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 6

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I don't know!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A few townspeople running from the square.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jackson gulped and nodded his understanding.

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

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

The car bumped along the rough dirt road leading out of Paracho. Jackson sat tensely behind the wheel, trying to forget the fact that he was driving the getaway car in a kidnapping and was experiencing intense pain from a bullet lodged in his foot. Sands sat quietly in the passenger seat, puffing at his cigarette, seemingly deep in thought and much calmer now then when they'd left Guitar Town.

El had yet to awaken, but Jackson figured it wouldn't be long before he came to. Personally, he wasn't looking forward to that.

Sands sighed, and tried to recall where he put his Aspirin. The rough road was causing his headache to return, and he sincerely hoped the incessant pounding wouldn't plague him much longer.

A deep cloud of smoke entered his lungs and he held it in a moment before exhaling slowly. He didn't feel like dealing with Jackson right now; he was too busy thinking about what he'd just gotten himself into.

Feeling a bit stifled, Sands rolled his window down a bit more. Although so far he'd had no trouble pulling El's strings, he knew it wouldn't last. If El refused to be a part of his plan, there wasn't much to stop El from escaping, or turning on him the first chance he got.

He wasn't that blind.

When it came right down to it, he needed El to agree to be a part of his plan.

That was the question, wasn't it?

Of course, he could continue to threaten El with the cartels, but he wasn't sure how effective that would be. El was far too much of a live-wire to take his threats for long.

Sands tossed his dead cigarette out the window and felt the road beneath their wheels change from dirt to asphalt.

He almost chuckled. It was a completely ridiculous idea, one that was damn near impossible.

Still, he was the best psychological warfare officer the Company had, so if anything, he thought it would be a worthy test of his skills. He was always up for a good battle of wits.

That is, as long as he won in the end.

Sands heard El groan softly, and begin to move around in the backseat as he came to.

El felt dazed, unsure of where he was. Opening his eyes he discovered his vision was hazy and he felt like the world was spinning around him. Groaning again, a little more loudly this time, he tried to move his arms, only to discover that they were bound tightly behind his back.

As he attempted to sit up, he found his feet were also bound. Trying to focus his blurry vision, his fogged mind deduced that he was lying tied up in the backseat of a car. Still feeling disoriented he tried to remember what had happened.

Slowly it filtered back into his memory.

Sands.

Turning his head he looked towards the front seat, and sure enough, there sat Sands.

As if sensing El was awake, Sands turned towards the bound man and smiled.

"Have a nice nipper-nap El? The Sandman didn't give you any unpleasant dreams, did he?"

El rolled his eyes, feeling oddly hung over, disoriented, and really not in the mood for Sands and his craziness.

"Sandman?" El asked thickly, trying to grasp what Sands was talking about.

Sands chuckled and raised an eyebrow before answering.

"The Sandman bleeds you of your mortality. He will blind your sight and fuel the fire of your insanity."

El glared at Sands. Nothing he was saying was making any sense. Not that that was anything new, but it seemed more random than usual.

After a short stretch of silence, both of Sands' eyebrows raised and he turned back around, facing the front of the car again.

"Still not getting it are you? It's from a song, you nitwit. Do you live in a cave? The Sandman is the controller of dreams... and nightmares."

El said nothing, getting Sands' little double meaning, but deciding that ignoring the officer was the best plan of action… for the moment anyway.

After a minute of silence Sands asked, "Are you giving me the cold shoulder, El? Really, we're practically old friends. That hurts."

El's hands turned into fists as he silently fought against the bindings around his wrists.

"Are you ignoring me, or are you asleep?"

Another minute passed, and the forgotten Jackson turned to look at the officer next to him, wondering what the heck Sands was up to, and noticing the mischievous look on his face.

For several minutes no one spoke. Jackson and El both thought Sands had let up until he suddenly started quoting some song or other in an oddly soft voice, as if he was telling a bedtime story to a child.

