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

Part 5

Sands stood outside the small airport waiting for his driver. It was a typically hot day in Mexico, with a slight breeze that did nothing to take the edge off the heat. He stood silently by his suitcases wearing blue jeans,

sunglasses and a red shirt that read "Cereal Killer" with a picture of a spoon underneath the text.

He thought about his somewhat flawed plan… however, it could work. Sure, everything was against him, but since when did Officer Sands turn down a good challenge?

After a few minutes of waiting Sands heard a car pull up in front of him and a man get out and walk towards him.

"Mr. Wayne?" the man asked.

He had no accent, so he obviously hadn’t been raised in Mexico. Sands’ contact, Tom, had assured him that the man was trustworthy, and good at keeping things clandestine. Sands trusted his contact implicitly, having used him more times than he could count, and so he trusted this man as well. Of course, if this person aroused his suspicion in any way… that opinion could and would change in an instant.

"Yup," Sands replied as he picked up the smaller of his two bags. He heard the driver pick up his other suitcase and toss it in the back of the car. Sands settled himself in the front passenger seat and placed the black bag underneath his legs.

As the driver started up the car Sands dug in his pocket for a cigarette and lighter and quickly lit up. It took all of two seconds for the driver to notice.

"Hey, no smoking in my car."

Sands ignored him as he exhaled a large amount of smoke into the cab of the car. "Want me to roll down a window?" he asked casually as he felt the car start to move forward.

"No, I’d like you to put it out. I’ll never get…."

"I think for ten thousand dollars you can buy an air freshener once you’ve completed this assignment and still have a little fun money left over," Sands interrupted, before taking another drag and rolling down his passenger window. Sands smiled in the man’s direction as the arid heat poured into the car.

"Fuck." He heard the driver mutter under his breath, in a voice so low that most normal people wouldn’t have heard it. However, with the removal of sight from his roster of vital senses, Sands’ hearing was significantly heightened and he heard it quite clearly.

"I know you’d like to, but I’m a little too busy right now."

The driver’s head snapped around towards Sands and his eyes narrowed at the CIA officer sitting beside him. Sands went on in a light tone and with a completely serious face.

"Work first, play later, as the saying goes. I never mix business with pleasure."

The driver grumbled, but said no more about the matter, instead asking, "So, we going straight to the hotel?" He glanced briefly at Sands for confirmation.

"No. No need for me to piddle-dick around this dustbowl of a country any longer than necessary. Tom give you the list of addresses and cities that I asked him to?"

"Yeah, they’re in the glove compartment in front of you."

Sands raised his eyebrows as he took a puff, making no move to retrieve the list from the compartment. The driver didn’t know it, but he wouldn’t have been able to differentiate the directions from any other piece of paper in there, and he didn’t much feel like explaining his situation at the moment.

After about a minute he heard the man groan and reach in front of him, opening the glove compartment and retrieving the directions.

"Are you going to give me this much shit the entire time you’re here?"

"Probably," Sands replied shortly as he flicked his used cigarette out the car window and bent down to open the bag at his feet. "Head to Agent Ramirez’s lovely abode."

"I’m calling Tom and demand he double my pay," the driver continued to gripe as he glanced at the address.

Sands chuckled at the man as he unzipped the bag. "Tom should have warned you about me… and you shouldn’t have pissed him off."

The man frowned as he came to a stop at a red light and turned to face Sands. "He did warn me about you. Said you were a bad ass, murdering, psychotic with no conscience, who enjoys playing mind games." Sands laughed out loud as he dug in his bag.

‘That’s Tom for you, giving it to ‘em straight.’

"My kind and giving reputation precedes me."

The driver ignored the comment and went on, "What makes you think I pissed him off?"

"Because you’re here with me, amigo."

"So?"

"Sooo…" Sands drawled as he brought up an automatic and a couple clips, "…if you weren’t privy, Tom only sends me people that he’d like me to torment. His demented idea of punishment for small infractions." Sands smirked and snapped the clip into the gun. "Tom has such a twisted sense of humor. A man after my own heart."

A car honked from behind them and Sands jerked a thumb towards the front window, "Light’s green Kemo Sabe."

The driver stepped on the gas and Sands continued to arm himself with various implements of destruction as they neared Ramirez’s home. As luck would have it, it was only about a half hour’s drive from the airport. "So what’s your name Tonto, or do I have to keep making up names for you?" Sands asked finally.

"Jackson Hoff."

Sands snickered at the pronunciation of the last name with the combination of the first.

"Jack Hoff? Jesus, and I thought my name was bad."

Jackson looked over curiously. "Which is?"

Sands smiled as he pulled his hair up into a ponytail. "That’s dangerous territory Hoff. Best beware of the no trespassing sign." Snapping the hair tie tight he started digging in his pants pocket. He quickly popped a couple of Aspirin, feeling his recurring headache returning. "What’s our ETA?"

"About 10 minutes."

Sands reclined in his seat. He planned on persuading Ramirez that it was in his best interests to help with a little covert CIA operation, as well as adding supporting testimony to the evidence they would find during said operation. Ramirez wasn’t stupid, and Sands knew he would take some convincing, but eventually Ramirez would cave in. He always did.

A short while later Sands felt the car pull over and come to a stop.

"We’re here."

Sands sat up straighter and gave an abrupt nod. He tucked one gun in his belt and held on to another, waving it in the driver’s direction. "You’re with me."

"What? Whoa, no way! I agreed to be your escort and help with traveling; I didn’t agree to become your personal soldier. And I can’t shoot worth shit."

"Well that’s a drag. But lucky for you Tito, I can shoot, and I’m not asking you to do anything more than lead."

"Lead?!"

"Yeah, you know. Lead the way…" Sands said as he opened his car door and stepped out, "…and absorb the first wave of bullets."

"Hell no! I’m not…" Jackson’s eyes widened, silenced by Sands gun pointing towards his head.

"Get out." Sands said slowly and calmly.

Jackson complied, turning off the engine and getting out of the car. "Asshole. You don’t even need me."

Sands walked around the car, one hand gliding along the top of the hot metal surface as he did so. Coming up just beside Jackson he lowered his gun.

"No, I don’t need you," Sands replied with a shrug.

"However Jackson, you can make things easier for yours truly. Now let’s stop beating around the bush, if you’d show me the way then I’d be much obliged."

