Sands head snapped up towards the hotel room door as it was forced open, sunglasses still in his hand. A gun fired, and all Sands knew was that the bullet didn’t hit him. He attempted to make sense of all the sounds, suddenly remembering that he still clutched his sunglasses in his hand.

"You know Sands, you really ought to stop playing with your catches."

Under different circumstances, Sands might have allowed himself a smile at the sound of the familiar voice. Instead, his hand quickly found his hidden 9mm sub-compact pistol. He slipped his sunglasses back on before El was able to see anything and commented, "Just think Cam, this little mouse actually thought he was getting away."

Cam came further into the room as he continued to aim his gun at El. "The first shot was a warning. Drop the gun, and don’t move," he said.

Sands got back to his feet. He felt shaky, and his body was spent. He still wasn’t quite sure where El was, since he continued to remain silent. He knew one thing however, he’d definitely had had enough of El’s little games.

Sands inhaled deeply through his nose, before letting his breath out slowly.

Cam glanced at Sands from out of the corner of his eye. Sands pallor was a bad sign, and something he’d hoped he would never have to see again. His face was a mask of stone, and Cam knew Sands well enough to know that the expression was one of extreme anger. He eyed Sands’ pistol warily, hoping he wouldn’t see fit to use it.

Cam shifted his gaze to the stranger and repeated his order. "Drop the gun, or we’ll both shoot you."

El glared at Cam, as if in silent challenge. Coming to a decision, El tossed his gun onto the bed in front of him. He didn’t want to start a gunfight.

Cam lowered his gun, but kept it cocked and ready. "Who are you?"

Sands was retrieving the gun that El had forced from his grasp when he answered for the Mariachi.

"Oh, Cam, this is the great El Mariachi," Sands drawled as he picked up the .45 and tucked the compact 9mm away once again. "Only, he’s really not so great, are you El? Those myths really paint quite an inaccurate portrait."

El, seeing no point in keeping up his silence, finally spoke. "You believe you are a good man?" he asked Sands, his tone disbelieving.

Sands smirked, as El’s voice gave him his bearing, and a target. "No," Sands stated simply, taking a step closer to the Mariachi, his confidence returning now that he knew where El was.

Cam took a step away from the two, knowing full well that Sands had the situation under control.

Sands stood directly beside El before speaking. "I never claimed to be a good man, El. People expect me to be bad, and I don’t like to disappoint." With no warning, Sands cracked El on the back of the head with the butt of his gun, and El crumpled to the ground. "No one fucks with me, El."

Cam watched as Sands stood over El’s unconscious body, as if frozen in time. Turning away, Cam went over and shut the room door. When he turned back round, he found himself staring down the barrel of Sands’ gun.

"And what, pray tell, are you doing here Cam?"

Cam sighed. He had been expecting this. He hadn’t thought for a minute that Sands would just up and believe that he was here to help him. "Officially or unofficially?" he asked, moving into the room and sitting in a chair by the desk.

Sands lowered his gun, but kept it ready. "Oh, I’m quite sure that I’m already privy to your official business. However, my question for you is… how far will you go for the Company?"

Cam looked down at the carpet in thought before answering. "Not as far as they want me to go, apparently."

Still standing, Sands waited for him to continue.

"As you’re well aware, officially I’m here to take you back to Langley… and if you offer resistance, I’m to silence you."

"Silence me. Is that what the Company is calling executive action nowadays?" he asked, as his finger idly flicked the gun’s safety on and off.

"Their exact words to me."

Sands shook his head slightly. "Damn, this political correctness crap really has gone too far."

"What the Company doesn’t know is that I can’t do what they’re asking me to do."

Sands tilted his head to the side, his voice a smooth drawl as he asked, "Why not?"

Cam took a deep breath and looked directly into Sands’ dark sunglasses. "Because I can’t ruin you, Sands."

Sands’ mind whispered ‘I already am ruined,’ but he didn’t voice the thought, letting Cam continue.

"I can’t terminate you. If I were to take you back to Langley, it would be the same as shooting you right here. Damn it Jeff, we learned all this tradecraft spook shit together eleven years ago and you know what? I admit it. You were right. You were right about the Company, and you were right about the rules. Okay, so I don’t agree with all the shit you pull and the things you do, but I finally understand what you were trying to tell me all those years ago. It’s taken me eleven years Jeff, to figure out what you already knew at the Farm."