"Something's wrong, shut the light. Heavy thoughts tonight, and they aren't of Snow White. Dreams of war, dreams of liars, dreams of dragon's fire and of things that will bite. Exit light. Enter night."

Sands 'looked' at El.

Cocking his head, Sands finished, "You best sleep with one eye open, El."

"Do I look like I'm sleeping?" El asked, grumpy, and was surprised when Sands had no snappy comeback, only turning his gaze back to the road ahead and uttering a bored, "Not particularly."

El's disorientation, no doubt an after affect of the shock Sands' had given him, was beginning to wear off. Looking down he noticed that he'd been completely disarmed. He couldn't even feel the familiar weapons that he usually hid inside his boots.

"You'll be sorry you did this, Sands."

"Really El, what I'm going to ask you to do isn't all that difficult. Why, it's practically a walk in the park for a myth such as yourself."

"So you kidnap me?" El asked angrily.

"Well, I could sense that you weren't diggin' the vibe I was sending you, so I had to initiate plan B," Sands drawled, pausing a moment in contemplation before continuing. "Actually, it's plan C. I advise you don't make me whip out plan D, because it really doesn't have your best interests at heart."

Sands smirked as El asked, "And what is plan D?"

"I'd tell you, but then I'd have to kill you… as a matter of fact, that's precisely the main idea behind plan D." Sands paused a moment, and then snapped his fingers, "Damn. Cat's out of the bag now."

El sighed and attempted to loosen his bonds again. "Are you ever serious?"

Sands was stone-faced as he replied, "I'm always serious."

Giving up momentarily on the bindings, El dropped his head back to rest on the seat.

"All right. Out with it. What do I have to do before I can go back to my home?"

Sands smirked, not really buying El's sudden submission. He knew El still wasn't willing to do work for him, and was merely curious as to what Sands wanted.

"Close your eyes, click your heels three times and say 'There's no place like home, there's no place like home, there's no place like home'," Sands said, complete with impersonation. "Oh damn, I guess you can't do that since your feet are bound and you don't have any glittering red magic shoes. I guess that means you'll just have to work for me again."

El grunted. "If I do this… whatever it is, when I'm through, will you just leave me alone?"

"That's a highly probable possibility."

"Yeah? Well unless you give me your word that you'll leave me be after this, I won't agree to do it. I'll fight you all the way."

"Perhaps, but you also won't have a safe home to go to. So it's in your best interests not to ex-nay my plan before you even hear it."

"I don't let anyone threaten me."

Sands head snapped around to face El. "And I don't let anyone get away with turning on me. In my book that, El, is betrayal," Sands said with an anger El had never heard from him before.

Sands mood quickly changed, as if his anger could be switched off like a light, and his voice reverted to its normal drawl.

"You really ought to consider yourself lucky. You could easily be dead by now. But I've decided, out of the goodness of my heart of course, to give you one last chance to prove yourself. You know, you seriously disappointed me during the coup. However, there's yet another balance that needs readjusting here in Mexico and I'm willing to let you redeem yourself in my… eyes."

El said nothing, just studied Sands from the backseat. He was just noticing it. There was something off about Sands, he just couldn't put his finger on what it was.

"I'll give you all the details of the operation as is necessary. Right now, I've told you everything you need to know."

"You haven't told me anything."

"Exactly."

El was growing more frustrated by the minute. He wasn't used to being toyed with. "I have no choice but to do this for you, do I?"

Sands grinned at El.

"No, but welcome to the fold."

Sands didn't know what the hell he was going to do.

They were going to have to stop driving sometime soon; that much was for certain. He was quite sure Jackson couldn't hack another full day on the road without some sort of stop, especially with his recently injured foot. Much as Sands hated to admit it that needed to be patched up if he was going to be of any use at all.