Jackson pointed to the house angrily. "See where I’m pointing? The big house on the corner over there? I think you can manage."

"No I can’t see it and it’s true that I can manage without you, but the only thing that will be accomplished by you not coming with me is time being wasted," Sands replied, growing frustrated. He pushed the other man in the shoulder. "Now let’s vamoose."

Jackson caught his balance and slowly turned, starting to walk towards the house, still a bit shocked.

Jackson stuttered a bit as he asked, "So that’s why you needed a driver, you’re… blind?"

"How very astute of you."

"Tom didn’t tell me."

Sands followed the sound of Jackson’s footsteps; "The knowledge is strictly on a need to know basis Jackie, and Tom didn’t need to know. Now let’s keep it that way."

"A blind CIA officer, now I’ve seen everything. I’m definitely asking for a pay raise."

Sands smirked as they came to a stop at the front door. "Probably not a bad idea. This job can be detrimental to your health… but if it makes you feel any better, there’s only a slight chance of you being riddled with bullets." Sands nodded his head in the direction they had been walking.

"Door?"

"Yeah," Jackson said as he let Sands step in front of him and knock on the door, "but for some reason that doesn’t make me feel any better."

"Can’t imagine why not. Doesn’t seem to be any answer. Is there a car in the driveway?" Sands asked as he knocked again and Jackson finally took a good look around.

"No, as a matter of fact it looks a little deserted."

‘Oh, this is just dandy,’ Sands thought to himself with a frown as he knocked on the door one last time. If Ramirez had up and moved it was going to put a little bit of a kink in his wonderfully grand plan. Sighing Sands pulled something that looked like a small pocketknife out of his pocket and flipped out a long, slightly curved pick-like object. After finding the doorknob he inserted the pick and quickly maneuvered it until he heard a satisfying click. Grasping the doorknob, he opened the door and walked in, hearing Jackson follow closely behind him.

"I take it you’ve done that before?" he commented wryly as Sands walked around the first room, one hand trailing against the wall. He was walking on a hard floor, most likely wood he noted, as he listened to the sound of a slight echo accompanying his footsteps.

"It’s empty," Sands stated out loud to himself, and heard the emptiness reply back in that same echo.

"Yeah, looks like this Ramirez guy moved."

"Vae!" Sands took his hand off the wall, walked towards what he imagined was the center of the room, and reached into his pocket for a cigarette. He was down to half a pack and would have to buy more soon.

He lit the cigarette and placed it in his mouth as he tucked the gun he was holding into his belt with the other hand. "Then he won’t mind if I smoke."

Jackson shook his head at the officer before him as he walked further into the small house and entered the empty kitchen. Sands followed him and leaned against the kitchen doorframe. He heard cabinets being opened and closed and Jackson muttered something about being starved.

Sands cocked his head. "Don’t bother looking in the cupboard Mother Hubbard, its bare," he drawled.

Other than transportation this guy wasn’t going to be much help at all, and he briefly found himself wishing that Cam had found some guts and come with him.

‘Like that’s going to happen.’

After a few more minutes of pointless searching for crumbs, Sands grew impatient.

"Could you stop with the cabinet raid and go glance into each room and see if there is anything that he might have left behind?"

"Uh, sure."

Jackson slid past Sands and hurried down what sounded like a hallway, opening doors and looking inside. Hearing the footsteps fade, Sands quickly took off his sunglasses and wiped his forehead on his shirtsleeve. It was hot as hell, and his body was already starting to protest from all the traveling and movement after so much time inactive in a hospital bed. His head was still pounding as he waited for the measly over-the-counter painkillers to kick in. Hearing footsteps approaching, Sands hastily put his sunglasses back on as he reentered the first room. He heard Jackson come to a stop beside him, and Sands took one last drag of his cigarette before flicking the stub onto the floor.

"So, find anything of interest?" he asked at Jackson’s silence.

He heard Jackson shout back, "No," from another room down the hall and immediately bristled, trying to put some distance between himself and whoever was standing beside him as he reached for one of his guns. Unfortunately the man beside him swiftly caught both of Sands’ hands and wrenched them behind his back painfully.

"Indeed, I have."

An unfamiliar male voice responded besides Sands’ ear and Sands cursed his own name.

Sands groaned inwardly but he kept his cool. The man pulled Sands backward slightly as his grip on Sands’ wrists tightened.

"Officer Sands I presume?" the man asked, sounding as if he already knew the answer.

Sands swallowed his fears as his cool façade remained intact, truly his greatest weapon. "You know what they say about presumptions. They can be dangerous. I’m Agent Doe, John Doe. At your service."

The other man laughed lightly. Sands felt one hand leave hold of his wrists, loosening the grip a good deal. However, the tight pressure was quickly replaced by cold metal pricking the flesh on Sands’ neck.

‘Goddamn, how I hate Mexico,’ Sands thought to himself.

"I’ve certainly heard a great deal about you Officer Sands. Or is it just Sands now? You know, when they sent me here to look for you I really hadn’t expected to find you. I thought there was no way a man with your reputation would have been stupid enough to come to such an obvious place. Guess you’re slipping Sands."

Sands felt a rush of anger rising in him but struggled to hold it in check. After all, such anger would be of great use, if used at the proper time. Sands’ face remained neutral, showing no human emotions to his captor… whoever he might be.

‘Where the hell is Jackson?’ Sands thought. He could use some sort of distraction. Such a moment, no matter how brief, would give him the edge he needed.

‘Well, I suppose if I want something done right, I’ll have to do it myself.’

"Well you know, Slick, I guess I underestimated those nitwits at the Company for once. I should have figured they’d get lucky eventually. I mean it’s all in the mathematics." Sands paused a minute and twisted his head towards the man, ignoring the knife blade at his neck as he smiled brazenly before continuing. "Guess I shouldn’t have had that third tequila while calculating my plan. But let that be a lesson to us all… never drink and derive."

"You really are a crazy bastard Sands. Now enough with this crap, I’m to take you back to the States immediately… you have some explaining to do." The man shoved Sands forward suddenly and he stumbled slightly, but quickly regained his balance and pushed all his weight in the opposite direction to the one that the officer wanted them to go, bringing them both to a halt. The man behind him sighed irritably.

"Now I don’t know if I want to do that. It doesn’t sound too groovy," Sands quipped lightly.

The other officer was growing impatient, he could tell, and it was a good way to draw weakness out of an enemy. This Sands knew well.

