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 | Part 9 
~*~
Spook Speak | Translation Guide

Part 8

Cam searched Jackson’s suitcase thoroughly, not finding anything of interest. Closing it, he turned back to Sands. "Should we search the car?" he asked, watching Sands as he smoked, seemingly deep in thought.

Sands shook his head. "Later, Gator."

Cam studied Sands for a moment. He was still pale, and acting a little spacey. "You sure you’re alright?"

"Si finis bonus est, totum bonum erit," Sands muttered, before saying to Cam, "I’m just fabulous." Tossing his second cigarette out the window, Sands continued. "Go back to my room and nab a change of clothes, and my good pair of sunglasses. I sense I’ll attract some unwanted attention if I walk down the hall in my current state."

"Since when have you not wanted to be the center of attention?" Cam asked sarcastically.

"It’s all about knowing when to take the spotlight."

Cam rolled his eyes, walking to the door. "I’ll be right back."

After the door closed, Sands collapsed into the nearest chair, exhaustion taking hold. He felt like shit, and knew that he must have looked like it too. Although his breathing had returned to normal, the dizziness hadn’t left him, and he was beginning to feel increasingly nauseous. To make matters worse, a burning sensation was starting to develop where his eyes once were, and he wasn’t sure if the source of the irritation was the cyanide or the fake blood. It could have been either, or a combination of both. In any case, he needed to get off whatever was causing the stinging right away.

Dragging himself out of the chair and walking into the bathroom, Sands closed the door, grabbed a washcloth off the rack and turned on the water. He scrubbed the fake blood off his face, but avoided getting too close to his eyes. It was where he really needed to wash to get rid of the fake blood, but he still couldn’t bring himself to touch the area.

‘Over a month and I still can’t do it,’ he thought to himself in disgust, continuing to feel light-headed as his hand clutched the edge of the countertop. It was amazing how much worse the nausea was, and how much harder it was to fight off when he couldn’t see what was around him to get his bearings. ‘It’s time I faced reality.’

Sands dropped the washcloth in the sink, moving an uncertain hand towards where the irritation was. His hand faltered as it hovered above his left socket before finally running a finger along its edge. The burning sensation increased with the contact, along with his queasiness.

‘My eyes should be here,’ his mind screamed, still unable to fully grasp that two empty holes were there instead of his eyes. ‘I shouldn’t be able to feel this. I shouldn’t be able to run my hand along an empty eye socket, much less two. I shouldn’t be able to feel the foreign, unnatural, alien, empty cavities that are there now.’ Of course they couldn’t just blind him. The cartel wasn’t that kind. They had to take his eyes completely, not just their use.

Still clinging to the countertop as if it was the only thing rooting him to the real world, he leaned over the sink as dry heaves racked his already exhausted body. His stomach had nothing to lose. The last time he’d eaten was on the flight over, and that hadn’t been much. When the gagging subsided he cradled his face in his hands, taking deep breaths to steady himself as the counter supported all of his weight. ‘What am I going to do when this is over?’ He still hadn’t answered that question.

"Where are you, Jeff?"

Startled by Cam’s voice, he quickly pulled himself back together, opened the bathroom door and held a hand out for his clothes. Cam gave Sands what he’d asked for, and Sands set them down on the bathroom counter.

"Time to mop up, Cam," Sands announced, clearing his throat.

"You mean, time for me to help you clean up after your wet work."

"Well, it’s a dirty job but somebody’s got to do it," Sands said, handing him the used washcloth. He went over to the window and grabbed the gun. "Make sure you get the broken sunglasses, shirt, sports coat… and anything else that could suggest that someone else was here with Jackson while he croaked."

"Alright," Cam said, wasting no time in getting down to business. As far as he was concerned, the sooner he got out of Jackson’s room, the better.

Quickly, Sands changed out of his jeans and donned the fresh clothing. He took the microdots and Jackson’s cell phone out of his discarded pants, and tucked them into a pocket of the ones he was wearing, before joining Cam in the main room.

"Keycard?" Sands asked as he slipped on his sunglasses and tucked the gun in his pants.