Somewhat surprised by Cam’s admission, Sands let out his own deep breath. He sat down on the bed, sinking into the mattress. His whole body ached and his headache refused to let up. ‘Goddamn, I’m fucking tired of all this.’

In an exhausted motion, Sands removed his sunglasses.

He didn’t care anymore. He didn’t fucking care.

"A lot of good that did me," Sands stated flatly.

Removing his sunglasses was the only admission of faith in Cam that he would ever outwardly give, and deep down they both knew it.

No, he didn’t trust Cam. He didn’t think he was capable of trusting anyone, anymore. Still, Cam really had no reason to lie. He’d had numerous occasions to turn on him, to kill him… hell, he could have left him to die that day in Culiacan. Yet at every opportunity Cam stood stubbornly by his side. Why? Because they’d both trained together and worked together? Was that it? Was it some fucked up feeling of loyalty on Cam’s part?

"You were right Sands. They don’t give a shit. They don’t care. And commandment eleven… it is all that matters."

Sands let out a small laugh, rolling his head back and popping his stiff neck. "You don’t even remember what commandment eleven is. I swear Cam, you’d have a photographic memory if you weren’t out of film."

Cam shook his head, a small smile on his lips. "Yeah, well, the last time you told me, I actually remembered."

Sands clapped a hand to his chest in mock shock.

"We won’t get caught. And we’ll uncover Martin, and whoever else is involved, for the traitors they are."

"And if we have to rig the game to do it?"

Cam paused for only a moment, then answered, "You gotta do what you gotta do."

"Why should you care what happens to me?" Sands asked. He couldn’t understand Cam, and why he’d come here. Cam had already told him the operation was too risky for his reputation. "Why? You said before that you knew me. Well Cam, I know you. Following rules and performing your duty to the Company is numero uno on your list of priorities."

"Not anymore," Cam said solemnly, while thinking, ‘I already made that mistake.’

Sands’ eyebrows rose.

"You saved my life during that whole Vienna fiasco, and it’s time I returned the favor," Cam continued.

Sands was dumbfounded that Cam would bring that past operation into the conversation, but then Cam had surprised him more than once already. Shaking his head he replied, "His skull just happened to get in the way of my bullet. Besides, that was a long time ago."

"Doesn’t matter," Cam replied without hesitation.

Sands didn’t respond right away. He wasn’t used to someone being on his side, and he couldn’t truly believe that that was the case now. He spun the gun in his hand absentmindedly. "You already returned that favor by exfiltrating me on the Day of the Dead."

"But the job isn’t finished yet, is it?"

Sands rubbed his hands over his face a few times before massaging his temples. He was so frustrated he could scream. God, how he wanted to just believe Cam. He was far too exhausted not to believe him. Distrust took energy, and as a whole, both emotionally and physically, he was spent. But still that distrusting voice in the back of his mind chanted, ‘Don’t trust him, don’t trust him, don’t trust him,’ over and over again, giving him no peace. ‘I can’t think about this right now. I just can’t.’

"We need to take care of El before he wakes up. Give me a hand dragging his carcass into the bathroom. We’ll lock him in somehow, and he can cool his spur in there for a while," Sands said, as he nudged El experimentally with the toe of his shoe, at the same time as he returned his gun to its holster.

---

After locking El in the bathroom, Cam and Sands sat back down.

"What are you going to do with him?" Cam asked.

"Use him," Sands replied shortly. He was fully aware that Cam wanted to know the details, but his brain didn’t seem to want to work. He simply couldn’t think, his mind still hung up on his argument with El. He’d always had a wicked temper, but his emotions were beginning to run away with him. He was slowly falling apart, losing control, and he knew it. He had to get his shit together, before it cost him his life.

Cam watched Sands as he seemed to struggle with keeping himself together. Of course he’d seen this coming. Sands had been given little chance to recover, with virtually no time to deal with everything that had happened. Sands had never been one to sit around, but he’d been forced on embark on a mission that he was mentally and physically far too stressed to deal with. It had only been a matter of time before it all caught up with him again. Only a matter of time before he became frustrated or bitter or angry.

Still, Cam knew no other person on this earth that would have made it this far, and he truly believed that Sands was fully capable of completing this mission, if he could manage to stay sane in the process.