"You’ve got two choices Sands. They want you back in the States, dead or alive, by tomorrow morning. Either you come with me, or I kill you and take your body. Now which is it going to be?" He spun Sands around to face him and stepped closer, still with one arm holding Sands’ hands and the other holding his throat hostage. Sands pretended to think about the choices for a moment before finally concluding, "Those choices of yours just aren’t jiving with me, Slick. How ‘bout we compromise?"

The man growled and pressed the knife into Sands’ throat, drawing a small trickle of blood from the new wound. Sands didn’t react to the pressure; instead he raised his dark eyebrows and drawled, "Ya know, you should be careful with that. An inexperienced officer like yourself… you could poke someone’s eye out with that thing." Sands baited him, hoping his fat ten-pounder would chomp down on it hard.

The other officer grinned despite the insults. "Well, well… there’s an idea," He said snidely as he raised the knife and pulled off Sands’ sunglasses, intending to move his threats upward. But the officer didn’t expect what he found instead.

It was exactly what Sands had wanted.

He quickly took advantage of the man’s shock as he kneed him in the groin… hard. The officer doubled over in pain and let go of his grip on Sands, completely caught off guard.

"Too late. It’s already been done."

Sands followed his first dirty move with another, kneeing the doubled-over officer in the face. He heard a crunch as his knee met the man’s nose, and his would-be assailant crumpled to the floor unconscious.

Sands bent over and swiftly found the knife the other man had dropped while he was busy worrying about the intense pain in his lower regions. Grasping the knife Sands stood and took a couple steps until the toe of his boot touched the body lying on the floor. Kneeling down he cleared his throat as his hands searched for the sunglasses the officer had taken. He quickly located them. Sliding them back on his face he returned his hands to the body on the floor, letting them do his seeing. The man was stocky, and about his height. He was fairly certain he’d never met him before; he certainly hadn’t recognized the voice. Sands relieved the unconscious man of two more firearms before standing up briskly and calling out in a voice that could freeze water, "Jackson, you fucking squid, get your slimy ass in here or you’ll be my next meal."

Sands was not in a good mood, to say the least. He heard a muffled, "Huh?" from what seemed to be quite a way off and after about a minute Jackson reentered the living room, finding a coldly furious Sands standing in its center. It was an expression Jackson was sure only Sands could manage to wear. Jackson eyed him warily as he took a couple steps into the room.

"What’s your problem now? You asked me to…" Jackson trailed off, ceasing to speak as he caught sight of the unconscious man lying on the floor. "What the hell happened here?"

"What the hell happened to you?" Sands threw back as he approached Jackson, his suspicious nature suddenly returning.

Sands wasn’t sure anymore about the man’s trustworthiness. He thought it highly unlikely he had anything to do with it, but still, he would have to be even more alert after this.

"What do you mean? You asked me to look around the house. That’s what I was doing."

"You mean to tell me that the last five minutes you’ve been scurrying around this house and didn’t hear a goddamn thing?" Sands stopped in front of Jackson, a couple steps away and Jackson took an involuntary step back.

Now Jackson saw what Tom was talking about when he described Sands. Now… now he understood.

"I… I was in the basement, there’s no electricity down there… it’s dark. Made it hard to search. I swear, I didn’t hear anything," he said nervously, uncertain how psychotic Sands really was and what he was capable of.

Sands weighed Jackson’s voice carefully, and put it together with the rest of his short experience of the man. Sands tilted his head, looking for all the world as if he was studying Jackson with intense interest.

"Really, I didn’t hear a thing."

Sands heard Jackson shift his weight from one foot to the other, heard him take another step away from him, heard the shake in his voice when he answered.

Jackson was lying.

No, he hadn’t been part of a setup.

But yes, he had heard something.

Jackson had just failed to come up and check things out.

Coward.

It was Sands’ theory, one he decided to test. He raised the gun, and pointed it at Jackson’s head. "What good is it if a blind officer has a deaf partner, eh?" Sands asked, as if it was of no importance at all. He shrugged his shoulders and cocked the gun he’d just taken from the officer lying on the floor.

Jackson eyed the gun in fear and took another step back.

"Please, no! Don’t shoot me, please. I’m just your driver. I’m not used to this stuff…"

Sands held the gun steady as Jackson begged a bit, before smirking mischievously and returning the gun to his side. "That yellow streak down your back is the size of the Grand Canyon, Jackson."

Sands turned around and walked back to the man lying on the floor. He couldn’t understand why Tom had sent him Jackson, unless he thought the man had potential and just felt the needed to send him on the toughest assignment in town. Still, Sands had little faith left in Jackson Hoff. He tossed the unfamiliar gun he still held to the floor, out of the fallen man’s reach.

The man was starting to wake up and Sands knelt down beside him, the man’s own knife in his hand. Sands undid his belt buckle and slipped the belt from his waist in one quick motion. He used it to tie the officer’s hands tightly, giving it one last hard yank for good measure, then leaned back a bit, waiting as the officer came to.

A lit cigarette was soon dangling from Sands mouth, while the other officer realized his hands were bound. The man started to protest, and tried to get up, but was stilled by the cold metal of his own knife against his own throat.

"I don’t know what makes you dumb Officer, but it really seems to work," Sands drawled as he held the knife steady.

The officer’s voice cracked a bit as he replied, making Sands smile at the obviously weakened man. "You’re insane Sands."

Sands heard Jackson edge a little further into the room as he replied.

"If you want to be the best, you must lose your mind," Sands said, stressing the last three words in particular.

The man coughed and started to move, but Sands dug the knife in a little deeper, sure he must be drawing blood by now.

"You think the Company is going to find you useful the way you are now, Sands? Fucking forget it. They don’t care about you. You’re gone. You’re history. You’re nothing to them anymore!"

Sands jaw set firmly at the man’s words, rage coming to the surface fast, as his mind sped around in circles.

But it didn’t matter how much he tried to rein it in. Those words struck a chord in him, deep and hurtful. They were his fears voiced out loud, by someone who didn’t even fucking know him and who was at this very moment at his mercy.

"Ab absurdo."

The knife left the man’s throat. It rose above the wide-eyed officer and was quickly brought down hard, sinking into the man’s thigh. Sands twisted the blade, to ensure a nasty wound that wouldn’t stop bleeding easily, before yanking it back out. Hearing a satisfying scream of pain from the man Sands leaned in close to him and whispered, "I seem to be more useful than you are."

