Sands Through The Hourglass
Once Upon A Time In Mexico Fan Fiction
By Scarlett Burns
Rated: M (16+)
(for adult language, violence and disturbing situations)

Summary: Post-movie. Sands finds himself back in CIA hands, and his future is uncertain. A setup within the CIA puts Sands to the test, and he's forced to lay it all out on the line to gain proof about the conspiracy against him.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8
~*~
Spook Speak | Translation Guide

Author's Note: For translations to non-English languages used in this story, as well
as explanations of spy terminology, click on their respective pop-up guides.

Part 1

Dark.

Everything was so dark.

It was like a black hole that seemed to suck all his thoughts, feelings, beliefs and actions into it. Confusion circled his mind as he leaned heavily against the stone wall behind him, the only thing currently keeping him upright at this very moment. He was only vaguely aware of what was going on, what he'd just done, and what horrors this day had unexpectedly brought him.

"¿Está bien, señor?" The little boy asked him worriedly. The same little boy he'd told to 'fuck off' what now seemed a lifetime ago. The same little boy he said he never wanted to see again.

Sands' head limply bobbed from one side to the other. He could tell that a good deal of drugs still ran through his system. He was disoriented and confused and most of all… terrified, a feeling that he was very unaccustomed to. It all felt like some hideous nightmare, one that he hoped to wake up from immediately, now if at all possible.

"No lo sé." Sands replied back in a strained voice, accidentally revealing to the kid that he did speak Spanish, quite well actually, when he chose to. More often then not he only spoke English so his enemies would develop a loose native tongue around him, assuming he couldn't understand.

It amazed Sands how stupid those mother-fuckers could be sometimes.

"Lo estará."

Sands sighed. Although he admired the kid's optimism, he doubted that he would make it through the night. But then, he wasn't sure he wanted to make it any longer than that anyway.

How much time had passed? One hour? Two? Four? Sands couldn't focus his mind anymore, the darkness, blood loss and pain taking their toll.

The pain was slowly crawling to the surface, starting as a dull ache that he knew would eventually end as screaming pain.

The drugs Barillo and his bastard daughter Ajedrez had pumped him full of were starting to wear off.

Once the drugs wore off, things were going to start getting really ugly, really fast.

'Start? Oh, that's a laugh. I've got legs and an arm full of lead and two gaping holes where my eyes used to be. I'm in fantastic shape.'

Sands tried to move his injured arm with little success, the drugs wearing thin and his adrenaline long gone.

The thought made Sands chuckle out loud, and Chicle Boy stood beside him somewhat surprised.

"¿Por qué se ríe?"the boy asked, clearly bewildered.

The boy didn't see anything funny about the situation, but then Sands had always had a fucked up and twisted sense of humor.

"Señor?" the boy half whispered as if afraid to disturb him further. It was enough to pull Sands out of his thoughts.

Deep down Sands supposed that he was touched that the kid even cared. But he was never one to let his emotions get in the way, and quickly became annoyed that the boy wouldn't just leave him be and let him bleed to death in peace on this dusty, deserted side street in Culiacan.

"Yeah, yeah… fuck off ki—"

Sands stopped in mid retort. 'What the hell is wrong with me?' Sands thought to himself. 'I am Officer Sheldon Jeffery Sands of the Central Intelligence Agency. '

Sands took a deep breath and tried to stand up without the aid of the wall he was leaning against. He gritted his teeth to prevent the moan that wanted to escape his lips as pain shot through him. Sands silently damned the asshole who had had to shoot him in both legs. He quickly fell back against the wall, his legs simply unable to support his own weight by themselves any longer.

In the middle of his own mental rant a thought occurred to him… more than a thought actually, an answer.

"Sands," his superior stated, as usual not sounding happy to hear from the renegade officer.

"What's the problem? Why do you need a new line?"

That was it. He'd go back to the Flying Cow. A fellow officer was going to meet him there, and there was still a good chance he'd be waiting – after all, the CIA was nothing if it wasn't thorough and they'd want to make absolutely certain an officer was gone before declaring him dead or MIA.

