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Sons of Mexico
Rating: M | Status:
Complete | Genre: Action | Series:
None
Warnings: This story is for mature audiences only. Do not read if you are under 16 years of age. Go to: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 Part 1 Agent Sands had played high and had lost, even with a rigged game. He knew he was dying. The warmth of the fading sun, the smells of dust and gunpowder, the distant din of fighting - these were the last things he would ever know. Those, and pain. God, the pain. He shifted his body against the warm wall, seeking a position less agonizing, but the movement only shot burning arrows through the three blasphemous holes in his body. He gasped. The hell of it was, he knew damn well none of his injuries had to be mortal. With anything resembling decent medical care - an urgent ambulance, paramedics, a race through city streets to a bustling ER where they would give him drugs - drugs for the pain … Fuck. If only he were dying somewhere civilized, not in this shit-hole. For once in his life, Sheldon Jeffrey Sands couldn't sustain his fury at the world. It sank into a pool of mourning. Who would have thought you could mourn your own death? Then the pain demanded all his attention. The holes in his legs and arm still howled their outrage at him, even as blood-loss numbed his hands and feet. Distantly, he wondered why his eyes didn't hurt. What eyes, Fuckmook? You'll never see again. Somehow it didn't seem to matter, much, as his life pooled beneath his butt, warm and sticky.He panted like a dog in the hot sun, even as his body turned cold. No! He would not accept this! Somehow, there must be something … The pain eclipsed any coherent thought. Footsteps approached. Two men, wearing expensive cowboy boots. Walking fast - men with a mission. As they neared Sands' position, clicks and thunks announced guns being cocked. Sands still had one good arm. He blew them both away, aiming with his hearing only. No coherent thought necessary. One man toppled near him, almost in reach. Sands listened, hearing the gurgle of the man's last breath. He should have felt pleased, but nothing pierced the blazing pain. Drugs, for the pain. Drugs … Inch by agonizing inch, Sands dragged his screaming body to the dead man's side. The first pocket - nothing. The second - Sands' elbow slipped where it propped him up, and he collapsed. What should have been a howl of righteous pain and fury came out as a moan. He lay where he had fallen, face down. He could only manage the one further pocket. Pay dirt. At least he would die, as he had seldom been in life, happy. The guitar town looked like many other dusty Mexican villages, but two things set it apart from its fellows. One thing was the rows of hand-made guitars hanging like grapes from the vine, lining the main plaza. Another was the cars. Everyone in the town owned a car, wore fine clothes, and drank good beer. The smallest child could name the town's benefactor. The limousine, nonetheless, attracted attention as it turned onto the plaza, tiny Mexican flags fluttering from its hood. The intruder slowed and stopped by a guitar stall where two old men sat in the afternoon heat sanding newly-made guitars. From the passenger side of the car stepped a suit-and-sunglasses-wearing man, who looked arrogantly around, then deigned to speak. "I'm looking for The Mariachi," he said. "Which one?" asked one man, shrugging. "The," said the suit. Two back doors opened and two more suit-wearing men stepped out, their jackets bulging beneath their left arms. From every door, window, corner, and crack of the town came a cacophony of weapons clicking into readiness. The late afternoon sun glinted off of dozens of gun barrels aimed at the men by the limousine. From the far side of those barrels peered men of all ages, children, señoritas, and abuelas. Startled, the suits froze, then slowly lifted their arms above their heads. Unperturbed, the second old man spoke. "We don't know who you're talking about." He smiled. Swallowing hard, the first suit said, "I have a message for him from El Presidente." The first old man looped a guitar string around a tuning peg and tightened. "What is the message?" he inquired. First Suit took a deep breath. "Are you still a son of Mexico?" he called into the tense stillness of the town. After a long moment, a black-clad figure descended from a rooftop and stepped into the square. Long hair flopped over piercing eyes as he bent to set his guitar carefully against a building. He walked steadily toward the limousine, backed by the weapons of the town. "What do you want?" asked El Mariachi. "I am honored to meet you," said First Suit. "What do you want?" "El Presidente requests your presence." "Why?" "Will you come?" El Mariachi said nothing. He looked at the guitar stall with its unvarnished instruments, the old men who continued their work, the church beyond, and the dusty square. He raised a graceful hand, and the gun barrels vanished into the shadows. The second old man reached beneath his table and handed El Mariachi a well-used guitar case. "Go with God," he said. The new Presidential Palace might have been a drug lord's modest summer home. High enough in the hills for cool temperatures at night and high enough in the hills to be easily defensible from attack. El Mariachi approved. The property showed little ostentation beyond what the President's rank would require. A prudent sacrifice of ego for practicality. El still felt out of place. He paced the tiled floor to look out a window at the eucalyptus and bougainvillea beyond. He could not be the man the President needed, and he knew it. To make matters worse, he knew exactly who the right man was. A man he loathed. But the best service he could give El Presidente, this man who cared about Mexico, cared about her people, cared for justice and honor, was to give him the name of a man who cared for none of it. El Presidente, sitting at a small tea table,
looked at the scrap of paper in his hand. "You probably heard of him. You just didn't know it was him they were talking about." "Why would he help me?" El Presidente took a delicate sip of his tea. "Money. Or power. Promise him a return favor. But make no mistake, Señor Presidente; you will be dealing with the Devil." "Where can I find him?" "No one knows. But if he's still living, he's the man you want." There was no secret about where Lorenzo lived. He owned an estate in the suburbs of Mexico City, where he spent his days by the pool surrounded by bikini-clad women. El Mariachi scouted the place, unimpressed. Lorenzo had known not to rely on the city police for security, but the guards he employed were sleepy. Cameras peered around from the top of the wall, but El knew they were not the models that are used where a guard watches many monitors and can respond immediately to an intrusion. Instead, these cameras recorded what they saw on tape, as if Lorenzo believed the tape might be useful in a courtroom as evidence against a thief. El snorted. Burglary was not the threat his friend should be fearing, and evidence in court might be useful on American TV, but in Mexico it was only useful to the rich. Of course, Lorenzo was rich, now, he reminded himself. Perhaps he could buy justice, but he could not buy back his life after a cartel had taken it. This high-profile playboy lifestyle of Lorenzo's was foolish, and El decided to show that to him. After carefully noting the locations of all the inattentive guards, he circled the estate again, keeping to what shadows he could find in the bright daylight. He marked a helpful tree, growing from within the estate and slopping its bushy boughs over the top of the wall. The alley on the side of the estate where the tree grew was almost as busy as a street, and El Mariachi had to wait for the children on bicycles and mothers with strollers to clear momentarily. Then he slapped Velcro straps over the chains on his trousers, and removed the jingly spurs from the backs of his boots. These he twisted, turning them into climbing spikes, and attached them to the toes of his boots. The silver piping on his jacket yielded to his yank, and he snapped the metal into the form of a small grappling hook. Black nylon cord came from behind his belt and attached to the hook. In seconds he had crossed to the wall, flung the