Sands sat up a little and held the bloody blade in front of his face, as if inspecting it. "You know, you really could poke someone’s eye out with this thing." Sands smiled wickedly. "However, out of the two of us, only one of us can be used to test the theory."

"You’re a fucking lunatic. You do know that, right?"

Sands wiped the blood off the knife blade onto the officer’s pants. "Well you know the saying, there’s no brilliance without a hint of madness. Now, tell me who sent you."

"The fuckin’ CIA. Who do you think?" The officer spat, as if Sands was a complete idiot.

Sands shook his head slowly.

"No, no, no, no, no, Mr. Officer, Sir," Sands said mockingly, "Who. As in what person, what individual, what superior, what hell spawn, what man or woman, what demented toad told you to come here and bring me back to the States dead or alive?" Sands ticked off the options in his creepily calm voice, tapping the officer on the chest with the knife blade as he did so.

At the man’s silence, Sands pulled away from him a bit. "Alrighty then, let me take a stab at it… oh, sorry. No pun intended of course. Officer Martin, perhaps?" Sands paused a moment, but the man stayed silent and Sands raised his eyebrows questioningly. "Am I right, or am I right?" At the man’s continued silence Sands smiled, knowing he’d hit home. "Of course I’m right." Sands said as he stood up and threw the knife into the ground, burying its blade deep into the wood floor out of the other officer’s reach.

Sands turned back towards the officer on the floor.

"Now, I’d love to stay here and kill you, but I’ve really got to skedaddle. I’m sure you understand. Absum," Sands said as he stood above the other officer, flicking his cigarette ash on top of him.

"Jackson, shall we?" Sands asked politely as he moved away. "Move from that spot officer and…" Sands positioned his hand as if holding a gun, then pulled the imaginary trigger. His real guns remained tucked away, though still within easy reach. "Bang, bang."

Turning around, Sands followed Jackson’s lead to the door, and sure enough, he heard the officer trying to get up just as he reached the threshold. Sands spun around on his heel, pulled out one of his guns, aimed and pulled the trigger. Not thinking twice about the man as he hit the floor again, Sands turned back around and left the house, making sure to shut the door firmly behind him.

Sands and Jackson returned to the car in very different states. Sands was calm, collected and had an even more cocky air then he had before he entered the house. Jackson, on the other hand, was in a state of shock; at least that’s what he decided to call it. He’d just watched this officer kill a man in cold blood. When Sands had shot him, the other officer hadn’t even really been a threat. Jackson started up the car mechanically, saying nothing as Sands sat down in the passenger seat and shut the door, snapping Jackson out of his zombie mode.

"Jesus, Sands, you just killed that man!"

"Yeah, ain’t it cool?" Sands smiled.

"You shot him!"

Sands head shifted in his direction and he shrugged nonchalantly. "Your point?"

Jackson blinked a couple times. "My point is that you just murdered a man," Jackson said, stressing the last part of the sentence in a slightly hysterical way.

Sands adopted a pained expression and rubbed his temples. "Shit, we still have any undamaged windows in this car? I’m pretty sure your voice just reached a level that could shatter glass."

"How can you just sit there and be so calm about this?" Jackson kept on, only toning his voice down slightly.

"You know, people like you are the reason people like myself need medication," Sands drawled, as the thought of popping four more Aspirins entered his mind, but his face quickly hardened and he pointed forward.

"Drive."

His voice left no room for argument. Jackson pulled away from the curb and started down the road slowly.

"You could go to jail for life for what you just did back there."

Sands barked out a laugh. "What I did back there was nothing Kemo Sabi. I could get the gas chamber for what I’ve done while in the CIA’s employ." Jackson’s eyes widened and Sands continued coolly, "You know why I haven’t?"

Jackson shook his head, but realizing it was pointless, made an effort to find his voice for a brief word. "No."

Sands smiled as he set the gun he’d been holding back in the black bag at his feet and answered in a voice that implied Jackson was stupid for not knowing the answer.

"Because I’m in the CIA’s employ."

"What?"

Sands sighed and leaned back. "Few great men would have gotten past personnel, Jackson. The Company looks for those with the potential to kill, and cultivates it as we’re trained. Not all mind you, but many of us have little conscience when it comes down to how we accomplish our missions. Make no mistake Jackie; the Company doesn’t produce good human beings. They produce machines. Machines that are fit for their purpose. Those who will do whatever is necessary… lie, cheat, steal, kill… give up anything for the mission… their life, their family, their sight…. all in the name of the wonderful US of A."

Jackson gulped, sure he wasn’t imagining the bitterness that had managed to taint Sands voice ever so slightly. "I never heard it put like that."

"You think that many people know that? Realize that?"

"I suspect not."

"Well you’d suspect right. Most who are in the Company’s employ don’t even realize how they’re being used."

Jackson decided to say something rather bold, seeing how Sands was speaking to him in such an earnest way. Something he still didn’t really understand. "Did you?"

Sands sat there, a little off balance from the question, but said nothing as he turned his head towards the passenger window as if he were watching the sparse scenery go by. The silence turned to tension very quickly and Sands seemed to cut the conversation off abruptly. After a minute or so Sands broke the silence.

"Head for Guitar Town. Paracho."

"Paracho? That’s a good day’s drive at least."

Sands turned back towards him smirking, "A day? Not if I were driving amigo."

"If you were driving we wouldn’t make it out of Culiacan."

Sands smirk faltered ever so slightly, but he kept it plastered on for the sake of appearances. Shooting the rather idiotic officer back at Ramirez’s old home had felt good. It had been entirely too long. The rush, the thrill, the power… it had felt too damn good to pass up. Still, Jackson’s naïve way of thinking was eating into him and it was making him uncomfortable. "You know Tito, there was a time not so long ago when I would have run you over with my Camaro just for the fun of it. For no reason at all, other than the sake of killing, to satisfy my own twisted sense of humor."

Jackson looked at Sands curiously, "And you’re saying you wouldn’t now?"

Sands shifted in his seat a bit, as if uncomfortable. "On the contrary, if I were to get behind the wheel now I would probably run you over without even realizing it… and yes, I would probably find it hilarious once I did realize. However you needn’t worry too much Jackie, if that’s what you’re doing. Offing you would put me in a rather awkward position, because at the moment you are of use to me. Besides, Tom probably wouldn’t appreciate me killing you…" Sands paused for a minute as if thinking before continuing, "But then again, maybe he would. Maybe that’s why he sent me you. He had to have known you were far too green for someone like myself."

