"What are our room numbers, Jackson?" Sands asked, as he and El followed Jackson’s lead to the room.

"Mine’s 219, yours is 202."

As they walked, Sands tried to stay behind Jackson, in an effort not to run into anything. The only stumble he made was a slight trip at the foot of the stairs leading up to the second floor, where their rooms were located. Neither of the men said anything, and he sincerely hoped that they hadn’t noticed.

When Jackson stopped, Sands and El followed suit. Jackson didn’t say anything however, and Sands was left wondering whose room they were standing in front of.

‘Yeah, I’ve caught onto your little game, Jackson,’ Sands thought to himself. Really, he wasn’t in the mood.

"El, go with Jackson to his room and help him patch up his foot. I’m quite sure he won’t be able to get the bullet out all by himself, and since I put it there, I really don’t think he wants me to remove it." Sands added a smirk to the last comment, and held his hand out for the keycard. "Don’t be too long now, El."

Jackson placed the keycard in Sands’ hand, before opening the door they were standing in front of. El and Jackson entered the room, and the door was quickly shut behind them.

‘Ah, hell,’ Sands cursed to himself. Jackson had left him to find his own room, and Sands hoped to hell that the room doors had raised numbers.

Sighing, Sands reached a hand out to the door and searched for the room number. ‘Fucking asshole,’ he thought as he groped around. He breathed a sigh of relief as he felt the raised brass under his fingers. His index finger brushed over the number. 219.

‘Crud!’ He didn’t know which way the numbers went. Guessing, he moved to his right and traced out the number on the next door… 221. He was going the wrong direction.

As he turned to correct himself, a female voice asked him in clumsy Spanish if he needed any help. Much to his embarrassment, her voice made him start ever so slightly. He hadn’t heard her approach.

Sands turned to face the voice. Judging from the accent in her Spanish, he guessed she was American, probably around his age, but he couldn’t be sure. It was hard to tell someone’s age by their voice, he found. "Oh, excuse…"

"You’re American? Thank God! It’s so nice to be able to speak English to someone. My Spanish isn't anything to be proud of! I trust you have a good reason for loitering in front of my door?" she asked, only half joking.

‘What kind of moron must you look like right now?’ Sands sighed and moved to finish up his cigarette. "Sorry, I was trying to find my room and wasn’t sure which direction it was."

She was silent for a moment while she put together his actions, the sunglasses and the comment. "Oh…" she trailed off as she studied the man in front of her. "Well, what room number are you?"

"202," Sands answered, while coming to the conclusion that his pride was now officially damaged. "If you could just tell me how many doors down it is…"

"Don’t be ridiculous, I’ll walk you there."

Sands smiled tightly, trying to contain his mortification.

She started walking, and Sands followed easily, silently thanking the powers that be that she didn’t try to guide him by grabbing hold of his arm.

He decided that it would be bad for his reputation at this point if he let Jackson live after all this and he swore to kill the bastard when everything was said and done.

She stopped in front of his room. "Here it is. 202."

Sands approached the door before turning towards her and offering her a short, "Thanks."

"No problem," she said, and Sands could hear the smile in her voice. "Consider yourself free to loiter in front of 221 anytime you like."

‘Is she actually coming on to me?’ Sands thought with some amusement, though he couldn’t bring himself to show it. ‘Hmmm, could be fun… if I was staying longer.’

Sands found the handle and slipped in the keycard. Opening the door, he entered and set his bag down inside the entryway before turning back to her. "I’ll keep your offer in mind, sugar," he said distractedly, not really intending to remember it after he closed his room door.

She blushed slightly at the nickname, but didn’t let it affect her tone of voice. "Have a good night," she said as she walked back towards her room, quickly realizing that she didn’t even know his name, but before she could ask, he’d retreated into his room.

Closing the door, Sands’ slight amusement vanished, and quickly turned to trepidation. He was not looking forward to his next task. Reaching into his bag, he searched in it for a moment, before coming up with his telescopic cane, and extending it.

He hadn’t given a damn about Jackson and his foot, but he definitely didn’t wanted El to be in the room while he figured out where everything was, so it was a good diversion.

He took off his sunglasses, and slipped them onto the neck of his T-shirt. As exposed as he felt, it was a relief to take them off. To ensure they didn’t slip easily, the sunglasses were fairly tight, and didn’t assist in his quest to rid himself of his headache.