"Yeah." Cam handed him the keycard, before grabbing the plastic bag out of the trashcan and shoving Sands’ contaminated clothes in it.

"What room are you staying in?"

"303," Cam answered, tying the bag closed.

"Happy cleaning." Nodding once, Sands quickly slipped out of the room.

Cam looked up just as Sands exited, surprised by the other officer’s willingness to let him clean everything up. It wasn’t like Sands at all, and it made him wonder exactly what went on between Sands and Jackson… and how much the cyanide had affected him.

Grabbing the soap, Sands lathered up, trying to push it all out of his mind. He didn’t need this. Not now. Not when everything was coming to a head.

Most of what Jackson said, he’d dismissed without thinking twice. Cheap shots, nothing more. Elementary psychology. But with one sentence Jackson had hit him where it hurt the most, and he’d known as soon as Jackson said the words that they’d come back to haunt him later.

Sands ground his teeth, wishing he could kill Jackson all over again. Of course Jackson had to say something like that. It was an unpalatable reminder of his failure on the Day of the Dead. As if he didn’t already have a bitter reminder every morning when he woke up and saw nothing.

Sands pounded the shower wall with his fist. Anger and revenge dominated his thoughts. He was furious with Barillo for taking his eyes, with Martin for standing by and doing nothing, with Jackson for being such a useless fuckwad and traitor, with El and his eternal stubbornness. But most surprisingly, he was angry with himself because he hadn’t been able to stop any of it from happening. He’d temporarily lost his control, and it had cost him dearly.

After rinsing off, he stepped out of the shower and toweled himself dry.

He was no fool. He knew the cartel had let him walk out of that building in Mexico alive for one reason.

They’d let him walk away that day because it was much crueler to let him live. Death was the end. But this? It would stay with him for the rest of his life.

Wasn’t it funny? Wasn’t it fucking hilarious to take away the sight of a man who thrived on control? To make an independent man dependent on others? To ruin a career eleven years in the making in a quick half-hour?

Sands smiled bitterly. Ajedrez certainly thought so.

Damn her to hell.

Damn them all to hell.

Because he was having a hard time proving them wrong.

But he was going to prove them wrong… because he couldn’t live with himself otherwise.

Sands ran his fingers through his hair, grasping clumps of it roughly as he urged these thoughts to go away.

As Sands opened the bathroom door, he listened for any signs of El or Cam. Hearing none, he went straight over to the phone.

"Room service?" he asked. "Yeah. Get me a large bottle of tequila. Room 202. Don’t bother with the ice."

Hanging up the phone, he leaned against the headboard. ‘Just get even and be done with it all. Move on and forget all this.’

‘Move on…’ He shook his head slightly. It was time to start setting things up. If he didn’t, there would be no job at the CIA waiting for him when all was said and done.

Fortunately, he already had a plan.

Cam sat down across from him, eyeing the Mariachi wearily. He didn’t know what to think of the man, and they hadn’t had any real time to get to know each other. All he knew was he didn’t trust him. He had to admit though, after finding the Mariachi and Sands in what appeared to be a death match, he was curious as to what kind of history the two men had together.

After a moment, Cam asked curiously, "What do you have against him?"

Meeting Cam’s eyes, El said nothing.

"What is it? He use you?" Cam continued to prod.

"Yes."

"Well, join the club," Cam said, chuckling. "You know, as bad as it sounds… it’s his job. He’s an asshole, but he’s an official asshole."

El set down his fork, shifting in his seat slightly in an effort to get comfortable on the hardback chair. "He is no better than the enemies he fights."

Elbows on the table, Cam leaned towards El. "I’ve known Sands for over ten years, and I still can’t say that I know him. You’ve worked with him on one operation, and claim to know what he’s all about."

"It is clear, what Agent Sands is about."

"Officer Sands is all about getting the job done," Cam stated, emphasizing the word officer.

"No. He’s about power."

Cam nodded his head. "Oh yes, most definitely. But the two are not separate from each other; they intertwine."

El took another bite of his Pollo en Pipian, not having anything to say.

"Why don’t you try talking to him? He may surprise you," Cam said, not willing to let the subject drop.

El shook his head slightly. "I don’t think so."