Sands took his hair out of its ponytail and placed all but one gun back in his bag. After a few minutes Jackson asked, "So, why are we going to Paracho?"

"There is a Mariachi in Guitar Town that most assuredly owes me for his betrayal, and I intend to collect on that debt."

Sands reclined his seat, intending to snooze a bit on the boring drive. He knew El would be in Paracho. It was where he had found him before and it was the only home El had. Sands hadn’t actually planned on finding El, but since Ramirez was gone, and he didn’t have the time to search him out, El would have to do. Actually, the more he thought about it the more he liked the idea.

---

It was a full day’s drive, as Jackson had said, driving straight through with only one short stop for drinks and a restroom break. Sands had said little during the drive, and Jackson could never tell when he was asleep or awake, something he didn’t like at all. This was one of those times.

"Sands? Sands?"

Sands was reclining in his seat as he sighed irritably. "That’s my name, don’t wear it out."

"We’re about fifteen minutes away from Paracho."

Sands immediately straightened up, bringing his seat back to an upright position. "Cool beans."

Jackson moved uncomfortably in his seat. His legs felt like jelly. He hated driving straight through without being able to trade off with someone else. Questions had been cycling though his mind since they’d left Culiacan, and he finally got the courage to ask one.

"How can the CIA go after one of their own officers?"

"Possunt quia posse videntur."

"What?"

"I said, they can because they seem to be able to."

Jackson’s face scrunched up in confusion. "Do you never give a straight answer?"

"It’s undoubtedly possible that the possibility is possible."

Jackson struck the steering wheel with one of his hands in frustration.

"Temper, temper," Sands scolded, wagging a finger in his direction.

"Why the hell can’t you just talk like a normal human being?"

Sands smiled as if enjoying his own private joke as he removed his shoulder holster from the bag and strapped it on. Shaking his head to himself Sands replied, "You have much to learn grasshopper," complete with accent to match.

"We’re here," Jackson announced as he drove into the outskirts of the small town. It wasn’t much, and he could already see why Sands called it Guitar Town.

"Groovy, now head to the center. It shouldn’t be too difficult to find in this one-horse ghost town."

Sands felt the car come to a halt as he finished loading his guns and assorted paraphernalia on his person. Sands sat there for a moment, deciding on which of his plans to use. Touching his sunglasses subconsciously as he faced straight ahead, he finally asked, "So, how’s the view?"

Jackson could tell he was trying very hard to sound casual, and he briefly wondered how long the man next to him had been without sight.

Feeling a bit uncomfortable, he started to describe what he saw. A tiny town, with large buildings surrounding the small town square. The square itself was surrounded by small booths with finished and unfinished guitars hanging from the walls and ceilings of the sellers’ stands. There were a few older men manning the booths, and a few others making guitars with very few people or activity other than that.

As Jackson described the square, Sands committed as much of it as he could to memory, and tried his damnedest to visualize it. He’d always thought he possessed a vivid imagination, yet nothing his mind’s eye could see could hold a candle to what his eyes had.

Sands had to dispel those thoughts before he got himself depressed. He nodded briefly as Jackson finished. "Alright. You’ll come with me, walking only slightly in front of me. Make a bee-line for a manned booth."

"And after that?"

"I work my magic and you stay out of my pixie dust."

Jackson nodded and bit his lower lip nervously. He really didn’t appreciate the fact that he was being dragged into this, and he really wasn’t sure anymore that ten thousand dollars was enough.

"Oh yeah, and Jackson… remember what I said about the subject that’s on a need to know basis?"

"Yeah."

"No one here needs to know." He said, facing Jackson again. Jackson could tell he was adamant on the subject. "Get it?"

"Got it."

Sands smiled, "Good." His eyebrows waggled up and down a few times teasingly. "You ready to rock?"

Jackson sighed and opened his car door. "I’ll never be ready."

Sands opened his door and stepped out as well. "Please don’t tell me you’re a jazz man, or worse…" Sands shuddered theatrically, "country."

Shutting his door Sands straightened himself up and stretched his stiff arms for a second. "All you are required to do is lead, shut up, stay out of the way and look pretty. So don’t fret my pet."

Jackson walked up to the front of the car, waiting for Sands. "And my chances of being riddled with bullets this time?"

"I’d say they’re pretty good. The Mariachi we’re currently seeking is a bit loco, after all."

Jackson narrowed his eyes warily, never quite sure when Sands was joking. Sands confidently followed the sound of Jackson’s footsteps as they began the walk across the square, looking for the entire world like he was scoping the place out.

Sands felt a bit of excitement at the prospect of meeting El again, and smiled at the thought. Sands’ entrance into El’s beloved hometown would come as a great surprise to El, and Sands just loved to make a big entrance.

He took a deep breath, as if tasting the air. Yes, El was here and he was going to get his attention one way or another. After all, in Sands’ mind, El had a betrayal to compensate for and Sands was going to make sure that he collected in full.

Sands followed the dull crunch of Jackson's footsteps on the dirt. If El had survived the Day of the Dead, then El was here, and Sands was willing to bet that El was anything but dead.

So Sands' real task was not to search for the legendary El Mariachi, something he'd be hard pressed to do, but to draw the man to him.

After a short walk across the square he heard Jackson come to a halt in front of him so Sands followed suit. Stopping just beside Jackson, Sands pretended to look at the merchandise as Jackson greeted a man at the booth ahead of them.

Sands however didn't bother with such pleasantries.

"¿Habla algo de Inglés?" (Speak any English?)

"No, lo siento, Señor," (No. Sorry, Sir.) the man replied, and Sands wasn't surprised. The man sounded very much like an old and weathered Mexican who'd seen little outside his tiny town.

Sands shrugged indifferently at the man's apology. "No piel de mi espalda," (No skin off my back) he said, not caring that the man had probably never even heard the expression before and had absolutely no clue what Sands meant. Sands continued before the man could ponder it for too long. "¿Ha vivido toda su vida en este encantador tazón de polvo?" (Have you lived in this charming dust-bowl your entire life?)

"Lo he hecho," (I have.) the man answered shortly, and Sands guessed that he'd already aroused the seller's suspicion.