"Oye, niño de la bubblegum... ¿todavía estás aquí?" Sands asked as he cursed the darkness that made him feel so helplessly lost.

"Sí." The kid answered quickly, wanting to be of help somehow.

"Bien. Listen kid, get a taxi and bring it here. I don't think I can walk very far… Comprendes?"

"Sí."

Sands listened carefully. He heard the kid's footsteps retreating, then the bell on the child's bike as he rode away. Leaning heavily against the wall he listened to the mixture of sounds around him, a few distant gun shots, the noise of vehicles, and the rustle of paper banners from the Day of The Dead celebration gone bad as they blew in the breeze. His hearing, touch and smell were all that he had left now.

'No.' He wouldn't think about that now. He… couldn't think about it now. Yet the thought was there, in the back of his mind, tugging at him like the pain from the hollows of what were once his dark brown eyes. It relentlessly reminded him of the horrors this day had brought him and the finality that would hit him later when the drugs wore off and his mind was clear.

'Well, I really fucked up this time,' he thought to himself. 'Even before today, I was blinded by a hot piece of ass, blind to the fact that things had spun so far out of control and now I really am…'

Ajedrez's words burned in his ears and echoed in his mind cruelly…

He'd never forget those words. She was dead and gone, but those words would stay with him forever. The worst part was that Ajedrez was right and he knew it. The great and all-powerful CIA Officer hadn't seen it coming. Sands had let his masterfully manipulative mind, with its years of CIA training and experience, fuck up.

And in the CIA, one fuck up was all it took.

Yet he knew he could never give up. Give up? He didn't know the meaning of the phrase. He'd killed Ajedrez, killed those men, and managed to still stand here now. Even if he was a bit shaky, he was still standing.

No, he'd live with the consequences of today. If there was anything Officer Sheldon Jeffery Sands was not, it was a coward, and he wouldn't take the cowards' way out.

The heat of the day struck him, and he remembered that he was wearing all black. The one thing he shouldn't be wearing under the blistering Mexican sun while he lost massive amounts of blood.

Sighing, Sands heard the rumble of a car approaching. A door opened and closed. Small, quick footsteps approached, and a familiar young boy's voice called to him.

"¡Señor! ¡Señor! ¡He traído el taxi como usted me lo pidió!"

Sands breathed in deeply to ready himself for the move he must make and was instantly rewarded with lungs full of fine dust swept up from the road by the wind and the newly arrived taxi. The pain was starting to eat away at him now, getting worse with each passing minute. Sands realized he needed to hurry, or he was going to bleed to death right here on the hot, dirty, dusty, deserted street in this god-forsaken town.

Somehow he found the strength to stand, though he wobbled unsteadily, his black-gloved hands in front of him, reaching blindly for the kid. He found his target and, transferring most of his weight to Chicle Boy, managed to make it the short distance to the taxi.

Landing on the backseat in a heap, the kid beside him, he told the driver to take him to the Flying Cow.

It occurred to Sands, right before he passed out from pain and blood loss, that he might not be making the smartest choice, rushing back into the waiting arms of the CIA. He had no idea how much they knew about his crooked dealings and unnecessary target practice, but he didn't see that he had any other choice.

A few hard nudges roused Sands from his sleep. At least he thought he was awake. Not being able to open ones eyes was going to take some getting used to.

"Alright already!" Sands snapped at the kid, as he sat up in the taxi's back seat. A wave of dizziness washed over him as he adjusted his sunglasses, making sure they were still in place. His whole body seemed to be screaming at him to just lie there and not move, but that simply wasn't an option.

"Are we at the Flying Cow?" Sands asked, not caring which one of the car's occupants answered. As it turned out, it was the driver who spoke.

"Sí. ¿Acaso está ciego? Está justo en frente de usted."

Officer Sands paused for a brief moment as his jaw worked angrily. His hand found its way to the butt of his gun, and he contemplated how he should kill the driver.