"Did he tell you what happened to him on the Day of the Dead?" Cam asked, doubting that Sands had told him the whole truth. He knew very well that Sands wouldn’t let anyone in on his little secret if it were possible. Even he didn’t know the full details.

"Not completely."

"Well, why don’t you find out? If you do, you’ll clearly see who got the better end of the deal. The bottom line is that you want to get home and I want to get home. Our goal would be reached much quicker if all three of us could work together without threatening to blow each other’s heads off every time we attempt to carry out a part of the op."

"And what does Sands want?"

"What makes you think I know? Ask him yourself."

El again said nothing as Cam signaled a waitress. He asked for two orders of beef chimichangas to be sent to room 303 before turning back to El.

"Think about what I said," Cam continued as he got up to leave. "If you agree, meet me in my room, 303, in about half an hour."

"What if I don’t agree?"

Cam shrugged, pushing in his chair. "Well then, I’m sure Sands will make good on his threats."

He came to the conclusion that he wanted to get drunk. He wanted to get wasted out of his mind and that was a rare occasion indeed. He remembered Cecelia once telling him that he was the only person she’d ever met who could be totally sloshed yet completely sober at the same time.

He listened to the television distractedly, as some news anchor spouted the latest Mexico headlines in monotonous Spanish. He would have changed the channel, but considering the hotel only had three or four to begin with, he doubted he’d discover anything better than the news.

Figuring that sitting around and drinking was getting him nowhere, Sands decided to pay Cam a visit, or perhaps even El. Admittedly, the empty tequila bottle and growing boredom may have had something to do with the decision.

Closing the door, Cam followed El into the room.

"Have you worked with Sands for a long time?" El asked, sitting at the little table by the window."

Cam remained standing as he joined him by the table. "Like I said downstairs, I’ve known Sands for over ten years. We’ve worked together on several operations since we graduated from the Farm."

"The Farm?" El asked.

"Oh, right. It’s where the CIA trains their officers."

El nodded once. "Why are you here?"

Cam laughed. "I’ve asked myself that same question many times, believe me."

"Well?"

"I guess it’s because I’ve known him for so long… and I owe it to him."

"How can you owe him anything?"

Before Cam could reply there was another knock on the door. Answering it, he was startled to find Sands standing in the doorway wearing a wig and a corny T-shirt, with his cane in hand. "Sands. Why are you wearing a red Orphan Annie wig?"

"I just wanted to see what you thought of my newest disguise," Sands said, slurring his words as he walked into the room.

Cam signaled for El to stay quiet before looking Sands up and down. Other than the ridiculous wig, Sands was wearing the pair of jeans he’d brought him and a shirt that declared in white letters, ‘Bomb squad: If you see me running, try and keep up,’ on the front.

"Might consider ditching the bomb squad T-shirt."

His cane touching the bed, Sands sat down and retracted it, placing the humiliating object back in his pocket where it belonged. He stroked his chin thoughtfully, then shook his head. "I’d rather toss the wig," he said decisively, chucking the curly wig at Cam, who caught it and quickly plopped it onto the dresser. "I like the shirt," Sands said by way of explanation.

"So what brings you here?" Cam asked, glancing at El out of the corner of his eye.

"Your powerful animal magnetism, of course," Sands said with a straight face. "Plus I’m out of booze in my room and we need to make sinister plots against the many evildoers in this world," he continued, keeping up the slur despite the fact that he didn’t really have one. He could hear someone else in the room, breathing softly and trying to keep quiet, and he decided to put Cam through a little bit of a test.

Whether Cam passed or failed wasn’t really important. It was the distraction of playing head games which was needed, and focusing his overactive mind on much more productive activities, such as freaking out Cam.

"Are you actually drunk?" Cam asked, sounding somewhat shocked by the idea.

Sands smiled proudly and pointed a finger at Cam, purposefully missing his mark by a few feet. "I prefer the term plastered. Makes me sound like a concrete wall… one that can’t be broken down." He laughed, as if he’d just told a great joke, and it sounded odd to everyone’s ears, including his own.