hook over it where the tree grew, and scaled the crumbling stucco to lie
flat on top, ignoring the whirring camera, and shielded from view by the
tree. The boughs were a problem, for, lying flat on the wall as they
did, his arrival shook them and the motion was transferred to the
slender trunk of the tree. A very shivery tree. He lay still, despite
the sound of laughter coming down the alley. Carefully, he slid over the wall, touching the boughs and the rest of the tree as little as possible. Crouched in the foliage, he restored his tools to their usual places, though he kept the spurs and chains muffled. Tension filled him, now that he was inside. There might be guards he couldn't spot from the outside. It would be a sad death to be shot by his friend's security as he made his point. He checked his guns and tried to keep the adrenaline rush under control. He peered through the shrubbery, and smiled. The tree grew at the side of the house. The pool area, from which direction came laughing voices and the sound of splashes, was to his left. Cameras whirred ineffectually from the roof, and a guard sat in a folding chair at the corner of the house, peering around the corner to see the laughing girls. The guard continued to peek at the poolside show as El Mariachi's silent footfalls approached. El stopped directly before where the guard should have been looking and allowed his shadow to fall across the man. "Eh?" was all the man had time for before El clubbed him with a pistol butt. He would have toppled off the chair, making further noise, but El caught him by the front of his shirt and placed him firmly on his seat, leaning against the wall. "Sanchez?" called Lorenzo. To Lorenzo's credit, he had noticed the slight sound from the corner of the building. "Keep your eyes where they belong." El Mariachi stepped around the side of the building. "Bang, you're dead," he said, no weapons in his hands, but glancing all around the grounds, senses on high alert. Lorenzo dived off his lounge chair, throwing aside the girl who had been sitting on his lap. He rolled toward the house, toppling aluminum chairs and small tables. As he drew breath to summon the guards, he met El Mariachi's gaze. Smiling, El showed him open hands, palms up. Lorenzo froze, his hand inches from a wooden crate against the building. Then he exploded to his feet, crying El's real name. Crying in anger, for he had been made to look very foolish. His fury might have been more intimidating had he not been wearing red swimming trunks, and nothing else. "What the fuck are you doing here?!" "Visiting an old friend." Later, Lorenzo regained his humor, even appearing to listen patiently while El enumerated the dangers of his living arrangements. He insisted on showing El what he called his hacienda, and then the two of them took shelter from the noon heat in the tile and marble lined dining hall. A long, elegant Spanish table with high-backed wooden chairs suitable for a banquet served instead two gun fighting mariachis and a lot of beer bottles. Also a number of beautiful and buxom young women who draped themselves over Lorenzo's shoulders and laid their heads on his lap. El found the expanse of bare and inviting female
flesh disturbingly distracting. It had been long enough since he'd held
a woman that he could not keep his head clear while light fingers played
with his hair. He had to dismiss the girl with his darkest glare. "You are not the life of the party, my friend," Lorenzo said. "I'm not interested in your party. I need information. The Delgado cartel isn't so thin anymore. They've destroyed or absorbed six or seven other cartels since the Day of the Dead, including the remains of the Barillos. They have almost a monopoly on the South." Lorenzo nodded. "I know. Everyone knows that." This startled El Mariachi. He didn't think anyone in his village knew of it. He sighed and swallowed his pride. "What else does everyone know?" Lorenzo shrugged. "They have been swift and aggressive. Three cartels even banded together to oppose them in Villahermosa, but they have some great new muscle." "The Colombians?" Lorenzo shook his head. "That's what's mysterious. No. They say Delgado thinks he can cut the Colombians out entirely." El frowned. "Cut them out of the cocaine trade? They're the suppliers." "I don't know. But eventually it will come to war. A hell of a war." "And many, many people will be hurt." El regarded his beer bottle. Again Lorenzo shrugged. "People in the south." Then he had the grace to look sheepish. "I like it here," he said. El understood. Peace was something he had only had snatches of, all his life, and it was to be treasured. But he understood better now why El Presidente needed the Delgados destroyed or at least destabilized. It was one thing to strive for a monopoly on the drug trade in Mexico, but if you defied Colombia in any real way, the resulting conflagration would attract the attention of the greatest threat, Mexico's drug-consuming neighbor to the north. He sighed. "Lorenzo, I'm looking for a man, a CIA agent named Sands. Have you heard of him?" "CIA? Fuck, no. What do you want with the CIA?" "He was in Culiacan on the Day of the Dead. He was behind the attempted coup." El swallowed the last of the bottle of beer. "Not the coup, actually, but the assassination of Marquez." He watched as the implications sank in. Lorenzo slammed down a bottle. "We were working for the CIA?" He spat. "You were paid well. What do you have to complain about? And I got my revenge." Lorenzo scowled, but said nothing. "The Yanquis won't want this either. This Sands could help. But I need to think of a way to find him. Or to have him find me." While El was thinking, in the middle of the day, in not quite the middle of Mexico City, the Delgado cartel attacked Lorenzo's hacienda. Like El Mariachi, the attackers considered Lorenzo's "hacienda" easy pickings. Unfortunately for them, on this day Lorenzo had more competent help than usual. The first shots were silenced, but the open architecture and marble construction of Lorenzo's halls carried the "poofing" sound as Lorenzo's guards died. El saw Lorenzo's expression of dismay as he realized his peace was ending. It had happened often enough to El that he actually had time for a pang of sympathy for his friend. "Guns?" he asked, raising his eyebrows. "Under the furniture," Lorenzo said as he scrambled beneath his own chair and came up with a semi-automatic. El's own guns were a familiar weight inside his suit, but it always paid to know where a cache could be found for when you ran out of ammo. Gun ready, Lorenzo headed for a corridor that El guessed led eventually to the side of the building where El had first entered the estate.
