Chapter 27: Shoot and Run

Jackson turned the key in the ignition, turning on the car's radio and clock, checking the time, before asking, "What in the world do you want that guitar for?"

Sands raised a challenging eyebrow in Jackson's general direction, and smirked as he heard Jackson grumble while he exited the car to retrieve the guitar.

Sands inwardly groaned at the disco-tech music coming through the speakers, and made a mental note to pick up a tape with real music on it in the near future before he went mad.

He shifted his attention to El lying on the backseat. Other than breathing there wasn't much movement, which was a good thing, as far as he was concerned.

Sands' attention immediately snapped back towards the front windshield when he heard the sound of gunshots coming from the square. He instinctively reached into his bag and retrieved the first gun his hand came in contact with, as Jackson let out a startled cry and ran back towards the car.

Sands clicked off the gun's safety and rolled down the window as a couple more shots were fired at Jackson. He tried to concentrate on where the bullets were coming from but was having trouble pinpointing the location.

'Goddamn it!' Sands thought angrily as he heard a couple bullets hit the front hood of the car.

The shooter, or shooters, weren't making much noise, nor were they speaking, and the radio was on loud enough to block out the softer sounds, such as footsteps, that he desperately needed to hear.

Sliding down lower in his seat, to a position which was hopefully semi-covered, he fumbled with the car stereo, pushing buttons in an attempt to find the power off button or volume knob. He succeeded in changing the station, flipping between AM and FM, and switching from radio to CD.

"Fuck!" Sands cursed as he struck the radio in frustration, and ducked lower as three bullets pierced the front windshield, the gunman deciding to target him instead of Jackson. Suddenly, logic prevailed and Sands just about laughed out loud at his own stupidity.

"Your brain has preformed an illegal operation and will be shut down," Sands muttered to himself, as he reached over and yanked the keys out of the ignition, throwing them onto the driver's seat. The radio immediately shut off.

"Jackson!" Sands yelled, wondering, not for the first time, where the idiot had hidden himself. He got his answer when an hysterical reply came from behind the car. Sands interrupted him and shouted, "Get your ass in the car!"

A couple more shots aimed towards the back of the car missed their target and hit the bumper. Jackson shouted back, "They're shooting at me!"

"No shit, Sherlock!" Sands bit back angrily. He opened the car door and jumped out, using it as cover. Evidently, the townspeople weren't going to let him take El without a fight.

"Well, fuck. I'm ready to shoot some shit. Bring it on," Sands muttered under his breath.

Listening intently he could now hear the dull sound of footsteps on dirt, beginning to move closer.

A couple more shots were fired, aiming for his exposed feet, which were not covered by the car door. They narrowly missed their target, and Sands quickly stood up and fired a couple rounds of his own before taking cover again.

Unfortunately, he shot blindly, and didn't hit a damn thing.

He waited, listening for a distinct sound to aim at, and the moment came a few seconds later. A clear footstep as it compacted rock into soil. Taking the opportunity, he stood, aimed, and fired a single shot. As he ducked back behind the door, he heard a satisfying thump as a body hit the ground.

A couple more shots whizzed by him, and Sands was happy to realize that the man wasn't a great shot. However, the man also wasn't moving, and other than the gunshots, there were no sounds to help him take aim.

"Jackson, where is he?" Sands hissed, only speaking loud enough for Jackson to hear. The gunman had stopped shooting, and Sands guessed he was running low on ammo, and waiting for Sands to expose enough of himself to make a kill.

"I don't know!"

Sands growled in frustration and fired a bullet in Jackson's general direction.

Sands couldn't hear anyone else, nor was any other hostile fire being sent their way, and he decided there must have only been two of them to start with.

Giving up on Jackson being any help whatsoever, he decided to try and get the shooter to speak.

"Why so hostile? I must say, I'm not impressed by this town's hospitality!" Sands announced, hoping the man would answer. His weakness was proving itself to be quite a problem, and the only thing he had going for him was the fact that the gunman most likely didn't know he was blind.

"I won't let you take El Mariachi!" an unfamiliar male voice shouted back in heavily accented English.