El cast a curious glance at Sands, the laugh snaring his attention. That, and he hadn’t imagined the agent as a drinker. Suspicious, he couldn’t help but wonder what this was all about.

"Just how much have you had to drink, Sands?" Cam asked him curiously.

Sands held a hand up to count, standing. "One tequila, two tequila, three tequila… floor," he ended as he swayed on his feet.

Cam resisted the urge to steady him, asking instead, "What’s your plan?"

Sands dug into his pocket, not answering the question.

"What’s bugging you, Sands?" Cam asked directly after a lengthy silence.

Grabbing a cigarette, Sands lit up, waggling his finger at Cam. "You're at it again, you're trying to run the game, and I'm not gonna play." Taking a drag, he walked towards Cam. "I run the game, not you." He pretended to be a bit off kilter, preparing to reel Cam in. "Even if something was bothering me, what makes you think I’d tell you?"

"You can trust me, Sands." Sands pursed his lips at the word trust and Cam continued quickly, "You can tell me. It’ll stay just between you and me."

"Just between you and me?" Sands blew a cloud of smoke into Cam’s face. "I can trust you?" he asked seriously.

Cam swallowed hard, getting the distinctly bad feeling that he had just let himself fall into a trap, but unable to turn back now he answered, "Yes, you can."

"Hmm." Sands backed away from Cam and walked towards the window. Much to Cam’s dismay, he was headed right towards El as well. El remained as silent as possible and Sands still appeared oblivious to the mariachi’s presence as he neared him.

A few feet in front of El, Sands spun back around and asked Cam soberly, "Honestly? I can trust you implicitly?"

"Yeah," Cam replied, even as warning bells went off in his mind.

Sands pulled out his .45 and aimed it straight at El. "Then I can pull this trigger right now, and not worry about embedding a piece of lead in El’s cranium?" Sands tilted his head in silent question.

Cam closed his eyes. ‘Damn it, you idiot!’ He’d walked right into it.

Sands cocked the gun. "Well?"

Cam sighed heavily. "I’m sorry Sands, I just thought that…"

Sands lowered the gun. "Oh, don’t worry Cameron. Honesty may be the best policy, but by a process of elimination, dishonesty is the second-best policy."

"I was just…"

"Believe me, Cam, I know exactly what you were trying to do, and you’d never have attempted it if you thought I was sober," Sands cut in smoothly, approaching Cam again, all signs of drunkenness gone. "You wanted me to open up in front of El, so he’d suddenly have an epiphany and work with us willingly. There are only several major problems with that idea of yours. Congratulations on a badly thought out plan that even Jackson wouldn’t have fallen for." Without warning, Sands’ rammed the butt of his gun forcefully into the side of Cam’s head, and Cam crumpled ungracefully to the floor.

Sands took another puff of his cigarette before turning towards El as the Mariachi spoke.

"He meant nothing by it."

Sands ignored his comment, deciding to get straight to the point. He knew what he needed to do now to get El to work with him. He was going to hate every minute of it, but if it meant a successful operation then he’d do it. "El, I think it’s time you and I chewed the fat. You know… Officer to Mariachi, assassin to pistolero, law enforcer to law breaker…"

"Agreed," El cut in quickly, taking advantage of Sands’ need to suck in a breath.

Tucking his gun back in its holster, Sands nodded and walked over to the window, hands positioned ever so slightly in front of him to prevent any run-ins with furniture in the unfamiliar room. Opening the window, he motioned for El to continue. "I’d rather this didn’t take all night, so let’s get real. What is it?" he asked bluntly.

El drummed his fingers on the table, watching Sands closely. "What is it?"

Sands turned to face him. "HajjHaven’t you had enough games, El?"

El smirked as he regarded Sands thoughtfully. "I thought you enjoyed your games."

A thick cloud of smoke filtered out Sands’ nose. "I do. But eventually I tire of old games, and have to make room for new ones. So… what is it, El? What will make you willingly do this job for me?"

"I thought I already agreed."

Sands shook his head. "No, you haven’t. You can’t mislead me." Sands smirked. "You’re still trying to make up your mind."

El thought about it for a moment. "Tell me the truth," he said, deciding that that was what he wanted.