"Estoy seguro de que no quiso decir nada con eso. ¡Él no sabe!" Chicle boy said in a hurried voice as he noticed where the Officer's hand was. As much as Sands felt that he needed to restore the balance, he restrained himself. No need to make a scene, after all.

Plus he really didn't want to kill the driver in front of the boy, who'd probably witnessed enough death for one day, or for that matter in front of any CIA agents who might be watching.

"Lead me to the restaurant, kid," Sands said, as he opened his door and, with some effort, began to get out. He heard the kid clamber out and walk around the car.

As the boy offered Sands a supporting shoulder, the taxi driver shouted angrily at the two of them, "¿Dónde está mi dinero?"

Now, Sands could normally find a tiny smidgen of patience within his soul… however, as previously stated, he was having somewhat of a bad day, and he'd had enough. In one quick and graceful motion that surprised even him, he snatched the gun from its holster and pointed it towards the sound of the taxi driver's voice. Even though Sands couldn't see him, his aim was perfect; the barrel of the gun zeroed in on the driver's head. He had killed Ajedrez with this gun and had no qualms about adding more blood to its record. He spoke in a low and threatening tone to the man behind the wheel. " Refrenarme de disparar un hoyo en tu cabeza deberá ser el pago suficiente. Lárgate o jódete."

He'd barely closed the door before he heard the driver peel off. Sands returned his gun to its holster with a smugly satisfied, if somewhat pain-laced, smirk. Chicle boy took hold of his right hand and slowly led him across the street to the Flying Cow, as his body protested every step. Sands' smirk turned into a grimace as his mind thought in disgust, 'Vae corpus vile'.

Officer Cameron had watched Sands' entire taxi display with quiet amusement, seated at one of the outdoor tables at the Flying Cow. It was just so very… Sands. He'd known the officer for years, and he really was a nutcase.

As Sands continued walking, or rather stumbling, towards the Flying Cow, Cameron realized just how badly injured Sands really was. For starters, blood was oozing out from under Sands' sunglasses and spilling down his cheeks and face. It was a sight worthy of the most gory of horror films. He didn't even want to think about the injuries that were causing it. Sands was also limping heavily, and blood was dripping from a hole in his black shirt and down the gloved fingertips of his left arm. He looked like death itself, and Officer Cameron had to hand it to the crazy son-of-a-bitch for even making it here.

'Christ!' Cameron thought to himself. As much as Cameron disliked Sands' personality, and the way he carried out his clandestine operations, he never liked to see a fellow officer injured. Especially one he'd trained with.

As soon as Sands was in front of the restaurant, Cameron leapt to his feet and rushed over, putting together a little fantasy that the two of them were American tourist friends.

"Oh my god, Joe! What happened?" he exclaimed, as he grabbed Sands' free arm, while Chicle Boy held onto the other.

Sands lifted his head a little higher at the sound of a familiar voice, the addition of another much stronger hand on his arm giving much needed support to his failing legs. He knew that voice… it was a fellow CIA officer… one he knew quite well, but he couldn't quite place it. He was in too much pain. All at once a wave of dizziness assailed him, and it took all the strength he could muster just to keep standing and remain conscious; that was a feat in and of itself given the amount of blood he'd lost.

Sands felt the need to spit out some smart-ass reply to his fellow officer's question about what had happened, and opened his mouth to do so, but in the end just didn't have enough strength left. He shut his mouth as a pathetic groan escaped his lips. The other officer got the hint, and quickly led Sands to his car, which was parked at the corner of the street, thankfully fairly close to the restaurant. The little boy helped Cameron drag Sands to the car.

Sands felt himself being laid down upon something in a surprisingly gentle manner.

'Golly, that's interesting.'

He sensed a cool surface against his face, and recognized the sound of a car door being closed. He was lying on the backseat of a car, the other officer's car, he presumed.

It was that reassurance, little though it was, that allowed him to finally succumb to the dizziness and slip into the unconsciousness that had been beckoning to him.