Sands smiled the sweetest smile he could manage, trying his hardest to look as innocent as possible, which unfortunately, wasn't very innocent at all.

"Entonces usted debe hacer un joder malo como guitarra, soy yo derecho?" (Then you must make some fucking bad ass guitars here, am I right?)

Sands rocked back on his heels as he waited for the man to reply. He must have been somewhat startled, as it took him a minute to answer.

"¡Eso sí que hacemos!" (That we do!) the man at the booth boasted proudly as Sands stopped rocking on his heels and put on a serious face.

"Entonces ha de haber escuchado sobre El Mariachi." (Then you must have heard of El Mariachi.)

A pause. "Él es un mito." (He is a myth.)

Sands chuckled. "Para nada. Él es tan solo altamente sobreestimado." (Not at all. El is just highly overrated.)

Sands heard another man start to move forward, and he tensed up ever so slightly, very much on his guard, but he remained calm on the outside with well practiced ease.

Jackson watched Sands work, and had to wonder what he was up to. He hoped to hell Sands had a better plan than the one he was currently implementing, as he was sure they were getting nowhere fast.

Sands leaned toward the man as he continued in a calm but demanding voice.

"¿Dónde se esconde?" (Where is he hiding?)

"No sé de lo que me está hablando." (I don't know what you're talking about.)

Sands tilted his head a bit and smirked, knowing full well the man was lying, no doubt trying to protect the brooding Mariachi. "Sé que anda escondiéndose en algún lugar por aqu..." (I know he's skulking around here somewhere…) Sands paused and leaned back casually, continuing to rock back and forth on his heels.

"Él no está aquí." (He is not here.)

Again, Sands shrugged, as if all his questioning was of no consequence at all. "Ah, que se joda. Él no vale mi tiempo." (Fuck it. He is not worthy of my time anyway.)

"Siento que haya hecho el viaje para nada." (I'm sorry you made the trip for nothing.)

Sands raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. "Ahora, ¿quién dijo que hice el viaje hasta aquí para ver a Él? Después de todo, este pueblo vende guitarras y sucede que yo me encuentro buscando una." Sands pointed at himself to express his point. (Now, whoever said I made a trip here to see El? After all, this is a town that sells guitars and I just happen to be looking for one.)

The man was again silent before the salesman within took over. "¿Oh? ¿Entonces, cuál le gusta?" (Oh, then which one would you like?)

Sands quirked a dark eyebrow at the man. "La mejor, claro." (The best of course.)

The man must have nodded because he said nothing as he walked off to what Sands could only assume was another side of the booth to get 'the best'. Sands took the opportunity to light up one of his remaining cigarettes and take a long drag. Jackson got a couple steps closer, about to ask a question, when Sands low voice stopped him. "Not a word, Tonto."

Jackson wisely backed off, not saying a word, and gave Sands his space.

A wicked smile played over Sands' lips as a feeling crept over him.

It was a feeling that most people experience at one time or another, but since that fateful day it seemed to be another magnified sense to add to his ever growing collection.

Someone was watching him.

Sands heard the man take down a guitar and bring it back over as he took another puff of his cigarette. Truthfully, Sands had no intention of buying the guitar but it would serve its purpose well.

"Nuestra mejor guitarra, Señor." (Our best guitar, Sir.)

"Ponla ahí," (Set it down) Sands said while he pretended to casually glance around as he smoked. He had no intention of tipping anyone off about his weakness by blindly reaching for the guitar. Once he heard the guitar's gentle thud on the booth, Sands knew where it was. Taking a step closer he pretended to be inspecting it. "Your useless opinion Jackson?"

Jackson started a bit, not expecting to be talked to at all. "Uh, it's… nice."

Sands' head moved in Jackson's direction, one eyebrow raised. "Jackson, do I strike you as a man looking for something nice? What I want to know is… do I need to counterbalance such workmanship?"

Jackson blinked. He had no idea what Sands was talking about. "Uh…"

"Is it so beautifully well crafted that I need to shoot the craftsman?"

Jackson's eyes opened to about three times their normal size as he stared at Sands, at a loss for words.

Sands turned back towards the guitar and cocked his head thoughtfully. Placing the cigarette in his mouth, he lowered a hand down lightly until he felt a string underneath his fingertips and then lowered the other hand. Taking a step closer he ran a hand slowly along the guitar, feeling it out. To the unwitting onlookers it just looked as if he was admiring the craftsmanship of the piece.

Sands' face was serious, but not overly hard either – an impossible to read mask perfected over years of service for the Company. He gently lifted the guitar off the counter and slipped the leather strap over his shoulder, still feeling an intense gaze on him as he did so.

Jackson came up beside him and whispered in his ear. "There's a man in a building to your right watching us from a second floor window."

Sands only nodded his head once ever so briefly to acknowledge Jackson's words before he tried out a chord. Stepping away from Jackson, Sands slowly began retracing his steps to their parked car. He smiled lightly to himself. He was no idiot. El was watching… waiting to see what he was up to and no doubt trying to decide what to do about the situation. Sands thought that for a killing machine, the man really was quite a square.

The cigarette dangled precariously from his mouth as he idly walked towards the car. He played with the strings, experimentally at first, listening to the unique sound each pluck made as he slid one hand up and down, the other striking chords. It needed to be tuned, but it wasn't a bad instrument. He paused a moment and turned back towards the small booth, taking the cigarette out of his mouth as he did so.

"Este es un patético pedazo de madera. ¿La mejor?" (This is a rather pathetic hunk of wood. The best?) Sands tilted his head and let out a disbelieving grunt, "¿Cómo se alimentan?" (How do you feed yourselves?) he asked, his voice laden with sarcasm, speaking loudly enough so that perhaps El could hear as well. Truthfully, it was a nice guitar, but it wasn't the best.

No, the best guitars made in Paracho would always be reserved for one man. El.

Turning his back on everyone he took sure, deliberate, slow steps to the car and returned the cigarette to his lips. As he did so he began to pick up a simple tune that he used to play way back in what seemed like a lifetime ago. It had been years since he had played the guitar. He'd never been a great guitarist, but hadn't been too bad either.