Although truthfully, retiring for the night to an actual bed and getting off the brutally bumpy road was not the problem; he actually welcomed the thought. The real dilemma was finding a way of keeping El under his control.

Never before had he asked himself so many times, 'How do I gain control of this man?' and come up with nothing, nada, zip.

Before the Day of the Dead, such a problem hadn't been a problem. But now… now it was, for several reasons.

First off, Sands still wasn't certain that El had really committed himself to doing the mysterious job he'd been asked to do. It was possible that El intended to escape, despite Sands' threats. Perhaps El would even try to kill him.

Second, he needed to keep close tabs on El. If Jackson had possessed even slightly more worth than a wad of used tissue, he might have been able to scratch this one off his list. In the past, he wouldn't have had a problem, but now, despite the simplicity of the task, keeping a sharp watch on El wasn't such an easy thing to do anymore.

Which led him to his next predicament.

He couldn't hide it forever. He couldn't wish it away. He couldn't pretend it didn't exist. He couldn't change what had happened.

But it didn't sway how he felt about the matter.

He didn't want El to know.

Period. End of discussion. Case closed.

The thought of El knowing about his newfound weakness, the thought of him being privy to his stellar fuck up on the Day of the Dead…

The thought of El being better than him, stronger than him, when just a couple months ago they'd been an even match… it was enough to make him want to waste El, right then and there, if nothing else just so these thoughts would stop bombarding his brain.

He also didn't think that being blind fit into his whole bitchin' cool persona, either. It was bitchin' alright, but it wasn't cool.

Still, if he was to keep tabs on El without any helpers, El would have to be within earshot.

In which case, his newly inflicted disability would not be a secret much longer.

Illogical.

Still, it was a nice thought.

While Sands' mind ran away with him, the tense trio had traveled several miles in silence. That was, until Jackson broke it.

"Sands, I'm not feeling so hot."

Fighting down several primal urges after being pulled out of his thoughts by Jackson's pathetic whimpering, Sands heaved a tired sigh.

OK, so in hindsight, shooting Jackson in the foot wasn't the most brilliant plan he'd ever executed.

Still, it had felt damn good at the time. It still continued to amuse him, too, when he thought about it.

"Stop at the next rat infested torture chamber, then," Sands drawled. When Jackson didn't answer, Sands clarified the matter for him. "The next hotel. Stop."

El watched the exchange between the other occupants of the car with sharp eyes. The two didn't appear to like each other at all, so much so that Sands wouldn't even look at Jackson when he was speaking to him.

"Why is this man here?" El asked bluntly, motioning his head towards the driver's seat.

Sands seemed to be jarred from his musings as he turned towards El. "Say again?"

"What's with the driver?" El asked, also curious as to what had caused Sands to become so withdrawn within the last half hour.

"He's good target practice," Sands quipped, evading the real answer.

"Do you need practice?" El asked, sounding serious, but really anything but. He got the impression that Sands was fully capable of taking care of himself.

"Oh, he's not for me, El."

El snorted. He couldn't match Sands' wicked tongue, much to his dismay.

"So, are you going to untie me or am I to do the entire job with my hands and feet bound?"

"Ah, already brim full of ideas for the new allegorical story of El Mariachi, are we?" Sands asked, feeling the car slow down and turn to the right. "Can I trust that you won't try to scamper off?"

El pushed himself upright, head spinning momentarily as he did so. "Haven't we already been through this? I told you I'd do this job, and in return you promised to leave me alone, for good, after the job was finished. So stop toying with me and let's get on with it!"

"I just want to make sure we're communicating on the same frequency. I assume there's no static on your end?"

El rolled his eyes and stretched his stiff legs. "No."

"That's keen."

The car pulled to a stop, as Jackson announced their arrival.

Jackson faced Sands, dreading the moment when he would be forced to walk. "How many rooms?" he asked.