The girls looked in his direction with various expressions of amusement or bemusement. El looked beyond them to the walls, searching for places he might have chosen to enter, when he was infiltrating the place. Lorenzo's guns boomed in the distance, just as El spotted the conspicuous movement of the foliage. He fired, a man cried out, and the women began screaming. Taking better cover behind the ledge below a cut-out arch beside the door, he picked off everyone he could mark in the shrubbery beyond the pool. At first a hail of bullets pockmarked the front of his ledge, but the storm abated as more of his foes fell. Once he was certain they were dead and not simply reloading, he looked for a better vantage. Altitude. Lorenzo's estate was three stories high in some places, and had many balconies, both inside and out. The high parts of the building were farthest from the outside walls, so El thought it unlikely that anyone had entered from above. Gunshots continued to sound from the side of the house where Lorenzo had gone, so El decided the other side could use some cleaning up. The inside stairwells were not a good idea - El was leery of long narrow places with no cover - so, appropriating three more weapons from beneath the banquet table and chairs, he looked for a way to scale the walls inside the vaulted interior. Aided by a hanging tapestry, his grappling hook, and brittle mortar in the walls, he climbed to the nearest balcony. Before he was over the rail, he heard booted feet running into the dining area, coming from the side of the house he'd intended to cover. With one hand, he laid down a field of automatic fire, killing three men, and wounding a fourth. He tossed aside the empty weapon, and vaulted over the railing, followed by shots from the fourth man. He ran along the balcony, then slid silently back on the railing to where he had been. Sure enough, the other man came into view, thinking he had fled. El dropped him with a single shot. He'd cleared the back, Lorenzo was at the one side, and those four men had come from the other side. The front of the house was too visible to the rest of the city; El doubted anyone was coming from there. He decided to see if Lorenzo needed help. Locating a connection to the outside balconies, he inched into range of the side of the house. He saw three bodies, one of which was the guard he hand clubbed not a few hours earlier. Poor bastard. He ran toward the back, hugging the wall. At the corner he was frustrated to find that his view down on the pool and courtyard area was obstructed from that corner by low trees and a canopy that shaded Lorenzo's outdoor beer tap. He lay flat on his belly and slid forward, watching below. The sound of an exchange of single shots made him smile. The action was in the back again. He reached a point just before the concrete of the pool, and now he could see Lorenzo, crouched where El had been before, just inside a doorway, but also with shooting access through an arch. "Romero! I have the girl!" called one of the attackers. El couldn't see him, because of the canopy. El peered at Lorenzo, and saw his friend's face go white. What girl? There were dozens of girls; they had all scattered. Half of them were probably on the streets by now, raising the alarm. It would be interesting to see if any police responded. To El's consternation, Lorenzo threw his guns out into the courtyard. "What do you want?" he asked. Mierde! If Lorenzo wanted to throw his life away for one of his bunnies, he was a bigger fool than El had thought. The girls' lives were all at risk the first day they had agreed to join Lorenzo's coterie in return for whatever Lorenzo gave them. Lorenzo was responsible for the danger to all of them, in El's opinion. But for any one more than the others?The coast should be fairly clear of other gunmen. The attackers had not sent in enough men to take on the two mariachis. The sensible thing to do was to leave now, and El intended to do it, with or without Lorenzo. He moved back along the balcony. As his field of view cleared the canopy, El saw the man with the girl and he froze. This girl was no bunny. Too short, too flat-chested, and certainly too plain, El knew her. Maria, Lorenzo's sister. His blood ran cold. Of course Lorenzo would use his new wealth to help support his family. Those of his family who would accept his help. "Come out with your hands up!" the man ordered, his gun pressed to Maria's temple. "Order your men to stop." What men? The few sleepy guards would never wake, now. But this guy couldn't be sure there were no other men. Good. He didn't know El was there. He probably thought El was a small army of security. Lorenzo moved out into the daylight, his hands held high. "Stop! Don't shoot!" he yelled. Damn. El couldn't shoot the man from where he was - not, and be sure Maria would live. He could still get away - this was Lorenzo's problem, he told himself. Apparently himself wasn't listening. He didn't move. A second man, rumpled and panting, limped into view, his semi-automatic trained on Lorenzo. "Mariachi!" called the first man. "Come out! Hands up, or your friend dies!" He should have listened to himself. The ride was long and bumpy. Blindfolded and bound, El couldn't tell where they were headed, but he was sure they had left Mexico City. They traveled in a panel truck with no windows in the back and two armed guards. Lorenzo and Maria were with him, but none of them were permitted to speak. With nothing to do but try to learn about their captors, El considered. The three of them had been taken alive, which surprised him. Clearly their identities were known: these men had even known who Maria was. If there was a cartel in Mexico that didn't want El dead, he didn't know of it. El didn't think he was of any use as a hostage. There was no one who would ransom him. El Presidente? There was a thought. Perhaps someone believed El Mariachi had information about El Presidente's plans. Finally he exhausted his speculations, and still they drove. He had long ago grown used to the idea that he might not live beyond the next day. He had known when he left his village that he was returning to the world of death and pain, but he also had always known he couldn't hide from it indefinitely. He only hoped to involve as few innocents in his fate as possible. He would not have stayed in the guitar town had he not been able to arm the entire village. He wondered how El Presidente had found him. He relaxed, harboring his strength, and rested his thoughts in memories of Carolina. He had never sought death, but at least he had the comfort that she would be waiting there for him, with their little daughter. Lorenzo and Maria did not deserve this, though. He sighed. Always there was something to make him care. They arrived somewhere late at night. The air was cool and scented with the aromas of many flowers. El was stiff with inaction as he was pushed, his hands still bound behind him, along