Sands tilted his head towards El. "About?" he asked, knowing full well what El was referring to. He wasn’t at all surprised at his request. It was what he’d been expecting.

"Día de los Muertos."

"Ah, Día de los Muertos," Sands said ruefully. "¿Por qué?"

"I want to know."

Sands flicked his cigarette out the window as he thought of the best way to go about this. Moving away from the window, he joined El at the table. "I can’t tell you what happened on the Day of the Dead," Sands said, adjusting his sunglasses absentmindedly. He really didn’t want to go through with this.

"Then I can’t work for you willingly," El stated, disappointed. He’d hoped that Sands could answer at least one of his questions truthfully. Apparently, he was wrong to hope for such honesty from the officer. He began to get up, but Sands’ voice stopped him.

"Sit back down, Mr. Bojangles."

Easing back into his seat, El waited for Sands to continue, but Sands took his time in doing so.

"I can’t tell you because I can’t…" he trailed off and sighed. Goddamn, he didn’t want to do this. Forcing himself to continue, he said finally, "I can show you." Taking a long breath, Sands began to explain. "It starts with betrayal, El. You, Cucuy, Ajedrez… but most importantly, Martin."

"Who is Martin?" El asked when Sands’ paused.

"My superior officer… using the term loosely, of course." Sands smirked. "You see, he was supposed to send me backup, but he never did. Martin left me high and dry in the middle of Culiacan with the cartel shadowing my every move."

"They get tired of your games, Agent Sands?" El asked.

"Ah! But that’s the twist. He burned me without the CIA’s blessing. He handed me to the cartel on a silver platter, and now I’m going to make sure the bastard gets what’s coming to him."

"What exactly did the cartel do to you?"

"You know that I’m blind. What more do you need?"

"I think that there is more."

"There’s always more."

El waited for him to elaborate, and when he didn’t, said, "You said you could show me."

Sands exhaled slowly, as if he’d been dreading something he knew was coming. He leaned back in his chair and it creaked slightly against his weight. Sluggishly, he reached up and took off his sunglasses, tossing them onto the center of the table.

Sands heard El’s sharp intake of breath as he pushed his chair back slightly.

"So now you know, El. Do you feel enlightened?" Standing up, he went over to the window again and lit another cigarette. If it had been a bad habit of his to light up before, it was doubly so now. Placing the lighter back in his pocket he commented, "You know, sometimes I think revenge and cigarettes are all that’s holding me together." He chuckled as he thought out loud, "That would make a good bumper sticker."

Quickly becoming serious, he leaned against the wall so that he was facing El, feeling far too exposed. However, he’d be damned if he was going to show any of his anxieties to El. "You see the truth in my eyes, so I expect no less from you. Will you willingly do this job for me, or not?"

"I’m sor…"

"Don’t you dare say that to me," Sands said, a threat clearly evident in his voice. He’d play the victim if necessary, but he’d never accept pity from anyone, least of all from the man sitting in front of him now. "Answer my question, yes or no."

"I don’t like you, Sands," El began again.

"Good. One less Christmas card for me to buy this year. That’s not what I asked you."

"I’ll do this if you keep your word about never bothering me again," El said, lowering his gaze to the tabletop, not wanting to look at what had happened to the officer any longer. He’d heard of cruelty like this from the cartel before, seen men with no hands as punishment for upsetting Barillo, but it never made it any easier for him to take. Taking both eyes was something he’d never heard of until now, but he knew all too well that the cartel was fully capable of doing such things. It was true that as much as he disliked the officer, he never would have wished for this to happen to him. Funny how the thought of the man’s death hadn’t bothered him anywhere near as much.

Moving back to the table, Sands put both palms on the tabletop and leaned in towards El. "As welcoming as your country has been to me, I don’t think I’ll wish to visit again anytime soon. You see, I don’t like tacos and good slow roasted pork is hard to come by."

El sat there for a moment, staring hard at Sands as the officer retrieved his sunglasses from the table and slipped them back on. Inwardly, El heaved a sigh of relief. "Alright, I’ll do it."