He felt his leg lightly touch the bumper of the car and he pivoted neatly before seating himself atop the hood. As he listened to the tune he realized just how rusty he was. The fact that he could no longer see the guitar strings was not helping matters at all. Frowning ever so slightly, he tried to lose himself in the music, in the painfully simple tune he was trying so hard not to completely wreck. Lifting his face into the wind as a gusty breeze blew by, he recognized how much more important something as simple as feeling a breeze on his skin had become to him now. Sands sighed

'My, aren't I getting all Dr. Philosophical.'

The tune began to flow more clearly as his fingers began to loosen up and remember what to do.

Sands lightly shook himself out of the memory. His ears began to shift their focus from what he was playing to the sounds beyond it. He could clearly hear Jackson's awkward attempt at striking up a conversation with one of the booth owners, but he focused his attention beyond that. That was when he heard it. A familiar clink-drag. A sound he'd heard before. It was barely audible, but it was there, and it was growing ever more distinct by the minute.

El was coming.

Sands smiled to himself, satisfied, as he began to hum lightly.

His tune became a bit livelier as the breeze swept up his hair and carried the sounds across the barren square. The song was flowing much better now, still a bit rusty and awkward, but better than before. Sands really didn't care, as long as it drew El out of his cave.

It was closer now, the clink-drag step that was distinctively El. He heard Jackson stop speaking, along with the man Jackson had been chatting with. Sands assumed it meant that El was now visible in the square, but he didn't bother to acknowledge his presence as he continued to play.

Clink-drag-step, clink-drag-step, clink-drag-step.

The sound stopped right beside him and Sands could just imagine El's perturbed stare, and all the questions that must have been running through his mind, but still Sands said nothing.

They remained that way for a good two minutes, not saying a word to each other, as if in silent competition to see which one would crack first. However, Sands knew who would win. He would, of course. It was the way things had to be. As far as he was concerned he could stay like this, waiting for El to speak, all day long. It was El who didn't know the how's and why's of the situation and eventually his curiosity would get the better of him.

Another minute passed and the moment came when El could no longer contain the questions that buzzed through his mind, could no longer try to ignore the enigma sitting casually on the car in front of him.

"Nice tune," El finally said, mirroring Sands' opening words to him when they first met.

Sands inhaled smoke from the burned down cigarette still hanging from his mouth and nodded as if only half listening, not really caring whether El was there or not. Smoke escaped through his nose as he continued to play.

"You could use some practice," El continued in his thick accent, and Sands could tell he was trying hard not to just come right out and ask Sands what the hell he was doing in Paracho.

El studied Sands intently. His black hair still hung to his shoulders, he still wore the same tacky clothes and sunglasses, and he still smoked like a chimney. It appeared that the agent hadn't changed much since their last meeting. He was perhaps a little less tanned, but otherwise the same. Truthfully he'd thought Sands had died on the Day of the Dead, destroyed by his own conniving, and he hadn't given much thought to the agent he believed had expired. He certainly couldn't say he was happy about the agent's sudden appearance on his proverbial doorstep. Yet here he was, sitting before him with the same air of indifference and silently dangerous malevolence as before. El had no doubt that the agent wanted something from him, something that El wanted no part of. Sands did nothing without expecting something in return that would be solely for his own benefit.

"I did not know you could play."

"Music, dear El, is nothing more than tequila for the damned."

El wisely decided not to linger on that comment for too long.

"What are you doing here Sands?" El finally asked, his patience spent.

Sands' head came up for the first time since El had arrived, and seemed to stare at El through his midnight black sunglasses. His cigarette dangled from his mouth, a dangerously long column of ash hanging from it, as he stopped playing, but continued to pluck at the strings distractedly. Sands tilted his head curiously as if taking El in.

"What are you doing here, El?" Sands asked without much emotion, just mild curiosity that seemed to be born out of boredom.

El was nonplussed for a moment before answering. "This is my home. It's peaceful…"

"This joint is deader than a Broadway flop on opening night." Sands took one last drag on his cigarette before tossing it onto the dirt road. Turning back towards El he continued, "But I suppose such a place suits a walking corpse such as yourself just peachy, eh?"

Trying to ignore Sands' last comment El continued undeterred. "What are you doing here?"

"I have a little wet work for you El… an operation purely for your pleasure of course. From our last little rendezvous I am fully aware of how much you dig a good wet job."

El said nothing, waiting for Sands to get to the point. Sands continued to pluck at the guitar strings, deciding to play along with El, as he took his turn at mirroring their first encounter.

"I want you to kill a man."

"That sounds familiar," El remarked casually, as he watched Sands fiddle with the guitar in his hands. Sands smiled, but didn’t respond.

"Get out of here and leave me alone, Sands," El said at Sands’ silence, before turning from him and beginning to walk away.

Sands chuckled, causing El to pause and face the officer. Sands stopped plucking the strings and hopped off the car, removing the strap from his shoulder and holding the guitar by the neck.

"I take it that’s a no?" Sands said, still amused by El’s reaction.

"How did you guess?" El asked, beginning to walk away again.

Sands let El go for the moment, as he leaned the guitar against the front bumper of the car. He stepped back from it, as if admiring it, before calmly replying to El. "Hmm. Then I guess it’s a good thing I was only yankin’ your chain."

He heard El stop again, and he pretended to inspect the guitar critically. He was starting to wonder what the damn thing looked like, and could have laughed at that fact. He’d never particularly cared about the craftsmanship of guitars before.

"Then why are you here?" El asked, as he walked back towards Sands, growing increasingly frustrated.

"What do you think?" Sands asked, gesturing towards the guitar and ignoring El’s question. He knew his evasiveness was wearing on El’s patience. After making El wait for a moment, he answered. "I came to purchase a guitar. Why else would I be in Guitar Town?"

"Because I am here."

Sands tilted his head in El’s direction. "You’re so egocentric, El."

El snorted, and Sands returned his attention to the guitar. "The world doesn’t revolve around you and your overblown mythology." Sands paused to retrieve the guitar before continuing.

"The world revolves around me," Sands said, as if it was universal knowledge.

El shook his head, not buying Sands act. Something was up. He wanted something. "What do you want?"

"Soooo," Sands drawled, again disregarding El’s question and infuriating the Mariachi in the process. "What do you think? Personally, I don’t think this guitar is terribly impressive. Especially since it’s supposed to be the man’s finest."

"What are you doing here?" El demanded again, determined not to be swayed.

Sands continued looking at the guitar, and went on as if El didn’t exist. "No, not too impressive at all. Can’t even carry a proper tune."