an uneven stone-lined walkway, and now that he had to walk blindfolded, he was extremely nervous. His captor did not lead him, so he had no way of knowing if he was running into anything. Where was cover, where were the vantage points? He had never realized before how automatically he evaluated his surroundings, and his inability to calculate shooting tactics made him feel worse than blind. Three times he tripped as the walkway turned beneath his feet. Each time someone hit him in the back of the head with what was probably a gun butt. Maria and Lorenzo stumbled behind him. Ahead of him, growing nearer, he heard voices. "Puta madre!" someone yelled. "Antonio and Juan. Nine men!" A cynical laugh from another man, who spoke in English. "I told you to send more men," he said. "And smarter ones." El nearly stumbled again, in surprise. He knew that voice! If only they would take off his blindfold! "Shut up," said the first man, also in English. Rough hands checked El, probably right in front of the speaker. El didn't think they had entered a door. He guessed they might be in a courtyard. "So this," the man spoke grandly, stepping close to El, "is the great Mariachi." It was not a statement that called for a response, but CIA Agent Sands had one anyway. "Don't ask me. How would I know? Is he dressed in black with a tormented look?" Cold hatred welled up in El. Then the first man was yelling at El, inches from him. "You are El Mariachi! You killed two of my best men!" This did seem to call for a response. "Get used to it," El said, and braced for what he knew was coming. He wished again, futilely, that he could see. Sands, a few meters away, laughed. The hand that hit him had large sharp rings on it. He tasted blood. The man grabbed the front of El's shirt, and hauled him to inches from his face. El could smell cigarettes and garlic on the man's breath. "Some men I tame with pleasure, some with pain. Which should it be for El Mariachi?" "Pain," said Sands. "You surprise me. Surely he's familiar with pain. Perhaps you are just selfish." There were chuckles around the area, though El didn't think Sands' was among them. "You wanted my advice," said Sands in a bored tone. "Men like him are the way they are because they can't take real pain." "Pain it is, then. It's cheaper, and more entertaining." The man threw El to a cold floor, where he landed hard on his shoulder. He had only a moment to worry about what they would do to Lorenzo and Maria before someone dragged him out by his bound wrists, face down, along the walkway. At least they took the blindfold off. El could see the reinforced concrete room they put him in, with its one bare low-wattage bulb, and table of torture implements. One little man with a craggy face hovered hungrily over the tools, while the other two men softened El up with a beating. Bruised and bleeding, with one possible broken rib and his cheekbone blazing with pain where one thug had clubbed him with the stock of a rifle, he kept thinking, "at least they took the blindfold off." He hoped his relief had not been too obvious. El had been beaten before. He endured this beating in silence, using the pain to block his apprehension about what was to come. Sands was dead wrong. Pain and El were old acquaintances. He'd endured being shot nearly to death in the chest at the same moment he lost Carolina and his daughter. No pain, physical or spiritual, had ever matched that. Eventually the two thugs backed off, leering, as the craggy-faced man approached with what looked no more elaborate than a pair of pliers. "I'm a traditionalist," the man said pleasantly, in good Castilian. "We'll start with fingernails." El lost all sense of time, living every moment as an eternity. Finally, at some point, he was taken away through outside corridors lined with lush foliage, and shoved into a lightless, guarded room, where he fell to his knees and then collapsed forward on a cold floor. It was night. The same night or another, he didn't know. More time passed, and the door opened and light footsteps entered. For a moment light from the corridor illumined the room, and El saw that it had a bed, some kind of small table and a sink. Then the door closed and someone knelt beside him in the dark. A hand touched him gingerly and a small voice called him by name. "Maria?" he asked, incredulous. "Yes, it's me," she said. "What are you doing here?" "They said I could come and help you. I'm studying to be a nurse, you know." He didn't know. "Why did they let you?" It didn't make sense. "I don't know," she admitted. She stood and took some uncertain steps around the room. "They even gave me some bandages. Isn't there a light? I can't see you." El thought he understood. A common tactic, to keep a prisoner off-balance by alternating cruelty and kindness. A weak light flickered into being and Maria stood silhouetted beside the small table. "The bulb was loose," she said. She returned and scrutinized him. "Let's get you on the bed." El couldn't really use her help. She was too slight and weak to either lift him or support his weight. He half-crawled to the cot-sized bed, finding that some of his injuries hurt less now and others hurt even more. Once on the bed, he lay still as she exclaimed in horror over him. Her cautious ministrations hurt him more than once, but being touched to help instead of to hurt gave such healing to his psyche that he made no complaint, even when she wrapped his torso tightly. She had a bag of ice for his face. Gingerly, she took his hand and studied his fingers. Every fingernail had been pulled out and his hands were a bloody mess. He couldn't help but flinch when she tried to bandage the ends of his fingers. "No, no," he said, pulling back his hand. He couldn't bear to have anything touch them. "Wait," she said. She fumbled with something on the floor and came up with a tube, like a tube of toothpaste. "This is a topical anesthetic. Let me put it on. Then you can take the bandages." They had given her an entire first-aid kit! El mentally shook his head in bemusement, but he allowed her to treat him. She had finished one hand when she said his name again. "What do they want with us?" she asked, tremulously. "I don't know," he said. "If they need the money, they can sell me, and probably Lorenzo, to another cartel." It was the only thing he'd been able to come up with, but it was very thin. And, in most cases, their corpses would be sufficient to garner the reward. "Where did they take you?" "Lorenzo and I are together in another room. Unless I am to be here, now." She looked around. "Did they hurt either of you?" "No," she gulped. "Not yet." He lifted the bandaged hand to her frightened face. "Has anyone touched you?" he asked, gently. She blinked. "Not yet." "I am sorry, Maria." The door opened, and in came the last man El wanted to see this night, or any night. Agent Sands paused just inside the doorway, and someone outside closed the door behind him. El