Sands smiled as he focused all his attention on where the voice came from. He quickly stood up and fired a well-aimed shot before ducking behind the door again. They'd both fired at about the same time, and he narrowly missed collecting a bullet with his name on it. Evidently, the other man wasn't quite so lucky. He heard the body drop a split second later.

He listened for anymore would-be El saviors, and heard footsteps shuffling from where the booths were set up. Sands fired a shot into one of the man's legs, and he yelped in pain before pleading with Sands in Spanish. He never finished, silenced by a bullet in the head.

He heard more quick footsteps, getting fainter by the second.

A few townspeople running from the square.

Sands waited in deep concentration, still taking cover behind the car door. After an uneventful minute went by, he was satisfied that there were no more shooters, and broke cover, walking around to the back of the car where Jackson was breathing heavily and seemingly near to having hysterics.

Sands stopped when he reached the back of the car, where Jackson was currently hiding.

Jackson looked up to face the most frightening expression he'd ever seen, and shuddered involuntarily in response.

Sands was casually leaning against the trunk of the car… smiling.

As far as Jackson was concerned, that couldn't be a good thing.

"Sands, I… they… they were shooting at me," Jackson stuttered, frightened of what Sands might do to him while he still had a gun in his possession.

A look of utterly fake compassion flashed across Sands' face. "Oh? They were shooting at you? Poor baby. Did they hurt you?"

"Uh, n… no," Jackson answered, completely unnerved.

A man rushed out of his hiding place behind Sands, running away from the square. Sands turned and fired a shot at him for good measure. The guy let out a startled sound before picking up the pace.

'Damn. I missed,' Sands thought as he turned back towards Jackson. 'Well, no time to waste.'

Sands immediately started the conversation back up. "They didn't hurt you?" He asked again, tightening his grip on the gun he currently held in an attempt to keep his temper in check.

Jackson stood slowly, and wiped the dirt off his pants. "No," he answered, managing not to stutter this time. "No, I think I managed to come out OK."

"Really?" Sands asked, and startled Jackson when he shot a bullet into the dirt at his feet. Jackson jumped back in surprise and Sands' aimed again, before firing and embedding a piece of lead in Jackson's left foot. "How about now, Jackson? Did you manage to come out of this OK?"

Jackson fell back to the ground, moaning in pain. However, Sands wasn't feeling too compassionate. He roughly hauled Jackson back to his feet, and Jackson sagged heavily as pain shot through his injured foot.

Sands' patience was spent, and he was far too enraged to let Jackson get away with this second pathetic display of cowardice. Their lives were on the line, and he wasn't about to let the little worm get him killed.

Sands dragged him around to the driver's side, opened the door and shoved him into the seat.

Slamming the door shut, Sands walked over to where he'd originally dropped the guitar, knelt down, and felt around for a moment until his hand touched its smooth wood surface.

Grabbing it, he barked at Jackson to pop the trunk, and tossed it in with El's weapons.

When he returned to the passenger seat, Jackson protested. "You shot me in the foot! I can't drive now, you idiot!"

"You can drive this car with one leg. The true beauty of the automatic transmission."

"I'm in too much pain, and it's bleeding…"

'Good God, I want to blow him away,' Sands thought, as he cracked his neck. He brought the gun to Jackson's temple.

"I suggest you find a way to cope with the pain from a single, non-life threatening gunshot wound, or you'll suddenly find a piece of lead embedded in your head… and that, kemo sabi, would be life threatening."

Jackson searched for something to say, but Sands didn't give him a chance to answer before speaking again. "Much to my dismay, it seems that the only thing you're remotely capable of doing is driving, and if your ability to do that is now gone, then your life means less to me than the limited life-span of a fly on the wall."

Sands lowered the gun, but kept hold of it. "Are you getting my oh-so-subtle message?"

Jackson gulped and nodded his understanding.

"Groovy! Now drive this fucking car before I decide to swat you dead like the spineless insect you are," Sands said, as he leaned over and turned the key in the ignition, starting up the engine, and shifting the car into drive.

"Time to lickety-split, Tonto. I do believe your life depends on it."