Sands’ voice interrupted his thoughts. "You must be one sick, crazy bastard, Cam, to have followed me here."

"Takes one to know one."

A weary smile quirked Sands’ lips as he stood up. A serious nicotine craving taking hold, he reached into his pocket for his pack of cigarettes, only to remember that he was fresh out. Cursing, he made a mental note to buy a new pack as soon as possible. As far as he was concerned, life without cigarettes wasn’t worth living.

"What?" Cam asked, clueless as to what Sands was muttering about.

Sands waved off his question as he began thinking of what needed to be done, the fog in his mind slowly clearing. "Never mind. I want you to…" Sands trailed off as his hands searched one of the bedspreads. "Damn, where…" Quickly locating the notepad El had so kindly thrown in his direction, Sands walked over to Cam and held out a hand. "Got a pen?"

Cam grabbed a pen off the desk and handed it to him, wondering what Sands wanted to write down.

Placing the notepad on the desk, Sands jotted down a name, number and what he wanted, hoping it was readable. "Call this number and have them send over what I’ve written down," Sands said as he tore the top paper from the notepad and held it out to Cam.

Taking the paper, Cam could hardly miss the bullet hole in the center of it.

"Legible?" Sands asked when Cam remained silent.

Cam’s gaze shifted to the oddly spaced but readable writing. "Oh… yeah, no problem there. Should I even ask why someone felt the need to terminate the notepad?"

"Your health would probably benefit from not asking."

Cam nodded absentmindedly as he read what Sands had asked for. The items seemed to be written down in catalogue number form, so he had no clue what they were. He did, however, see why Sands had to write it down. "What is this?" Cam asked, as he decided that one of these days, he was going to ask Sands how he remembered all of these numbers and names. The man’s mind was like a Rolodex.

"All in good time, Cam. You’ll find out soon enough. Tell them to charge it to the account of S. J. Allen and have them ship it overnight to this hotel. I’d do it myself, but I have another equally important call that needs to be made, and I need you to call them before they turn off their work phones for the evening."

"Alright."

"What time is it?"

Cam glanced at the clock. "Four forty-five."

"Better kick it into gear, Cam. They close in fifteen minutes. Got a room here?"

"Yeah."

"Alright. Go there, make the call, and come back here when you’re done."

"Will do," Cam said, as he left the room to make the call.

Deciding that the less time he had to think about his slipping control the better, Sands took out his cell phone, sat down and dialed a familiar number. His previous contact, Tom, had some serious explaining to do.

After two rings, he picked up. "Tom here."

"I have a bone to pick with you, old pal," Sands drawled, menace lacing his voice.

"Yeah? Well, make it quick."

"I always do. But today you’re going to have to face my music, or your funky Broadway show will hit closing time. Are you my enraptured audience yet?"

"I’m listening."

"Well that’s groovy. Because I have done deal after fucking deal with you. I’m quite a loyal customer of yours, if I do say so myself. When I contact you for something, I pay handsomely for your services, and in return I expect you to deliver quality and competence. You delivered neither, and because of this error of yours, I’m slightly irritated." Sands paused for a moment, letting the words sink in before continuing. "Now, my minor irritation may not seem like much now, but let’s see how you dig this little scenario, Tom. You deal in a business that is highly… sensitive. Your reputation is everything. If word were to get out about the fuckmook you sent me, it would cause irreversible damage to your rather fine reputation. By the by, I do hope you’ve set aside a bit of extra cash for yourself… you know, for that rainy day. Because Tom, it’s about to fucking pour." Sands’ voice was measured and controlled, but Tom got the message loud and clear.

"Ok. Ok. Now hold up Sands. What and who are you talking about? You got your personal jet, and didn’t bother to meet up with your driver so I…"

"What the fuck did you just say?" Sands interrupted, as a bad feeling made his stomach turn. "I met up with Jackson."

"Jackson? Who the hell is Jackson?

"Jackson wasn’t the name of the man you sent over?"

"No. For one thing, I never sent a man. I sent a woman, and she reported to me that she never met up with…"

"Fuck!" Sands cursed, hanging up the phone. He’d heard all he needed to hear.

If Jackson didn’t work for Tom, then he worked for an enemy… just who Jackson was working for was something he needed to find out immediately… before his enemy caught up with him.