Closing the car door, Cameron took a deep breath to calm his rattled nerves, then turned to the little boy, who looked distressed. It almost startled Cameron. 'Sands is not a nice man, so what has Sands done to win the devotion of the boy? Or did the boy just feel sympathy for Sands' condition?' He looked back at Sands. 'That must be it. Who wouldn't have sympathy for a man so badly mangled?'

"Gracias por ayudar al Oficial Sands." Cameron said awkwardly in Spanish. He'd never been good at speaking foreign languages and just barely knew enough to get by. 'The complete opposite of Sands,' Cameron thought suddenly. "A partir de ahora yo cuidaré de él."

The kid's eyes focused on the unconscious officer. "¿Estará bien, señor?" he asked, more worried about the hurt man than he had been before. At least before, he'd been conscious.

Cameron swallowed hard, and his gaze briefly shifted to Sands before returning to the boy. Even if Sands survived all his injuries, Cameron wasn't so sure that Sands' standing would be 'alright' with the Company. He wasn't sure what Sands had been up to this time around, but there had to be some improper protocol involved. There always was with Sands. However Sands' fate all depended on whether or not the Company knew about it, and if so, just how much they knew. Sands was one of the best, in terms of gathering the intelligence the Company wanted, and it was possible that this skill would save him in the end.

"No lo se… pero prometo hacer todo lo que pueda para que lo esté. Ahora ve y corre, necesito llevarlo al hospital en seguida," Cameron finally said to the boy, after trying to gather his own thoughts.

The boy cast one last worried look at Sands before muttering a worried "Eso espero," and slowly walking away from the car, heading back down the dusty street to retrieve the bicycle he'd left behind.

Cameron moved swiftly to the driver's side and hopped in, quickly starting the car. He looked in his rear view mirror at Sands' unmoving form. Cameron had no idea if Sands would survive, but Cameron owed Sands one, much as he hated to admit it and he wouldn't let a fellow CIA officer down.

Unfortunately Cameron couldn't just take Sands to the nearest hospital. He would have to take him to the nearby CIA headquarters first, where the white coats could stabilize him before flying him back to the OMS in Virginia. But he couldn't just take him straight to HQ either, Cameron had to make sure to lose anyone who might be tailing them first. It was a well-known fact that it was unacceptable to risk giving away the location of the Company's foreign soil HQ, even if it meant risking the lives of several officers.

Cameron reached under the passenger seat and grabbed his sweatshirt, unused in the heat, then tore it into strips with the help of his pocketknife. Turning around in the front seat, he reached back and tightly tied one strip around each of the bullet wounds, which were still bleeding profusely. If the bleeding didn't slow down soon, Sands' chances of making it were somewhere between slim and non-existent. He looked up at Sands' face and debated whether to take off the sunglasses and see just what had happened, but he quickly decided against it. They needed to leave immediately, and he was pretty damn certain that whatever had happened to cause such a mess couldn't be fixed with a tightly tied piece of cloth.

Turning back around, Cameron put the car in gear and stepped on the gas. He intended to waste approximately half an hour by making several quick turns and maneuvers to lose anyone potentially on their tail, and could only hope that Sands would fight to hang on.

Chapter 3: Cowboy

After what seemed like nine hours, but in actuality was approximately twenty-five minutes, Officer Cameron decided that they were not being pursued. There had been no signs of another vehicle following, and with the speed of the car there was no way anyone could have kept up on foot.

Just to be absolutely certain, Cameron stopped the car and waited at one of the deserted intersections for a moment to see if any vehicles appeared behind them after their abrupt halt. Cameron looked back at Sands, who was still out cold, and decided he'd better search him for any bugs or tracking devices.

After a quick dry-clean of Sands' person, he was satisfied that his fellow officer was clean. Cameron started the car back up and stepped on the gas. He made a couple more quick turns, and one last hard right, as he headed out of town. The sudden motion caused Sands' body to shift to one side and Sands grunted in reaction.

'At least he's still alive,' Cameron thought, only slightly reassured.