heard the click of the lock. For a long moment no one said anything. Sands wore dark glasses, making his expression difficult to read. "What the fuck is this?" Sands finally asked. "What do you mean?" asked Maria, still crouched beside El on the bed. "What are you doing in my room?" Sands turned and pounded on the door. "Hey pig-dick! Who's in my room?" he yelled. "Easier to guard one room than two," came the muffled response. "Have a party, if you like." "Ah, shit," said Sands as he kicked at the door. He turned to face them. "El?" he asked, an uneasy note in his voice. What was the matter with the man? El couldn't quite put together Sands' actions and his words. Not that it mattered. What mattered was that they were together in a locked room, and as far as El could see, Sands had no weapon on him. He gathered his strength and launched himself off the bed at him. He got in one solid punch with his bandaged hand. Maria gave a little shriek, and then Sands retaliated with more strength and fury than El expected, given the man's slight build. El went down without much further fight as he exhausted what strength he had recovered. He had instinctively caught himself with his unbandaged hand and the agony from that member brought tears to his eyes. "No, no, stop!" cried Maria, hanging on Sands as he pressed his counter-attack. Sands stepped back, shrugging her off, and Maria shrieked again. El blinked and struggled up. What had Sands done to her? Sands turned his head toward El and El saw what she had seen. The sunglasses had fallen off in the fight, and where the man's eyes should have been . . . "Dios!" Sands looked like a living skull. El almost crossed himself. He stared, his fury as exhausted as his strength. Beyond Sands, Maria did cross herself, her eyes huge in her pale face. Sands straightened, paused, then took a deep breath. "Are we done with this shit?" he asked. He moved, with uncanny accuracy, to where his glasses had fallen, and put them back on. El still could find no words. Hearing the gringo's twangy voice come out of the death mask had only made the situation more creepy. He wondered for a moment if he were having a nightmare, but the pain from his hands and ribs dispelled that possibility. "Get off my bed," Sands ordered. Maria stood forth with admirable courage, El thought. "He's injured. He gets the bed," she said. "It's my goddamn bed," Sands roared, and, gripping the rail at the foot of the bed, he lifted the end of it, with El on it, and, twisting, dumped El on the floor. Even as a spear of pain went through his ribs, El marveled at the man's strength. Only great anger or fear should inspire this, and Sands had no cause for either, that El could see. Something was wrong about the whole situation. Ignoring Maria, who joined him on the floor, her arms around him, El studied Sands. He could bear to look at the man now that the glasses were back on. Sands looked unnaturally pale, he thought, and sweat glistened on his face. Sands threw the bed back into place, and then returned to the door. He knocked and called, in a less angry tone, "Gomez! Where's my nightcap?" Laughter from beyond the door, and then it opened a crack, admitting the barrel of a gun. "Have you been a good boy?" the guard asked. "How's the party going?" "Cut the crap," said Sands, and, just to add to El's confusion, he sounded, not insulting, but almost solicitous. "Have you got it?" "Here. Nice doggy." A sandwich bag with a tiny amount of white substance in it flew in the door as the gun retreated. The door closed and locked. CIA Agent Sands slid down the wall beside the door, scooped up the bag, and proceeded to put the white stuff up his nose, as El and Maria watched. El pulled himself to a more comfortable position on the floor, watching Sands lean his head back against the wall. He wondered how long Sands would be coherent. "What did they do to you?" El asked quietly. "Who?" Sands replied. He got to his feet and walked to the bed, moving confidently, as if he had his sight. He lay down on his back, with his arms behind his head. "What happened to your eyes?" "That was Barillo." Sands sounded distant. El was ashamed of the wave of relief that swept through him. Delgado had not done this, so El did not have to assume it was in store for him. He wondered if Sands knew El had killed Barillo. Clearly that day had not gone the way Sands had planned. El had some satisfaction in his own part of that. He had refused to be used. "I guess you fucked up," he said. "Fuck you." Quietly, Maria took El's unbandaged hand and began her ministrations. "What are you doing here?" El asked. "I," Sands paused, "am," he paused again, "helping Julio Delgado get rich." "You? You are his new muscle? You're blind." "Brilliant observation, El. I am not the muscle; I am the brains. You will be the muscle." "I will never work for a cartel." "You will work for a cartel, doing whatever dirty work they have for you, or they will slowly dismember the Romeros." Sands almost sang the words. "They are not the nicest of guys." Maria made a small sound. "But you are helping them." "Also," Sands continued, "they will condition you with torture, until they know exactly what kind of pain to threaten you with." He reached up and drew small circles on the wall with a forefinger. "They already know you don't like electricity." El winced. His every nerve twinged at the mere reminder. Had his torturers actually wanted something from him, he would have given them anything to make the shocks stop. He felt sick. "Electricity …" Sands' voice trailed off. "Zzzp. Zzzp." He continued to draw circles on the wall. Maria, finished with El's other hand, stood and approached the bed. El tensed. "What?" asked Sands. The man must have quite good hearing. "May I see your eyes?" Maria asked. "What? No. Fuck off." "Why not?" El braced for violence. If Sands hurt her … "Oh, all right. If that's what gets you off." Since he continued to draw on the wall, Maria reached down, herself, and removed the glasses. She stared, barely breathing. "If I were you, El …" Sands paused as if he had lost his train of thought. "Yes?" El prompted. "I would let them think you really hate the beatings." The man's chest rose and fell rapidly. He was almost panting. El wondered what he was feeling. "You told them to use pain on me," El said. Sands stopped tracing circles. "How do they look?" he asked. Maria looked at El for help. Either she didn't know what to say or her English wasn’t extensive enough for the description. El answered. "You look like death. Your eye sockets belong on a skull, but the holes are not black, they are red." "Do they hurt?" Maria asked. "Not at the moment," Sands answered. "As for the pain, El," he paused for a long time, "you wouldn't have stood a chance with the pleasure." Maria put Sands' glasses on his chest and returned to El. "They hooked you," El said. Sands folded the sunglasses and set them on the floor. "I was an easy