El rolled his eyes upwards. He’d forgotten just how maddening Sands was. "I don’t think the guitar is the problem," El said, a direct insult to Sands’ poor playing.

"Oh! Ouch! That little barb struck my heart like a dagger El, truly," Sands said, his voice laced with sarcasm as his right hand flew to cover his heart.

"But I do have to respectfully disagree with your expert opinion. It’s definitely the guitar." Sands paused a moment. "You don’t think they’re trying to gyp me, do you?"

"It’s possible."

Sands raised his eyebrows, and smirked. "Well then, I guess I’m going to have to kick the saleman’s bucket… so to speak."

With a sigh, Sands quickly shifted gears, deciding to get down to business. "El, I’m here to ask a favor of you."

El took note of the fact that Sands made sure he was controlling the conversation by forcing El to wait.

Sands would give up the information when he chose to do so.

The forced control was something that El did not like one bit.

El also didn’t like the fact that Sands had asked for a ‘favor’ like it was the most normal thing in the world.

El watched as Sands carelessly tossed the guitar to the ground, and turned a full three-sixty with his arms extended, as if gesturing to the entire town. "Damn El. This place just isn’t happening. All I can say is that there better be a dive that serves some good slow-roasted pork here."

"Why? So you can shoot the cook?"

"You know me so well, El. I find the activity very… therapeutic."

El moved closer to Sands, and attempted to steer the conversation back to the matter at hand. "Why would I grant you a favor?" El asked, straight to the point.

"Because it will be fun! It’ll add to your impressive – as well as highly exaggerated – myth. It’ll add a little spice to your life… et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. Need I go on?"

"No, and no," El stated. His decision to not get mixed up in any of Sands’ schemes had been made as soon as he’d spied the officer in the square.

"No and no?"

"No. I’ve had enough killing, and enough revenge. I’ve finally found peace here. I’m not getting dragged into anymore of your plots."

"No killing? No revenge? Peace and harmony? What the hell kind of myth is that?" Sands scoffed, before switching tactics to hit El in one of his weak spots. "And here I thought you were an honorable man."

"Honor is something you wouldn’t know anything about."

Sands raised an eyebrow, his face shifting from teasing to serious in the span of a second. "Well then, how about this?" Sands began, closing the gap between himself and El and pointing a finger at him. "You owe me."

"Owe you?" El asked, as if the statement was absurd.

"Yes. You, El Mariachi, owe me, El Oficial, big time." Sands stated, and El was surprised by the conviction in Sands’ tone. "And if you don’t do what I ask you to, I’ll make sure to plaster your name - or lack there of – and place of residence, with its peace and harmony, everywhere in neon lights."

Sands moved his hands while he spoke, as if picturing the scene. "You’ve got great star power El. I have no doubt you’ll be performing to a full house. With your name? Oh, you’ll draw them to you in droves!"

Sands finished with a twisted smile, "Man, that’s Broadway. I’ll buy a ticket to that."

Once finished, Sands got the distinct impression that he might have pushed El a little too far when he felt El’s hands around his throat.

"You think you can threaten me? My answer is still no."

Sands smiled, despite his awkward position. "You can’t say I didn’t try and ask you nicely."

El tightened his grip but Sands gave no visible signs of discomfort.

Really, compared to having your eyes drilled out, this was nothing.

"You call all this asking nicely?"

Sands seemed to ponder El’s question for a moment. "Yes, I do. As a matter of fact, for me, I’d call this down right polite, because I’m a firm believer in the ‘shoot first, ask questions later’ policy."

"If you’d killed me then you couldn’t have used me."

Sands smirked. "El, sometimes I wonder about you. You should know by now that there are plenty of places I could shoot you without causing serious damage. Bullet wounds can be pesky, you know?"

"No."

"No? You can’t possibly tell me you’ve never been shot."

"No, as in I’m not granting any favors to the devil."

"Such compliments. You’re too kind," Sands drawled, while he slipped a hand into his pants pocket, undetected by El.

Sands sighed, faking disappointment. "Really, El. You’re no fun."

With a grunt El let go of Sands, but remained directly in front of him. Sands hand had retrieved what appeared to be a lighter from his pocket. Now that he was free of El’s grasp, Sands fished his pack of cigarettes out, not caring if El saw it.

As Sands place an unlit cigarette between his lips, El continued to glare at him silently. The tension was palpable.

Sands brought up his lighter, but instead of lighting his cigarette, he quickly flipped open the bottom of the lighter and pressed it against El. Not caring where exactly it landed Sands pressed a small button on the side of the lighter-like object and an intense shock quickly passed through El’s body.

Sands had been so quick, El hadn’t even had time to register what was happening.

El hit the ground in a heap, unconscious.

Sands closed the bottom of the lighter, which doubled as a stun gun, flipped it so that it was again right side up, and proceeded to light his cigarette. He smiled as he returned it to his pocket.

Yes, working for the CIA did have its perks.

"So sorry El, but I don’t have time to waste in mindless chitchat."

El would be out for a good half hour.

Sands listened to the sounds around him, trying to hear Jackson or one of the salesmen. Unfortunately, they weren’t making a sound and Sands quickly felt lost without anyone’s voice to give him direction.

"Jackson?"

"Yeah?" Jackson asked, off to his right, and Sands turned to face him.

"What are you waiting for? Help me get this dead weight into the car before he wakes up and unleashes his guitar case of death." Sands took a drag of his cigarette and motioned towards El, who was currently dead to the world.

Jackson hurried over to where Sands stood, and helped get El into the backseat of the car. While Jackson tied his hands and feet, Sands relieved El of all his weapons.

‘Not too many. Must have caught him by surprise,’ Sands thought as he finished up. Closing the backdoor, Sands put the two guns he’d found on El in the trunk, and was about to sit in the passenger seat when a thought occurred to him.

Reopening the backdoor, Sands removed El’s boots, quickly finding a couple of knives and a small pistol. Smirking at the finds, Sands patted El down one last time before placing the new batch of weapons in the trunk with the others. Opening the passenger door, he sat down and heard Jackson do the same.

"Oh, Jackson? See the guitar out there?"

Jackson looked at Sands curiously. "Of course."

Sands inhaled a large amount of smoke and closed his door.

"Go fetch."

Go to Sands Through The Hourglass: Part 6 ~>