Chapter 3: "Ticking Away"

'I wanted to see the guitar…'

El blinked in surprise as the long-forgotten voice drifted from the past—a young voice, not yet deepened into manhood, the voice of a curious boy in a faded yellow shirt who had tried to look into his guitar case while in Santa Cecilia. He had been amused by the boy's audacity in his presence and his stubborn refusal to allow El to intimidate him into going away, and with another shock he realized that this was the same young boy. The eyes were the same, even with everything else changed by time.

He straightened and lifted the muzzle of the gun until it pointed at the sky but did not climb to his feet. His knee was still pressing into the boy's stomach, and he did not dare move. His nerves were tight and his gut was still screaming at him that he was in danger. He glared down at his tail, in no mood to forgive and forget.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he hissed furiously. "You were lucky I didn't shoot your head off."

The boy's wry grin widened. "Would you believe me if I just said I wanted to see an old friend?"

El growled. "I haven't seen you in years. I don't even know your name." Still miffed, he decided to play with the kid's fear. He lowered the gun again until it pointed right between his eyes and watched as he went cross-eyed trying to see it. "What makes you think we're friends?"

The kid had guts, he had to give him that. His whole body stiffened beneath El's knee, his gaze never leaving the muzzle of the gun, but fear never stirred his expression. Finally he looked up. "You wouldn't hurt me," he whispered.

El called his bluff. "Are you sure I'm still the same man as before?"

Now the kid started to look nervous realizing that El, indeed, did have a point. Desperation played behind his eyes. "You don't kill innocent people. I know that."

"It seems to me that you're not so innocent," El replied coldly. "I've had every cartel after my head—I'm used to being followed. I'm used to killing the men who are following me. And you, niño, were following me. Why?"

The boy hesitated, trying to rally himself. Or trying to keep from blurting out the truth, El thought darkly. Finally: "I wasn't sure it was you at all," he explained. "I didn't want to make a fool of myself approaching the wrong person. So I followed you hoping that I'd be able to make sure it really was you." Another small smile. "I guess I was right."

El was not so amused. "If I remember correctly, I've been followed for the past few days. You've been watching me every day now—more than enough time to find out who I was."

The boy sighed. "Okay," he finally said in defeat. "All right, okay, you've got me. I've been following you."

"That's an agreement, not an explanation." El clicked his tongue impatiently.

"I wanted you to show me how to play."

That answer gave El pause. "What?"

The boy repeated it. "I want you to show me how to play guitar. Play it well, I mean."

For a long moment El could do nothing but stare at him, utterly baffled. "All this secrecy—just to ask if I can teach you how to play guitar?" But then something darkened in his expression, chasing away the confusion; he started to look more like a killer again. "Listen, niño, I don't care about you and I couldn't give a damn about your request. Get out of here before I pull this trigger."

The nameless boy's eyes widened, clearly thrown by his refusal, but also sensed that El was being serious. He scrambled out from beneath the latter's knee and sprang to his feet, running before he even checked his balance. As his footsteps echoed through the alley, El pulled himself to his feet, scowling and upset at the threat he had pulled. He did not like threatening people. The boy's request seemed genuine enough, but El had not survived so long without honed instinct, and right now his whole back was shuddering with unease. Unlike all those years ago while a nameless mariachi seeking for his lover's murderers, something told him he could not trust the boy this time.

And if that kept them both alive, then it was okay.

00000000

He left that same night. He didn't care where he was going, he didn't know where he was going, and he didn't know how he was going to get to wherever the hell he was going, but everything in him screamed to get moving and not look back. So he checked out of his room, picked up his guitar case and left.

Contrary to popular belief, nighttime strolls in the Mexican desert was not fun. He had done it before but only rarely, preferring to stay the night in something that was marginally civilized; it was chilly and he kept his ears open for nocturnal creatures out for their time. A scorpion crawled its way lazily across the road, and he grinned a little to himself. Even after all these years, it seemed some things never really changed.

He walked until his feet ached. Then he took a break on an outcrop of rock that jutted out near the dusty road painted silver in the moonlight. It had become considerably colder now—he could see his breath misting like cigarette smoke in front of him with every breath he took. His pistols were again hidden in the sleeves of his jacket and the guitar case was a comfortable weight against his right thigh.

When the moon was nearly above his head he went on his way again, unwilling to take the chance of stopping for rest. He had pulled all-nighters before but it had been awhile, and he had to fight to keep his feet moving. Finally, when the sun was just starting to rise over the ridge of jagged mountains over to his right, he reached another small town. There he stopped, checked himself into a dirty motel room and slept for three hours. Then he was up and moving again.

He had not yet reached the outskirts of the town before, quite unexpectedly, all hell broke loose.

El had very little warning when it did happen, and when looking back later even he had to admit that if the wind had not dropped off when it did he would never have heard the click of a gun cocking. By that as it may, however, the wind did die, and he did hear it, and not a moment too soon he ducked away, seeking refuge behind an old rusted truck.

A single gunshot tore through the wall above his head not a second later.

El grimaced, feeling bits of stone and powdered adobe fall on him, realizing that if he had not moved when he did he would be dead.

The old familiar rush came back to him. It was one of his oldest companions, that adrenaline rush, and one of those he hated, but before conscious thought even registered the pistols hidden in his sleeves were held comfortably in his palms and he smelled the familiar acrid smoke of discharged bullets—he had shot at his would-be assassin.

Reflexes honed by years' experience and a lot of luck allowed him to hit his target. He heard a quick, aborted cry of pain and a body thudded down from a second-story balcony, fallen broken and unmoving in the dust.

A hail of bullets slammed into the door opposite him, and he snarled a curse in Spanish, ducking back into temporary safety. Whoever this man was—cartel, El imagined—he had brought friends.

But El Mariachi had been fighting cartel for well over a decade now—he was not so put off anymore when entering in a firefight with them. He risked a quick look over the top of the vehicle and caught a glimpse of a shadow moving quickly closer. He was being surrounded.

His blood was pounding in his ears, the familiar rush of battle-high that came with every skirmish he had ever been in, every muscle screaming to leap into action. He waited one split second, then did just that. Hearing the scuff of boots on the dirt to his left he leaped out to the right and came up shooting. The pistols burned hot against his hands and the man aiming his rifle jerked back and collapsed onto his back. Blood sprinkled the ground like rain. El dodged when another man shot at him, and again the wall behind him exploded in chalky powder. Another set of footsteps pounded up behind him and instinctively he dodged, landing in the dirt already shooting.

A third man cried out and was spun to the ground—not dead, merely wounded. El climbed to his feet smoothly and turned on his heel, preparing to take out any more of the bastards who were after him—

Wait. Quick attention to detail made him pause and take a closer look, and he felt his stomach tighten when he finally saw: it was not a bullet that had struck the wall the last time.

It was a tranquilizing dart.

Abruptly he remembered the traitor Cucuy who had sold him out to the cartel with the exact same thing. Too late, he realized what these men's plans were and spun out of the pathway of their rifles—

And felt a searing pain catch him on the shoulder. He landed hard on his back, knocked off balance by his awkward position, feeling light-headed already from the drug, and managed to squeeze off one more round before he hit the ground. The man who had shot him fell like a marionette with its strings cut.

Whatever they had shot him with, it was powerful. His muscles were heavy and he already couldn't see straight, his vision darkening at the edges. Still he moved, his first instinct to find some kind of protection, even knowing that it was a wasted effort.

He collapsed onto the ground amidst the rubble of the shattered street, and the last thing he saw was a pair of black boots stopping beside him.

"Stubborn one, isn't he?" the man asked his companions.

Their laughter followed him down into black oblivion.