Chapter 1: "Time Is…"

It was in the bar that El Mariachi first noticed his tail. He had suspected that there was someone following him for the past half-day but was not entirely sure until now—which meant that he was dealing with someone more than just a simple cartel. This stranger was subtle and quiet and unobtrusive, unlike the cartel who seemed to like to blare their presence for all the world to see. Still, in this instance he might admit that he would have preferred that it was the cartel following him; they, after all, were an enemy he was familiar with.

Anyway, it was probably well known by this time that it was him who killed Barillo on the Day of the Dead one year ago. Somehow legends seemed to grow overnight and word had spread that it was the famous El Mariachi who had walked into the presidente's office and emerged entirely unscathed. The cartel would be out for his blood now more than ever. On the one hand that realization tired him—all he wanted was peace, an ending of the killings.

On the other hand, however, if he was honest with himself there was a part of El that savored the life of a wanted man. There was a level of danger to that life that kept his blood tingling and made him feel alive in a way nothing else did, the knowledge that he was walking a knife's edge between living and dying.

It seemed like he would be getting an adventure right now.

It was a young man, probably no older than twenty. Small. Dressed in ordinary everyday clothes. But he was watching El carefully while nursing his drink and something in El's gut was tightening, screaming, 'Watch him!'

And his instincts were rarely wrong.

But he wasn't sure who this kid was or if he was part of a larger group, and the latter detail especially was important to be in the know about. So he simply sat and waited, watching, and if those in the bar noticed the long-haired mariachi seated in the corner with his long legs stretched out in front of him, they passed him by without speaking. That was fine by him.

0000000

That night he slept with a pistol under his pillow.

He had not had to do that for several years and it made him shake his head at the irony of it all. He had left the world of killing to trade it for peace, and now he had somehow found himself in the same position he had been in before he found revenge against Domino's killers.

He wondered what Carolina would have made of it all.

For the first time since her death at the hand of Marquez, he found that his chest did not ache in the way it had before. Killing Marquez in the presidente's office had seemed to disperse some of the cold agony that had been wrought seeing her gunned down. He was free from the past, and finally free from the ghost of her memory that hounded him.

Mi Amor, she would have told him in exasperation, that life will always find you.

She would have been right, too. The life of a killer had found him again. Agent Sands had discovered him and brought him back into the lively bustle of Mexico.

And a part of him couldn't regret that, either.

In the morning he continued on his way, leaving on foot down the road with his guitar case in hand. Its weight was comfortable and familiar and it served to soothe him a little. Whoever it was following him had to know now that he was armed—he could win a fight presented to him.

He didn't bother waving for passing vehicles. His tail was obviously going to drive but he wouldn't run the risk of being picked up by them. Of course the tail could also just as easily run him over with whatever vehicle they were driving, and the thought made him grin. Run over by a car. That wasn't a fate he would have thought of. Anyway, he had done plenty of walking to his destinations before. No reason not to do so now.

It took a good twenty-one miles before he reached the next town, and it wasn't much to look at. Two main roads and only one light. The motel there was small and run-down, but it was cheap and he didn't need anything fancy anyway.

When he went to get a meal before nightfall, he didn't see any sign of the tail and wondered where they had gone. His guitar case was set down by his seat just in case, and his two pistols were hidden down his jacket sleeves, but still he did not see any sign of them as he ate his meal. When he went out for a short walk, enjoying the cooling evening air, he sat down on the curb and looked at the stars.

He felt the presence of the man tailing him before he actually saw. But he could feel a pair of eyes watching him intently, a sensation that still sent a shiver down his neck, but he waited patiently. The footsteps that approached were light and nearly-silent, easily overlooked by one who was otherwise distracted, but El was not distracted.

Fingers were reaching for the handle of his guitar case when he struck out. His swing had always been powerful and age had not dulled that in the slightest. The sound of flesh striking flesh was startlingly loud in the silence of the night, as was the surprised cry of pain from the man. El ignored him and followed up his attack by flipping the stranger onto his back in the street. One of his pistols was drawn and pressed into the skin of the man's jaw in a heartbeat and for a long moment both of them simply looked at each other.

It was a young man who was following him, El noticed, black-haired and dark-eyed. And he seemed familiar somehow. Like he should know him but could not place where he would have seen him before.

The man was scared, he could tell that by the way he eyed the pistol and the dilation of his pupils. But he met El's fiery gaze steadily enough and suddenly managed a rather wry grin before opening his mouth:

"I wanted to see the guitar!"