As they reached the outskirts of the town, Cameron continually looked in his rear view mirror for a possible tail, and was pleased to see none. His gaze in the rear view wandered down to Sands' still form lying awkwardly in the back seat.

Officer Sands. A man he'd known since they'd met at the Farm some thirteen years ago. They'd even graduated together, although much to Cameron's dismay, Sands had achieved a significantly better grade point average in almost every subject.

Cameron had always been slightly jealous of Sands, though he'd never admit it out loud. The fact that he hadn't mentioned it out loud hadn't mattered though, because Sands was aware of it just the same.

Sands had the remarkable ability to look at someone, listen to the tenor of their voice, weigh their body language and know exactly what that person was thinking. It was a gift that really couldn't be taught, and it was the reason the Company had placed Sands' in the Interrogations Department right after he'd graduated. It was a perfect fit, but in the end Sands simply ticked off too many people in the department for him to be welcome there, and he'd been officially labeled 'does not work well with others'.

It was distinctively Sands. Master manipulator and controller extraordinaire. He lived to get under people's skin, which was why he'd never had any real friends and was a perfect officer for the Company. A man who no longer had any family to tie him down, any people to care.

Sands was a smart man.

'No, smart wasn't the word for it. Sands was a genius at what he did.'

When it came to psychological warfare, mind games and intelligence gathering he could think of no one at the Company who was better at it than Officer Sheldon Jeffery Sands. But Cameron was no fool; he knew that behind that genius was a somewhat, if not very, unbalanced mind.

Which is why he was wondering, at this very moment, just what could have gone so wrong. Sands was not a stupid officer in the field, and he had some ten years experience under his belt.

Sands voice drawled in Cameron's mind. How many times had he listened to Sands utter those words? Just set them up and watch them fall. Sands had always made it sound so easy, when in reality it was anything but.

Yes, the man was a perfect CIA Operations Officer… that is, to those that weren't privy to any of Sands' own private clandestine operations.

Sands wasn't without his faults, and as the saying goes, you can't be good at everything. Sands had a bad habit of drawing too much attention to himself for his own good, with his bizarre taste in tacky clothing and bad wigs. He also had a tendency to go too far when something didn't go his way, and as far as authority went, well… the 'doesn't play well with others' label always came back into effect. Sands would go to almost any lengths to get what he wanted.

However, Cameron knew the Company well. If an officer was a great asset to the agency, got the intelligence and results that the Company wanted, and was secretive enough about any improper conduct… well, then the Company might be inclined to look the other way, as long as the agent didn't cross the line by committing treason, or causing any negative blowback. No, the Company wasn't unfamiliar with the term 'turn a blind eye', and often enough they let a truly good asset continue his operations without interference from them, as long as the officer could keep his unfavorable behavior clandestine.

Cameron did know Sands well enough to know he wouldn't commit treason, and Cameron hadn't seen, heard of ,or read about any blowback from Sands' rolled-up operation. However Cameron had known Sands long enough to be fairly certain Sands had used methods that were not publicly accepted by the Company. The real question was whether the Company knew about it. If they did know, then the next question was just exactly how much were they aware of?

"Sands?" Cameron inquired, curious to know if Sands was conscious.

"Eleven…" Sands mumbled quietly, seemingly still oblivious to the world.

Cameron's brow furrowed. Sands was alive, yes, but he didn't seem to be all there, still unaware of his surroundings and company. "Don't worry Jeff, I'll get a pretty female white coat to take care of you, just hang on for me."

"Eleven… mustn't… broken." The injured officer continued to murmur.

A flash of memory came to Cameron then. It was of a conversation he'd had with Sands way back when they were freshmen together at the Farm.

Besides Sands' mumbling and bleeding, Cameron was also concerned about the fact that Sands didn't seem to have recognized him. Even after leaving the Farm he had worked side-by-side with Sands on several operations. It wasn't as if Sands would have forgotten him.

As he glanced back in the mirror his eyes once again focused on all the blood that seemed to be flowing out from under Sands' sunglasses. He hated to think that Sands hadn't recognized him because he couldn't see him, but unfortunately he thought it highly likely. Cameron sincerely hoped, if only for the sake of Sands' own highly-questionable sanity, that it was a temporary problem.