"Two," Sands said decisively, as he lit up his last remaining cigarette. Much to his dismay, he knew he'd have to keep El in close range, but he'd be damned if he was going to bunk up with Jackson as well. The mood he was currently in, Jackson would definitely be dead by morning, and he was running out of places to hide bodies.

"I'm not staying with him!" Jackson protested, as he jabbed a thumb in El's direction. El withheld a snicker at the man's obvious skittishness.

Sands smirked. "I don't think he fancies you, El!" he joked, as he turned to Jackson. "What's wrong Jackson? He's not your type? Well, not to worry, Tonto. As it so happens, you'll be having a room all to yourself. El stays with me. We have things to discuss… and I wouldn't trust you to keep watch over a garden slug."

"But you can't…"

"Finish that sentence and it'll be the last one you make," Sands interrupted, sensing that Jackson was about to let out his little secret before he was ready.

Shutting up, Jackson got out of the car with a groan and limped heavily inside the hotel to rent a couple rooms for the night.

"What happened to him?" El asked as he watched the man hobble inside.

"Got shot in the foot."

"By someone trying to stop you from taking me?"

"Does your ego ever need a day off?" Sands asked, before continuing. "No, El, I did the deed."

"By accident?"

Sands raised his eyebrows, taking a drag of his cigarette. "Do I look like I do anything by accident? Don't concern yourself with him. He deserved it."

When Jackson returned with the room keys, Sands stepped out of the car and stretched, before grabbing his bag from the front seat and setting it down next to where he stood. "Untie him, Jackson."

Jackson muttered under his breath, before opening the backdoor and freeing El from his restraints.

Sands silently prayed that he'd removed all of El's weapons as he heard him step out of the car, the familiar clicking accompanying him. Sands' hand instinctively brushed the butt of his gun, reassuring himself that the weapon was still there.

Cigarette dangling between his lips, Sands waited as Jackson grabbed his bag from the trunk, and El came up beside him.

"I'm surprised you untied me so soon," El said, with a hint of mischief in his voice.

Sands smiled. "Just don't do anything stupid, and I won't have to kill you." He bent down and picked up his bag, as he heard Jackson join them, grumbling all the way. 'I really need to put him out of his misery.'

As El watched Sands, it occurred to him suddenly, what was different about the agent. It was the way Sands moved. His movements were somehow altered since the first time they'd met. El couldn't explain how exactly. He was more measured and precise, perhaps. That was the only way he could explain it. It was subtle, almost nonexistent… but it was there.

There was another difference as well. During their original encounter with one another a few months back, Sands' eye contact had been focused and undeviating. Now, even taking the sunglasses into account, El couldn't help but feel that Sands wasn't making direct contact, even when he was looking at him. It was strange… as was Sands' overall behavior.

El knew that it wouldn't be difficult for him to take off if he really wanted to, but in all honesty, he was curious to see just what the hell Sands was up to.

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

"Mine's 219, yours is 202."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sands smiled tightly, trying to contain his mortification.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sands let El in before walking back to the bed he'd designated for himself, and sitting down. He heard El click on a light, then shed his heavy jacket and boots.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Your betrayal, El."

"As usual, you make no sense."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Cucuy turned me…"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sands couldn't see at all.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He didn't know.

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

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

Silence.

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

Silence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Still standing, Sands waited for him to continue.

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

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

"Their exact words to me."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In an exhausted motion, Sands removed his sunglasses.

He didn't care anymore. He didn't fucking care.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sands clapped a hand to his chest in mock shock.

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

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

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

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

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

Sands' eyebrows rose.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Takes one to know one."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Legible?" Sands asked when Cam remained silent.

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

"Your health would probably benefit from not asking."

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

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

"Alright."

"What time is it?"

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

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

"Yeah."

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

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

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

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

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

"Yeah? Well, make it quick."

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

"I'm listening."

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

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

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

"Jackson? Who the hell is Jackson?

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

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

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

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

Go to Sands Through The Hourglass: Part 7 ~>