Sands nodded, then leaned sideways in his chair, as if looking over El’s shoulder. El turned to see what had gotten Sands’ attention, and saw that Cam had moved a little. He’d probably be waking up soon. "Why are you being so honest with me?"

"I thought it was time for a change," Sands quipped. "It was the only way to get you to cooperate with me, was it not? You see," Sands smiled, leaning in. "If it means getting what I want, I’ll play whatever part I need to play."

"Why tell me this?"

"I’m sorry, did I offend you? I guess I should have lied, but that would have spoiled our arrangement."

El remembered what Cam had said at their meeting a little while ago, and asked without thinking, "Who are you, Sands?"

Not expecting the question, Sands’ eyebrow crept up in mild surprise. "I’m whoever I need to be, of course. And I’ll be your worst nightmare if you fail to keep your word now, understand?"

"I do."

Sands held out his hand, and El shook it reluctantly.

"I feel as though I’m making a deal with the devil," El muttered.

Amused by his words, Sands tightened his grip. "Maybe you are. You never can be too sure."

Sands released El’s hand as he moved past. Coming to stand beside Cam, he tapped a foot impatiently as he waited for the officer to pull himself off the floor.

"Rise and shine, Sleeping Beauty," Sands said, offering Cam an unusually helpful hand up.

Cam eyed Sands’ proffered hand wearily before tentatively grasping it.

Sands jerked him up unceremoniously. "Even a little white lie can come back to bite you in the ass, Cam. Don’t do it again," Sands said dangerously, squeezing Cam’s hand painfully to accentuate his point.

Extracting himself from Sands’ grip, Cam walked over to the bed and sat down heavily as he gently felt the lump beginning to form at the base of his skull. "I was just trying to get you two to reach an understanding."

"I know. That’s why you’re not dead right now," Sands said bluntly. "In fact, El and I did reach an understanding during your siesta."

A knock on the door caused El and Cam to look towards it. "Expecting someone else?" Sands asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Food," Cam said shortly, feeling more than a little irritable. His head throbbed painfully when he stood up and went to answer the door.

Returning with the food, Cam handed Sands his chimichanga before sitting down on the bed and taking a bite out of his own.

"What’s this?" Sands asked, holding the plate in front of him.

"Dinner. Eat it," Cam said between bites of food.

Sands rejoined El, his plate dropping to the table with a light thud. "We can’t catch flies with vinegar, so I think it’s time to get out the honey trap."

Cam swallowed his mouthful of food before asking, "Feeling violent today?"

"No, just creative with weapons," Sands replied calmly, idly spinning his plate on the table with an index finger and listening to the sound it made as the ceramic turned on the wooden tabletop. "Soon Martin will realize that he’s no longer getting any of those nifty reports from Jackson. It won’t take long for him to put two and two together."

Cam nodded his agreement. "I still don’t completely understand what Jackson was going to do with you."

Sands stilled his plate. He’d figured out what Jackson had planned to do with him, the revelation coming after several swigs of tequila. His exchange with Jackson repeated itself in his mind, and the only upside to it was that he’d been able to glean some crucial information about Jackson and his motives. It was clear that Jackson was no assassin, and that he’d had no intention of killing him. After all, he’d had plenty of time to try and off him if that had been his assignment. By process of elimination and Jackson’s lack of any specifically honed skills, he guessed that Jackson was most likely a bridge officer. "He was intending to make a special delivery to Martin. Me."

Cam was about to ask how Sands knew that, but El cut in before he could voice the question.

"What are we going to do?"

"We are not going to do a damn thing. You are going to take Jackson’s car, drive down to CIA headquarters, and search for any and all documents with my name on them." Sands tasted the food in front of him and grimaced. "What is this?"

Cam wiped his mouth with a napkin. "Beef. It’s what’s for dinner."

"Haven’t you ever heard of the other meat?" Sands asked dryly. "You know, pork?"

Shifting his attention back to El, he plopped the chimichanga back onto the plate. "You’ll also want to keep a sharp eye out for any files with information about operation number…" Sands stopped mid-sentence. "Write this down. I’m not going to repeat it."

Cam glanced at Sands, as El grabbed a notepad and pen. "He’s going to headquarters alone?" Cam asked skeptically.