After several miles of driving in the barren Mexican desert, Cameron heard Sands shift his weight slightly in the backseat, and the move prompted Cameron to try and get Sands to talk, hopefully a little more coherently this time around.

"Jeff, are you still with me back there?"

No reaction.

Cameron sighed and thought it best just to give up, but then an idea popped into his head. Cameron had to admit it was sort of an evil idea, something that would probably get him killed if Sands was his normal self, but he wasn’t… and if anything would get him to respond it would be that.

Cameron opened his mouth to say it, and then thought twice when one of Sands’ guns glinted in the sunlight. Sands might have been wounded, delirious and unconscious, but he was still Sands.

Cameron, deciding it was better to be safe than dead, carefully reached back at the same time as he was attempting to steer, and began to divest Sands of his killing instruments. Slowly Cameron removed Sands’ guns from their holsters and placed them on the front seat, managing to somehow stay on the road during the process.

After the guns were safely out of Sands’ reach, he uttered the dreaded word.

"Sheldon?"

That did it.

Just as Cameron had anticipated, Sands’ hand went down to grab the most immediately available gun. It was more of a reflex than anything else, and Cam couldn’t help but let a small smile emerge when Sands started to mutter angrily under his breath. Cameron had known that if Sands was at all with it, he’d hear the name he absolutely detested and would immediately seek revenge on the one who had uttered it.

Sands could feel the sun on his face, the heat of its bright rays, yet nothing penetrated the darkness. ‘Except for the pain ripping through my skull… and, oh yeah, some asshole calling me Sheldon.’ That was something he couldn’t tolerate. If he was about to die, he’d be damned if they were going to be calling him Sheldon at his funeral. He’d instinctively reached for one of his weapons, only to find that he was weaponless.

‘Freaking out now,’ Sands thought to himself, as his body relaxed from loss of blood, without his permission, but not before he’d uttered a "fuck off" for good measure.

"Are you still with me back there?" Cameron repeated, for want of something better to say.

And it was just like that. It struck Sands suddenly, where he’d heard that voice before.

Cam. His fellow student from the Farm.

A wave of dizziness washed over Sands as he took a deep, ragged breath and turned his head ever so slightly in the direction of Cameron’s voice. He attempted a snide snicker, and only half succeeded.

"So, Cam, did they send you in for a little Exfiltration Operation? About bloody fuckin’ time. Or did you just drop by for a tequila and lime?"

Cameron could tell by the sound of Sands’ voice that he was obviously in pain, but he was trying not to let it get in the way of good sarcasm. Cameron couldn’t help it when a small smile tugged at the edge of his mouth as Sands seemed to return to his old, normal, bastard self. He had to admit that he occasionally liked the crazy bastard, for some reason that must have been equally as crazy as Sands himself.

"Yeah. I was told to meet you at the Flying Cow."

"Still trying to wrangle the Company Cowboy, eh Cam? I guess… some things really don’t change," Sands said, as he tried to shift to a more comfortable position, his legs and body at odds with each other.

"Just like old times, don’t you agree Jeff?" Cameron asked conversationally; the longer he could keep him conscious the better. He did remember that much from the Farm. ‘Keep them talking if you can, until you can get medical attention for them.’

"Mutatis mutandis."

Cam rolled his eyes, exasperated because Sands knew he couldn’t understand Latin, but always seemed to use it anyway. Yet another thing that hadn’t changed.

"Don’t think I don’t know what you’re trying to do. I’m not that far gone yet."

At his silence Sands continued, "Well gee, wonders never cease. Cam remembers something from Camp Swampy after all."

Cam rolled his eyes for the second time in a minute, not an unusual occurrence when one was around Sands.

"Jeff," Cam paused for a moment before asking the critical question. "What the hell happened?" Sands let out a short, sharp laugh, the kind that could send chills down someone’s spine. "Better to ask what didn’t happen; it would be a shorter answer." Sands laugh ended in a cough, the day’s events having taken their toll. "Shit. Forgot my own golden rule, the one commandment I swore I’d never break."