Sands shook himself out of his thoughts and began the process of acquainting himself with the unfamiliar surroundings. He wanted to know his way around before El returned, and having already squandered several minutes in the hall, he had no more time to waste.

Using the cane as a guide, he began feeling along the wall to his left, immediately finding the bathroom door, before moving on into the main part of the room.

---

He’d sufficiently explored the space by the time El knocked on the door, managing not to run into anything with the help of his cane. Replacing the sunglasses back on his face, he retracted the cane and slipped it back into his bag.

Sands let El in before walking back to the bed he’d designated for himself, and sitting down. He heard El click on a light.

‘Damn,’ Sands thought, mentally kicking himself as he realized that he’d just given El a big clue. Sitting in what was most likely a fairly dark room with sunglasses on couldn’t seem normal.

Before El could comment on it though, Sands opted to get down to business. "El, since you’ve chosen to return, I think it’s about time we had ourselves a brief tête-à-tête."

"How were you so sure that I’d return at all?" El asked, as he stood in his spot by the light switch.

"Because you’re curious about all this," Sands drawled, waving one hand around halfheartedly.

El said nothing, although he was slightly impressed by the officer’s ability to read him so easily. It was true, he had returned because he was curious. El didn’t get the impression that Sands was out to harm him, so he was alert, but not overly concerned. Sands wanted to use him for something, and El wanted to know what that something was.

"Of course I’m right. You want to know what I’m up to, what I want you to do, and why I put up with Jackson. Am I right?"

El raised his eyebrows. Sands was dead on. "That man’s an idiot."

Sands smirked and shook his head. "He’s a spineless worm. Can’t call him a man. I’ll enjoy offing him when he’s outlived his purpose."

El clenched his fists angrily. This was the part of Sands El hated. Sands had no respect for people’s lives; they were nothing to him. Mere toys to be played with. Jackson may have been gutless, but was that really a reason to kill him?

"Did you think I was dead?" Sands asked out of nowhere, his voice feigning indifference even as he asked a serious question.

El was taken aback for a moment, but recovered quickly. "I did."

"Did that make you happy?" Sands asked, keeping his voice neutral.

El thought for a moment about the question. Had he been happy when he thought Sands had been a casualty of the coup? Had he been relieved when he thought that Sands could cause no more trouble? "Yes."

Sands gave a short laugh. "And you think I’m a heartless bastard?"

"You are heartless! You care nothing for others. I was relieved to think that you would cause no more trouble in Culiacan, or anywhere else in Mexico!" El spat.

"El, El, El. You really are falling short of my expectations. I‘d heard the buzz that you were a good man – whatever that’s supposed to mean. But I found that to be faulty intelligence during the coup. You owe me for that."

"I owe you?" El asked, incredulous. "What the hell for?"

"Your betrayal, El."

"As usual, you make no sense."

"Say what you will about me, El. Call me a power-hungry, murdering, manipulative, whacked-out nut job if it makes you feel better. Declare to the world that I’m an asshole who doesn’t give a damn about anyone but himself… it’s all true, I won’t deny it. But don’t you fucking preach to me. Who betrayed who?"

"I didn’t betray you," El ground out. Sands was taxing his patience. He had thought that they were going to talk about what Sands wanted him to do, but Sands had veered off the subject rather quickly.

"Oh no? I gave you what you wanted – craved – so desperately. I gave you your chance for revenge, all wrapped up and decorated with a spiffy bow. But nothing is free, El. Nothing," Sands said, anger creeping into his drawl. "You got what you wanted, didn’t you? You got your revenge. Hell, not only that, you got some cold hard cash to go with it, didn’t you? Don’t bother answering; I know you did. When you had everything I suppose you decided I could just go fuck myself. Justify it any way you want, but I fulfilled my side of the bargain, and you fucked me over. That’s not something I tend to forget."

"Fuck you, Sands! What happened to me didn’t concern you, or what happened in Culiacan," El retorted. He didn’t really understand why Sands was so upset. He hadn’t seen Sands as anything but calm and collected before this. "I didn’t betray you."

"Really?" Sands held up a finger, completely furious, but attempting to keep it in check. "Shall I count the ways, El? You agreed to become a temporary agent for the CIA, working under my handling. We both decided upon a mutually advantageous exchange, over a delicious entrée of slow roasted pork I might add. You agreed to kill Marquez, and in exchange I gave you information, a chance for revenge, and protection against the cartel…"

"I killed Marquez, and some protection you gave me! Cucuy was more loyal to Barillo than to you."