"The assignment is simple enough. I’m sure a man of El’s reputation can handle a little illegal entry and theft. Besides, you and I have bigger fish to fry."

"Such as?" Cam prodded.

"Martin," Sands said, his grumbling stomach winning over his tastebuds as he took another bite of his meal.

"We’re staying here?"

"That’s the plan." Sands faced El again. "Ready? I’d hate to rush you," he continued sarcastically.

"Yes," El grunted.

Nodding, Sands started where he’d left off. "Grab any documents with operation codename Intense Harvest or personnel codename Iron Ocelot."

Cam laughed. "So it’s Iron Ocelot this time?" Sands smirked as Cam asked, "Who comes up with these codenames?"

"That’s classified information, Chicken Little," Sands countered, smirking at the memory of one of Cam’s more embarrassing codenames.

"I’ll take no guff from you, Carnivorous Leech," Cam shot back.

"That one was cool," Sands drawled, pushing away his empty plate before digging out a cigarette.

"It fit," Cam said, watching Sands light up. "This is a non-smoking room."

Sands smiled humorlessly, inhaling deeply. "Not anymore."

"Is that everything?" El interrupted.

Exhaling a cloud of smoke, Sands asked, "What are you going to do when you have the documents?"

El, realizing the stupidity of his question, grudgingly muttered, "I do not know."

"Of course not, because I haven’t told you yet." Sands flicked the ash off the end of his cigarette. "When you’re done with your search, you’ll go back to Guitar Town with the documents and wait with bated breath for my call."

"I do not have a phone."

"What happened to the last one I gave you?" Sighing, Sands continued without waiting for an answer. "I'll drop a cell off for you before you go. Hang on to it this time. Those things can be fucking expensive."

"Why my home?"

"Because home is where the heart is." Sands took another drag as he waved a hand in dismissal, his acerbity not escaping El’s notice. "Best to ask any questions you have now. This could be the last time you see me."

El’s eyes widened slightly in surprise. "You are not picking up the documents?"

"No."

"Then why am I doing this?" El asked, unable to understand Sands’ logic.

"I said that I will not pick them up. I didn’t say they wouldn’t be picked up by someone."

El shook his head a little. "From you, I expected a large shoot out with much bloodshed," El told him dryly.

Sands said nothing at first, while he decided what to tell El. "That’s exactly the point."

El regarded Sands thoughtfully. The officer continued to surprise him, which was in and of itself quite… surprising. It was a continual reminder to not underestimate the man. His ability to anticipate what others would do and how they would think was both astounding and unnerving. "No wonder it bothers you so much," El said at last.

A frown creased Sands’ forehead. "What?"

"What happened on Día de los Muertos. You didn’t anticipate it. That’s why you need your revenge."

Sands’ muscles tensed at El’s words. So reminiscent of Ajedrez’s they sent a tingle down his spine. "That’s deep, El. Really deep. But you’re also wrong, so why don’t you leave the psychobabble to the pros, like me, and stick to what you’re good at, shooting people?"

OK, so he wasn’t exactly telling El the full truth. The fact that he hadn’t been able to see the setup coming did eat at him, but it wasn’t what truly drove his need for revenge, and he certainly wasn’t about to give El the satisfaction of knowing he’d seen through part of his mask. "Any other questions?"

"What do I do when I run into CIA personnel?"

Sands shrugged. "I don’t really give a fuck if you shoot them, hide from them, or just wound them. I’ll leave all those fun details to you. My only requirements are that you get the job done and you don’t get caught. However," Sands motioned El to wait a moment as he reached inside his jean pocket and came up with a folded piece of paper. He unfolded it and set it on the table in front of El. "This should help you make a more stealthy entrance."

Looking at it, El realized that it was a building plan of the CIA headquarters. "On the back of this, I wrote down Martin’s full name, and where his office is located, as well as some other information that might prove useful." Sands quirked an eyebrow. "I find it interesting that I told you to get any documents with my name on them, and you never asked what my full name actually is."

El took the piece of paper, and stuck it in his pant pocket. "I thought I’d take any documents with the last name Sands."

"Nice thought El. But what if the documents only have my initials?"