"It’s been thirteen years. You’ll have to refresh my memory."

With a visible effort, Sands propped his head up with his good arm as his head and body swayed heavily with the motion of the car.

"Still can’t remember? I guess in some insane way that makes me feel better."

"You were muttering the number eleven. Is that what you meant?"

"You really weren’t payin’ attention, were you, Cam? I broke the eleventh fucking commandment."

Sands paused to see if Cameron got the message. He didn’t.

"Which is?" Cameron prodded.

Sands let out an odd, long, heavy breath before speaking. "Thou shalt not get caught."

The words hung in the air, neither one wanting to say anything more, and Sands let his head drop back down onto the backseat of the car. Cameron quickly got out his cell phone, and called Sands’ superior, Officer Martin, at Mexican Headquarters.

"Martin? I’ve seen Joe and he’s decided to visit. That’s right, and he’ll need a white coat and an escort to OMS as soon as possible. That’s correct. We’ll be there in twenty-five." He hung up and looked back at Sands. He seemed to be breathing fine, but was obviously in a lot of pain. It did appear, however, that the bleeding from the bullet wounds had slowed down, which was small consolation.

"You were the Operation Controller, weren’t you?" he asked Sands.

Sands’ head made a slow up and down motion against the seat before he replied.

"Yeah… yeah, I was the controller."

Chapter 5: Air America

Exactly twenty-three minutes later Cameron arrived at headquarters with Sands’ unmoving, non-speaking form sprawled across the backseat. Cameron figured he’d drifted into unconsciousness, because he hadn’t said a word for well over fifteen minutes, which would have been an impossibility if Sands was conscious.

Just as Cameron had requested, several white coats were waiting for them when they arrived, as was Sands’ superior, Officer Martin. He’d barely brought the car to a stop when the white coats rushed over and examined Sands. Gently, two of them lifted Sands off the backseat and onto an emergency stretcher. During all this, there was no movement from Sands whatsoever, which was, in Cameron’s opinion, not a great sign. Cameron watched as the white coats immediately rushed Sands inside headquarters, while Office Martin came up beside him and hastily introduced himself.

After Sands disappeared through the nearest headquarters entrance, Cameron followed Officer Martin inside. Martin was obviously trying to get to Sands, but the white coats would have none of it.

"I need to talk to him," Martin growled, half to himself, as he turned to Cameron.

"Sir, with all due respect, Officer Sands’ condition is critical. He won’t be able to speak to you now, even if you do see him, as he is presently unconscious. He’s suffering from at least three gunshot wounds and an unknown injury to his face. It’s… it’s a possibility that he may not even survive," Cameron told him, as they entered a large room that appeared to be Martin’s center of operations. Martin humphed indifferently, and took a seat in a comfy chair behind a long oak desk, not showing the least bit of concern for his fallen officer.

"Would that be so bad?" Martin asked casually.

Cameron’s eyes widened; he was completely taken aback by the remark. Certainly officers often didn’t get along, and let’s face facts, no one got along with Sands, but it was unheard of to blatantly say that the death of another officer ‘wouldn’t be so bad’. Especially one you currently worked with.

"Sir?"

Martin leaned back in his chair and looked into Cameron’s eyes, "You act shocked, but you’re really not. You know Sands. He’s a loose cannon, and has most likely put the agency in jeopardy more than once. Oh, I don’t have proof mind you," Martin said, waving his hand dismissively. "Sands is no fool, he knows how to cover himself. I should have known that with Sands as controller this operation would turn into a wet job."

Cameron didn’t like where this was going, and decided to change the subject. "How long till the AA helicopter arrives to transport Officer Sands to OMS?"

"Within the hour."

After about ten minutes of awkward silence between the two officers one of the white coats emerged from a backroom and joined them inside the office. The man looked to be in his mid-twenties, with sandy blonde hair and dark blue eyes. His face was pale, as if he was shocked by the sight he’d just seen.

