watch beeped off the change of an hour. At least they'd left it with him. It would have been a pain in the ass to be sitting here with no clue at all how long he was hanging on to his life.
He was vaguely irritated if he was gonna die some time later today that he got to spend most of his last hours unbearably bored. And with an evil drug hangover chainsawing through his skull and swinging on his guts.
But he sure as fuck wasn't gonna sleep them away.
There was an angle here, if he only looked in the right places.
There always was.