Sands laughed, a harsh sound that held no amusement. "Of course I know that now… but let me get this straight. When Cucuy turncoats, you don’t even give me a jingle and alert me to the fact that he’s a fucking rat traitor, spilling information to Barillo. Do you warn me at all? No! You cut off all communications with me, your superior I might add, and turn traitor right along with him! That’s fucking fabulous El."

"Cucuy turned me…"

Sands continued as if El wasn’t speaking, too angry to hear what El was saying anyway. "What else? Oh yeah, you killed Marquez but made certain the CIA operation wouldn’t succeed by smuggling the President out of Culiacan. The President was supposed to die. You knew that." Sands pointed a finger at El. "A failed operation… that makes me look bad, El. I really don’t like that. But is that all? Oh no, it’s not, is it? Where’s the money El? Oh, I know you found it. Did you take it? Of course you did!"

Sands stood and ran a hand through his hair as his anxiety level rose, before turning to El again. Only El wasn’t there anymore, unbeknownst to Sands. He’d moved further into the room during the officer’s angry rant.

"That was my fucking money, El. Mine! Do you have any idea what I sacrificed for that money? Do you know what the fuck I went through, who I killed, what I now have to live with, all for that fucking twenty million that I didn’t see a peso of?"

El watched Sands in confusion. Sands wasn’t facing him… Sands was shouting at the spot where he had stood before. The wheels started turning in El’s mind, slowly at first, but gaining momentum by the second. He thought that he might know what was wrong with Sands now. Deciding to test his theory, El attempted to smother the sound of the chains on his pants that normally jangled with his every step, and moved deeper into the room, saying nothing to the infuriated officer in the process. The result was a stealthily quiet move from one spot to another.

"You snatched some of that money, didn’t you El? That’s blood money, and do you know whose blood is on it? Mine! You left me hung out to fucking dry when Cucuy blew my cover to the Barillo cartel. What the fucking hell do you call all that shit, if not betrayal?"

Sands couldn’t stop now, his anger taking control. He didn’t care that he was being irrational about El’s involvement in the roll-up of his operation. He didn’t care that Ajedrez was the main reason for his fall.

She was dead, but El was here. El’s life was back on track, deceased wife newly avenged, and to top it all off, El was now, at the very least, a few thousand peso’s richer, with a peaceful home to go to when this was over.

And of course, a fact not to be forgotten… El could see.

How he hated El for all that. How he wanted to blow El’s fucking brains out right here, right now.

El fought down the urge to shout back. He was not the villain. Sands was the villain. Sands was the manipulating sociopath. Not him. Sands. It was Sands who’d started the entire mess.

Sands was still facing nothing, and shouting at no one. El thought it looked as though Sands’ was shouting at an invisible enemy that only he could see. But El knew the truth now. He’d put it all together, and figured out what Sands was trying so hard to hide from him.

Sands wasn’t screaming at a man only he could see.

Sands couldn’t see at all.

"You cluster-fucked my operation all to hell! You have no idea what the consequences of that were. But why should you care? You don’t have to live with them!"

Sands removed his gun from its holster, too angry to think clearly, and aimed it at El, or rather, where he thought El still stood.

"What the fuck did I ever do to you, El? Why am I the villain while you’re the hero? Could you explain that to me, because I’m really not grasping it."

El eyed the gun, not overly concerned. Sands’ aim was off its mark by a good 5 feet. Now that he knew Sands’ weakness, he could use it to his advantage. This was his chance to rid himself, and Mexico, of CIA Officer Sands, once and for all. As long as Sands couldn’t hear him, he could catch the officer off guard.

Sands panted heavily, finger tightening around the trigger, feeling himself losing control. He knew this wasn’t the time for it, but he couldn’t stop his fury now; it was like a freight train derailing. He felt bitter and angry and depressed and he feared that he would pull the trigger of the gun he held, kill El, and fuck himself over in the process.

"What? No snide remark, El? Have you nothing to say in your defense?" Sands asked, after the long stretch of silence began to unnerve him. El still said nothing. It was his preferred tactic, it seemed. He was a man of limited words. Sands hadn’t cared before, but now it bothered him; because he couldn’t read El now. He couldn’t see where El was or what he was doing. He couldn’t tell what El was thinking if El didn’t give him anything to go on. Was El shocked by his rant? Was he putting things together? Was he waiting for him to continue? Was he planning a way to escape? Was he about to attack him?