catch." Beneath the bored tone and the slightly slurring words, El heard a trace of self-loathing. El shifted again, cursing the man for taking the bed. He needed support for his torso. Maria rose, snatched Sands' pillow from beneath his head, and gave it to El. Sands' head fell back, but he had no reaction. "Why isn't Lorenzo with us?" Maria asked El, in Spanish. "We are hostages for each other," El told her. "They won't ever put the three of us together." "Got it in one," sang Sands from the bed. El made a mental note that the man's understanding of Spanish was pretty good. "Maria, if you see Lorenzo, tell him … tell him I will get us out of this. He must stay alert and ready." The girl nodded. "El," called Sands. "El Mariachi," he sang. El had an odd feeling that what the man was about to say was important. "What do you want?" "Whatever you do, escape plans, crazy, stupid plots, whatever …" "Yes?" The man said nothing for a long time. El would have tried to read his expression if he could have borne to look at the agent's ruined face. When he spoke, Sands' voice was almost a whisper. "Don't tell me. Don't trust me. Make no mistake, Delgado owns me, body and soul." "Soul and body," he sang. "Soul and body." It was a long night. El dozed fitfully, waking himself with pain every time he moved. Maria gave him her lap for a pillow, so he could use the pillow under his ribs. A distant part of his mind was acutely aware that he was cradled on firm young female thighs, but the rest of him was in no condition to be any more than grateful. The mix of genes that had resulted in Lorenzo had given the world an unfortunately plain woman for his sister. The lap was nice, though. He woke once again as someone stumbled against his outstretched leg. "Dammit," Sands muttered, recovering his footing and continuing to the door. Was it morning? The room was windowless, and there was no clock. El had been dreaming about being blind and helpless. He tested his swollen limbs and decided that his ribs were not broken. They didn't hurt enough for that. Sands knocked on the door. "Martinez? You out there?" "It's not time, yet," answered a different voice than the one earlier. "I could use my coffee now," Sands said. "You can always use your coffee. Later." Sands leaned his forehead against the door. "How much later?" he asked plaintively. "Shall I start singing?" He waited for a moment, listening. Then he tipped his head back, took a deep breath, and belted out, "Oooooklahoma, where the wind comes sweeping down the plain, where the waving wheat," "Stop!" El cried, struggling up from Maria's lap. "For Christ's sake, stop!" El despised American musicals, and Sands wasn't even singing on key. ". . . can sure smell sweet, where the wind comes right behind the rain!" Someone pounded on the door from the outside. "All right," the man called. "All right!" Sands stopped. A muffled oath in Spanish, and the sound of chair legs scraping against stone. "You have half an hour. The Señora is here. Try to be presentable." Maria stood and clicked on the light. Sands' head jerked. He turned around, the ghastly holes staring into the room. "What is that?" he asked. "The light?" "Sí," said Maria, gulping at the sight of his face again. Sands leaned back against the door, and gave a mirthless chuckle. "So, do I look presentable?" Neither El nor Maria replied, and Sands pushed off from the door, stepping deftly over El's outstretched leg, this time, and reaching the sink. A plastic safety razor and comb were on the basin, and Sands availed himself of both. "How long have you been here?" Maria asked as she watched him try to pull the comb through his stringy hair. "That bad, huh?" said Sands. He turned away from the sink and El flinched away from looking at his face. Maria handed the man his sunglasses, touching his hand with them. Sands pulled his hand back, startled, but then accepted them and put them on. "Better, Sugarlips?" he asked. "Sí," said Maria in a small voice. "Who is the Señora?" El asked, his voice raspy. Sands bounced cheerfully across the room to the door, and waited there, like a dog expecting a treat. "Delgado's mommy," he said. Maria smoothed her skirt and tucked her blouse in. El pulled himself to the sink, careful of his hands, ran cold water over his palm, and rubbed his face. The door unlocked and a hand tossed in another plastic bag. Sands caught it as if he could see, and promptly snorted the contents. The door closed again. "Mmm, I just love the smell of coffee in the morning," Sands said. El's stomach rumbled. He hoped there was some real breakfast to come. Twenty minutes passed, during which time Sands grew increasingly talkative. El used the time to try to get his swollen joints mobile enough to at least walk. He listened to the agent ramble and wondered if the CIA had made any attempt to recover the man. Surely a talkative, cocaine-addicted agent was a serious liability to the agency. It occurred to him that Sands had probably made no attempt to attract rescue. The CIA quite possibly had no idea what had become of him. "The coca plant can't grow in regions where the temperature drops below freezing," the man was saying. "Everyone knows that. Everyone has always known that. But the times they are a-changin'. Modern technology can do wonderful things." Sands reached out a hand toward the bed and encountered Maria who was sitting on it. "There you are, Darlin'," he said. He caressed the side of her face, and played for a moment with her hair. "You're a beauty, aren't you Sweetheart?" El watched warily. Maria, the silly girl, blushed. "Señor," she said, uncertainly. Sands turned his hand over in an oddly elegant gesture, and slid the back of it down her neck, over a breast, and to her waist. Maria stiffened, but did not move. She could have easily moved away from him. "Sands," El warned. He held out his hand, demanding that Maria come to him. Sands cupped his hand beneath her chin, gently, then cupped one small breast in the same manner. "I am so with stupid," he said, thoughtfully. To El's annoyance, Maria only stared at the man's glasses. She did not move away. El could not make sense of the man's words, but his intentions were clear enough. The agent pressed closer to the seated girl, sliding his hand over her shoulders so he could move her in close. The jangling sound of the lock startled El before he could take any action, and then the door was opened. Three armed men, also wearing sunglasses, stood in the sunlit doorway. "Time to go," said one of them. El squinted against the bright daylight as the three of them moved into the outside corridor. As his eyes adjusted, he was able to get a much better idea of the estate. Lorenzo's share of twenty million pesos had allowed him to buy what was really just a very large house in a good district. This compound was truly an estate. Arch-lined outdoor corridors rimmed multiple interior courtyards, all with beautiful topiary, fountains, and