"Well, will he live?"

"Can’t say for certain. He’s lost a good deal of blood and has extensive injuries. However, if he’s transferred to OMS immediately I’d say he has a good chance of making it."

Cameron didn’t like the look on the doctor’s face. "What’s the extent of his injuries?"

The white coat sighed heavily and wiped some beads of sweat off his forehead. "He’s suffering from a number of gunshot wounds. One in his upper left arm and one in both thighs. They’re survivable and completely recoverable with the proper treatment b..."

"That’s all? So I can talk to him then. Excu..." Martin interrupted rudely, only to have the rudeness returned by the white coat.

"No sir, that’s not all. I haven’t covered his most serious injury, one that I am ill-equipped to handle here. OMS will have to take care of..."

"What is the injury?" Cameron asked hurriedly, knowing full well that it had to do with the extensive amount of blood running out from under Sands’ sunglasses. He wasn’t a complete idiot, despite what Sands might say.

"He’s obviously been tortured. The most serious injury he suffered is to his eyes," the white coat shifted his weight from side to side before continuing. "He’s blind."

Cameron shut his eyes briefly. ‘Christ almighty!’

"Is there any chance of..."

"No," the white coat interrupted, knowing full well what Cameron was going to ask. "No chance of Officer Sands recovering his sight. Complete disability for life. He requires immediate evacuation to OMS for treatment… and therapy."

Cameron felt a sudden wave of sympathy for Sands, the thoroughly irritating and unbalanced officer he’d known since his days of training at the Farm.

Being blind meant being imperfect, and it meant being vulnerable and needy.

These were Sands’ worst nightmares.

Cameron looked up at the doctor again. "How can you be so sure?"

The white coat returned Cameron’s steady gaze before telling both officers the ugly truth.

"There is no chance of recovery… because quite frankly there is nothing there to fix." At the confused looks the two officers were throwing him, the white coat decided to put it bluntly. "He has no eyes at all."

Cameron’s mind reeled. "No eyes…" he repeated back in a whisper. The mere thought was horrifying to him, and he realized now why the white coat was so pale. He’d seen it, in all its gory reality. Even for a doctor, it couldn’t have been easy. Cameron leaned heavily against the desk next to him, suddenly feeling the need to sit down. He heard Martin’s chair creak from the officer’s weight, so evidently he wasn’t the only one.

The white coat continued, "Frankly, I’m surprised he’s alive. Not only has he lost a massive amount of blood, he’s obviously been tortured. To top it all off, from his symptoms I’d guess whoever did it must have given him quite a nasty drug to keep him aware and awake while they… operated."

"Fuck!" Cameron swore under his breath, uncharacteristically for him.

"Is he aware of what has happened to him?" Martin asked dully, a surprising lack of emotion in his voice.

To Cameron, Martin sounded like a robot devoid of all feeling.

It was unnerving.

Cameron looked at Martin, and was further surprised to see the man didn’t look too shocked or too phased by the gruesome facts the doctor was piling on them either.

‘Very odd.’

"To a certain extent, yes. I’m sure a lot of what happened after the torture is fuzzy, but I believe he knows what has happened. He can most likely remember the whole hideous operation, if they gave him the drugs I suspect they did."

Cameron finally gave in and sat down on the desk, not caring if it was offensive to a superior or not. He’d known Sands for some thirteen years. As much as the man could push his buttons he never would have wished this on him. He wouldn’t even wish this on his worst enemy. He wondered what would happen to Sands now, and the scenarios that ran through Cameron’s head were more than slightly disturbing.

Cameron was lost in his thoughts as the white coats took Sands, heading directly for OMS. Cameron never even looked up, not yet prepared to face Sands again as they took him away to an uncertain fate.

As the flurry of activity followed Sands out of headquarters, Cameron closed his eyes and silently prayed for Officer Sheldon Jeffery Sands; it might have been the first time anyone had ever done so.

Go to Sands Through The Hourglass: Part 2 ~>