He didn’t know.

"Answer me, El!" Sands shouted, as his breathing became quick and shallow. The silence stretched on and he was beginning to panic. "Fucking say something!"

Still, all was quiet. Sands’ gun wavered as a shiver involuntarily ran down his arm.

Silence.

Sands’ world was nothing if there was no sound, no voices, no noise. Fearful, Sands continued to try and contain his obvious anxiety. "What’s the matter El? Cat got your tongue?" Sands asked, trying to cover up his panic.

Silence.

Sands swallowed hard. He knew now. He’d fucked up and given it away. El knew. It was the only explanation for the sudden eerie quiet. El had to know that he couldn’t see, and was using his disability against him.

‘Goddamn it! Where are you, El?’ Sands thought, and catching the slightest sound of a breath, spun around and aimed at where the sound had come from. Sands wasn’t even sure it was a breath he’d heard, but he had no other noises to go on.

El edged his way towards the officer when Sands quickly turned and correctly redirected his aim.

Looking at what was nearby, El had picked up a complimentary hotel notepad from the desk, when Sands spoke again.

"Don’t you have anything you’d like to say? Don’t you want to tell me how much you hate me? Hate what I tried to do to Mexico? Hate how I control the balance?"

El could tell that Sands was desperate for him to say something, or make some kind of sound. If El hadn’t known what Sands was like, he might have actually felt sorry for him.

Quiet fell over the room again, and El tossed the notepad across the room. It landed on one of the beds with a soft thump and Sands spun around towards the noise. Fear overriding reason, Sands pulled the trigger, shooting the notepad dead center. The bullet went through the mattress, and embedded itself in the floor.

With the silencer, his gun made little noise. However, Sands knew the sound of a bullet entering flesh by now, having experienced it enough himself, and that wasn’t it. El was playing with him.

Sands began to feel lightheaded as his breathing continued at its unnaturally quick pace. He tried to force a couple deep breaths, only half succeeding.

Sands emitted a short, frantic laugh. "I do believe you’re beginning to catch on El. Very clever! Not very sporting, but a genuinely crooked attempt to rig the game, all the same!"

El had used the moment to get a few steps closer to Sands, but now stood completely still, barely daring to breathe. Sands’ accurate aim at the false target demonstrated to El that Sands was a dangerously good shot, despite his obvious disability.

Sands tisk-tisked as he continued, gun lowered slightly, listening intently. "Puto vos esse molestissimos."

El again timed things right, and picked up the hotel’s phone number list as Sands spoke. This time El chucked the object to the other side of the room, causing Sands to do a quick one-eighty to face the new noise it made when it landed. However, Sands didn’t fall for it; he didn’t pull the trigger this time, clearly catching on to El’s tactics.

"This is a fun game of Marco Polo, El. Truly. But we’re missing the water to do this right."

El, now too far away from any objects that he could hurl, was close enough to Sands to make his move. He lurched forward and Sands spun around, hearing his approach. El, however, clearly had the advantage, and twisted the gun out of Sands’ grasp before he’d even had a chance to fully turn around.

In desperation, Sands’ reached for the gun but quickly found himself in a painful grasp, both arms behind his back. Sands fought El’s hold but was unable to loosen the Mariachi’s grasp. "My, my, my. This is really cozy, El."

Leaning close to Sands, El demanded, in a tone that left no room for argument, "Sands. What the hell do you want?"

"What do I want?" Sands repeated, before starting to laugh madly. "What do I want? Want? I want this past three months to be one big fucking nightmare I’m about to wake up from. I want my sight back, I want my control back, I want my job back, I want my fucking life back! Would you like me to make you a list? Do you want it alphabetized, El?"

El was silent a moment as he digested Sands’ outburst. "I can’t let you live," he said finally.

Sands breathing was labored as he tried to free himself from El’s grasp again. "I didn’t know you were such a fucking coward, El."

El’s grip on Sands tightened. "I am no coward."

Sands crooked his neck to face him. "You won’t even fight me like a man. Hiding yourself from me like some frightened child."

El growled and relieved Sands of all his firearms, before roughly throwing him down on the floor.

Caught by surprise, Sands hit the floor hard and his sunglasses slipped off. El was unaware of it though, only able to see the back of Sands’ head. Head down, Sands groped around before quickly locating his sunglasses. Just as he was about to put them on, several things happened all at once. El cocked a gun, the room door burst open, and another gun fired.