El pulled a crumpled piece of paper from Sands bloody pocket. He had found the severely injured CIA agent lying in the street and brought him to a safe place to heal. He looked at the picture in astonishment.
"So there is more to this American than meets the eye," he chuckled to himself and slipped the picture into the pocket of the fresh pajamas that the woman he had hired to help him had put on Sands weak body.
The picture haunted him for several days as the agent recovered slowly from his wounds. Who was the woman? Who was the child? What did they have to do with this callous seemingly uncaring and reckless agent. The picture made no sense to him. Not on this man, it didn't.
Ten days later Sands was able to sit up and eat. His nurse was bringing him some soup and El followed her into his room, and sat on the edge of Sands bed studying the agent without saying a word.
At first, Sands ignored the intrusion, but El's questioning stare made him frown right back at the Mexican.
"What do you want El?"
"I don't want nothing. I have never wanted nothing. I finished my assignment. I saw you needed help. I helped."
A moment of silence passed as the men frowned at one another.
"You saw the picture didn't you?" Sands asked accusingly.
"The picture?" El asked non-chalantly.
"Yes, the picture Fuckmook," Sands spat, emphasing the last word.
El sighed.
"Yes, I saw the picture."
"Well, forget you saw the picture, savvy?"
El nodded and stood up from the bed and walked out of the room.