gardens of all sizes and on many levels. Above the corridors, the courtyard walls bore beautiful murals - not good, patriotic, Rivera-influenced murals, but religious iconography in a distinctly Spanish style. Loving Madonnas cradled their babes, mournful pietas grieved, and Christ's bloody agony saved undeserving sinners, all with their eyes cast heavenward. El found that his painful efforts to get himself mobile had had mixed results. Yes, he could walk, which was an improvement over last night, but he couldn't walk at a normal pace. One of the thugs shoved him forward, and the series of steps he had to take to keep from falling face down in the forsythia lanced agony through him. He gasped. "I thought you could go faster," laughed the man. Maria was at his side, then, beneath one arm, and supporting him more sturdily than he had thought she could. "Don't be afraid," he murmured. "Aren't you?" she asked. "No." A guard cuffed the back of El's head with a fist. "No talking." Sands, that hopped-up bastard, strode ahead of them, navigating the brick and tile walkways with amazing confidence. Remembering his own blindfolded, almost panicky fumblings, El couldn't help but be impressed. The guards trailed El and Maria, apparently not concerned that they keep Sands under close watch, nor concerned that it was Sands who was leading their party into the interior of the main house. Sands seemed to know where they were going, and was content to go there. El could hear him humming to himself. After what seemed to El a very long walk, Sands slowed as he approached a large pair of glass French doors. It was the first hint El had noticed on their walk, that Sands couldn't see. Sands knew the doors were coming up, but didn't know exactly where they were. He extended his right hand a little, at waist height, and slowed cautiously a few feet before the glass. The doors were set in a larger expanse of glass walls enclosing what otherwise would have been a large open ballroom area. Sunlight, which would have made such a greenhouse unbearable, came gently filtered through the courtyard canopy of dwarf palm and eucalyptus trees. Inside, El could see rows of ceiling fans slowly turning, an expanse of exquisitely tiled floor, carved dark wood columns, at least one chandelier, and, at the far end of the room, the figures of people, in shadow. The dappled sunlight fell upon Sands' face as he turned toward the approaching group, and El saw again a sheen of perspiration, though the morning was still temperate. "Hey Martinez!" said Sands, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet. "What brings the Señora here today? Has the first shipment arrived?" "Ask the boss," grunted Martinez. "Has it? Huh? Has it? You can tell me. Oh, come on." One guard positioned his gun at the small of El's back, and a second moved forward to open the door. "Oh, I hope it has. I hope, I hope, I hope," sang Sands, sounding like a child waiting to open a present. "Oh, shut up," ordered Martinez, sounding like the weary parent of the child. El noticed that Sands didn't get his ears boxed, though. The guard who opened the door led them inside. "Shutting up," said Sands cheerfully. "Shutting up now." They entered the glassed-in area, and El felt at once the reason for the enclosure. A cool man-made breeze drifted across him, making his clothes clammy. Central air-conditioning. El took his arm from around Maria's shoulders and straightened. He would not approach his captors like a cripple. Somehow he managed to take strides large and quick enough to keep up as they walked, boots echoing, down the long hall. They passed wooden tables with velvet upholstered chairs, antique loveseats, divans, and brocaded ottomans. It felt like walking through a throne room. That impression grew stronger as they neared the end of the room. Seated on an impressive high-backed chair was a white-haired matron decked in a rich green gown with a filmy overlay sporting peacock feather patterns. In the "eyes" of the peacock feathers, jewels winked in the dappled sunlight. Around her neck she wore a beautiful gold crucifix, also inlaid with jewels. She gripped in her right hand, a sturdy wooden cane, its golden handle in the shape of a peacock head. She lacked only a crown to be a dowager queen. Beside the "throne" stood the man El presumed to be the drug-lord himself. His hair slate-gray where his mother's was white, Delgado was tall, looked strong, and was dressed in a loose green silk suit. His every finger bore a ring. His eyes were deep-set and cold. Two other men were clearly of higher rank than the business-suit wearing muscle. Both were younger than Delgado, expensively dressed, and shared a resemblance to him. One of them, the older of the two, leaned over a table sumptuously laden with breakfast foods, picking his selection. Like a buffet, the table had no chairs and a modest stack of small china plates at one end. This man watched the group warily as they approached, particularly sizing up El. The others, including a handful of armed thugs, looked less interested. The old woman was impossible to read. The youngest man with a family resemblance already held a plate with food upon it, and he moved closer to the approaching entourage, as if to intercept them, but then stepped aside so they all had to pass very close to him. The smell of cooked ham reached El's senses, reminding him how very hungry he was. As Sands passed this youngest man, the man put out his foot, tripping Sands and sending him sprawling forward. The leading guard dodged so Sands hit the floor instead of falling into him. The American's sunglasses slid along the stone floor, stopping at Delgado's feet. Everyone but Delgado and the Señora laughed. Maria gasped, and gripped El's arm. Sands, still on the ground, rolled over and gave the man his eerie eyeless stare. "Hello, Pablo," he said. Delgado, with an economical movement, kicked the plastic sunglasses back to Sands, who caught them and put them on. Sands got to his feet and faced the throne with everyone else. El regarded the agent with mixed feelings. While Sands might be a willing worker, rewarded with cocaine, he was still a slave, manipulated by the very people whom he had played like chess pieces. It had a romantic irony to it, but El felt a little sorry for him. "Good morning!" said Sands brightly, startling El a bit. Generally, he felt, prisoners were wisest to stay as quiet as possible and learn all they could about their situation. This wisdom did not seem to have occurred to Sands. "Here's El Mariachi," Sands continued, as if he'd brought him as a gift. "Thank you for the introduction," said Delgado, his dry voice confirming for El that he was the man El had first been brought before. The man at the food table stepped closer to El and narrowed his eyes. "He doesn't look like so much," he said. "Actually," Sands said, "there's a bonus I hadn't thought of when we went after him." When we went after him!? El made a quick review of the English words and concluded that yes, it meant what he thought it did. Any sympathy El had had for Sands evaporated."He really can play, you know," Sands said. "You guys could use a little entertainment around here besides Pablo's porn films." Pablo turned a ruddy color, and, with a strangled sound, reached for Sands. This time, however, Sands anticipated him and evaded him neatly. "Pablo!" Delgado said, stopping the young man. Pablo turned and stalked to a chair, not looking at the old woman. Delgado raised one eyebrow. "I have heard of the things he does with his guitar." Sands snorted. "Well, obviously, you don't give him that guitar. You must have one around somewhere that's not, you know, loaded." Sands laughed, enjoying his own joke. Delgado only smiled tightly. "We have a problem, Agente Sands, more serious than lack of entertainment." The old woman spoke. Her voice was strong, and all the men paid instant, respectful attention. In Spanish, she commanded, "Let them eat." "Sí, Mama," said Delgado. Giving El a mocking look, he gestured toward the food, in invitation. For a moment El did not move, not believing, but Maria's tug on his arm brought him cautiously to the table. The two of them began filling plates. There was coffee. Sands did not move. "What's the problem? Has the shipment come? I'm ready to be your guinea pig." "The shipment, Agente Sands," said Delgado with a glance at his mother, "was ambushed outside of San Miguel, and stolen." "Well, fuck. I thought we cleared that corridor. That was sloppy of your brother." The man who had scrutinized El so closely slammed his plate down on a table. "Oh, David!" said Sands. "Is that you? I'm so sorry; I didn't realize you were here." David's response made clear what he thought of that claim. "Enough!" Delgado said sharply. "You will all show respect for Mother. And for the lady," he added with an ironic nod toward Maria. "Do you at least know who perpetrated the dastardly crime?" asked Sands. "The Orozcos," replied David, through clenched teeth. "Oh! Well, no problem, then," said Sands, with an elaborate shrug. "They'll take it to their basement cache outside of Villahermosa. I can give you the address. Just go raid it." Even the angry David looked astonished. He, Pablo, and Delgado exchanged guarded looks. "How do you know this?" demanded Delgado. Sands threw wide his arms. "Hello! CIA? We know everything." Sands turned and swaggered to the food table, but rather than take any food, he moved around the table until he stood very close to Maria. "They'll guard it like a motherfucker during transport, but they'll be complacent once it's safely there. They don't think anyone knows about their hidey-hole." Maria, with a glance at the others, turned and put her plate of food between herself and Sands, stepping back. "Why, thank you, Darlin," said Sands, helping himself to a pastry from her plate. Pablo jumped to his feet. "I could go ahead and be waiting for them there." "They'll expect an immediate reprisal from us because they think we don't know where they're going," said David. "They'll be cautious and heavily guarded. Which means slow. Plenty of time for us to get to Villahermosa." Both men consulted Delgado. Delgado tipped his head and looked at Sands with narrowed eyes. "What do you suggest, Agente Sands?" he asked, his voice silky. "You know the consequences if you mislead me." "When have I ever done that?" Sands replied innocently. He took Maria's plate from her, and groped with it to find a clear spot to set it on the table. "I just supply the information. You guys do what you do best. But if it were me . . ." Sands slid his arm around Maria's waist. No one said anything. El planned how best to deck the asshole if he felt Maria up any further. After a moment, in which, El reminded himself, Sands couldn't see how everyone was staring at him, Sands shrugged. "I'd have you guys go somewhere else, high-profile, as a decoy, so they don't suspect you know where they are. Send the men to do the job. Juan, maybe." "Juan is dead," Delgado said, with a venomous look at El. "As is Antonio." "Oh, yeah, I forgot. Well, Pablo might be up to the job. It shouldn't be very hard." Sands' hand roved upward from Maria's waist as he slid his body against hers. Was El imagining it or did the American stroke his hips against her? The girl's eyes grew wide. Pablo growled low in his throat, whether at the insult to himself or to Maria, El wasn't sure. The Señora interrupted, in Spanish. "The girl. She was with the American?" The conversation ceased, respectfully, but Delgado looked puzzled. "Last night," Señora insisted. "Why was the girl not with her brother?" Delgado glanced at Maria and El thought he might be going to object. "It is not to happen again. At night, she is to sleep with her brother. This is not proper." "Sí, Mama," said Delgado. "Maria!" cried Sands. "They're going to separate us!" He grabbed the girl around the waist and swung her, somehow missing the food table and a nearby chair. "Ma-ri-a!" he sang. "I've just met a girl named Maria!" "Señor," breathed the girl, almost smiling. Around them the others looked on in different states of disapproval and alertness. "And suddenly the name, will never be the same, to me!" Sands dipped the girl and kissed her deeply, stroking her side and breast. Maria made a small sound, but did not struggle. The kiss continued, even El strangely transfixed by its intensity and inappropriateness to the situation, as Sands tasted her hungrily. El collected himself and started forward, but was startled by a loud knocking sound. The Señora had stamped her cane on the tile floor, and the sound echoed around them. Still in her chair, she looked furious. She gestured to Delgado, who leaned over near her to hear what she had to say. Delgado straightened. "Enough!" he yelled, gesturing at the armed guards. "Stop him!" Two of them pounced on the couple and dragged Sands off the breathless Maria. She was permitted to scamper to El's side, her cheeks flushed. "The girl," Delgado announced, "will stay with her brother. Agente Sands, you have displeased the Señora." Something about the way he said it made it sound like a judge pronouncing sentence. With a guard holding each of Sands' upper arms, the man looked sullen, like the accused hearing his fate. "And Mariachi, you will raid the Orozcos in Villahermosa." Suddenly El was part of the conversation. "No," he said. "Yes," said Delgado pleasantly. "It is the perfect job for our new muscle. Or you will spend the day with my cousin, again." El's mouth went dry. "No," he said. Delgado sighed dramatically. "Very well. We have time. I'll ask you again later." El went cold. The threat beneath all the morning's pleasantries had become real. The guards came and took him back to the concrete room. Go to: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 |
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