"I did not think of it," El said bluntly.

"The initials would be SS or SJS, for Sheldon Jeffery Sands. I want you to leave in about…" Sands trailed off and turned to Cam. "What time is it, anyway?"

"Nine."

"Leave in three hours. Leave on time, and drive straight through with only the necessary stops… because timing is everything in this little game of ours. Half past four you need to be inside headquarters. Try not to take more than an hour at headquarters, and definitely don’t stay there longer than an hour and a half. You get your ass out of there with whatever you have, and drive straight to Guitar Town. You may want to make sure you’re not being followed while you do that. From there, you wait for my call, and you don’t take orders on what to do with the documents from anyone but me. Cam, did you get Jackson’s car keys?"

"Yup."

Sands held out his hand, and Cam passed the keys to him with a somewhat bewildered look. "Anything else you need to know?" Sands asked El.

"No."

"Then I suggest you rest up. In three hours you’ll be starting one hell of a day."

"The keys?" El asked.

Sands stuck them in his pocket. "You’ll get them when you need them."

Once El had left, Sands turned to Cam. "You have any of your trackers with you?"

Cam nodded and went over to his suitcase. "You know I always carry a few."

Sands nodded, stubbing his cigarette out on the table as he stood. "Got anything to drink?"

"There’s probably something in the minibar, eight o’clock," Cam said by way of direction as he found the trackers he had brought with him. "How many trackers do you need?"

Sands opened the fridge door and, finding a shape that felt familiar, he grabbed it and twisted off the cap. "Two." Sniffing the contents of the bottle, he was happy to discover that it was brandy, and downed it quickly. It was cheap stuff, but then he really wasn’t in a position to be choosy at the moment.

"What are we going to do?" Cam asked, handing Sands the trackers.

"We’re going to let the bastards catch us."

Sands stepped out of the hotel lobby and into the night air. It was thankfully much cooler after sunset. It wasn’t that he had a problem with hot climates. After all, he’d grown up in Florida where the winters dipped down to a drastic seventy degrees. Floridians freak when they wake up with a covering of frost for Christ’s sake. No, it wasn’t exactly heat that bothered him.

His cane tapped lightly in front of him as he walked down the sidewalk and toward Jackson’s car, keeping an ear out for any vehicles or people that didn’t have his best interests in mind.

No, it wasn’t exactly heat that bothered him. It was this dry heat that he disliked. Dry heat and dust. He hadn’t minded it before the Day of the Dead, but now it affected him in a way he didn’t want to dwell on. Psychobabble aside, he knew very well that his mind was doing one hell of a number on him and the only way to pull it out of its downward spiral was to focus on his mission.

Stopping in front of a car, he went around to the driver’s side and tried the key. He heard the click as the door unlocked. He opened the door, grateful that he’d counted his steps right. He set the recently emptied shoulder bag down on the front seat and began searching the car, putting everything he found in the bag. There wasn’t much in the car. Anything that had any chance of being informative came from the glove compartment, and a small locked box that he found under the driver’s seat. Slinging the bag over his shoulder again, he slammed the door shut and moved to the back of the car. Popping the trunk he felt around and came across one more unidentified item. Putting it in with everything else, he zipped up the bag before taking a tracker out of his pocket.

‘Sorry, El, but trust isn’t my strong suit and I don’t trust you.’ Fingers running along the bottom of the trunk, Sands found a loose edge of carpet and pulled it up. Slipping the tracker between the fabric and the metal, he turned it on before smoothing the carpet back in place. There was only one thing left. He nabbed the guitar, and closed the trunk.

Hearing a car park, Sands leaned against Jackson’s car and set the guitar down beside him. He lit up a cigarette and took a drag as he listened to two people get out of the car and walk towards the hotel entrance.

Looking casual as he puffed at his cigarette, he waited until they were inside before walking to the car on the left of Jackson’s.

He took out the second tracker, flicked it on, and listened intently for any sign of other people in the parking lot as he took another drag. Hearing no one, he went to the front of the car and quickly slipped the tracker into the front grill. ‘I trust you even less, Ava.’

Having planted the trackers, he retrieved the guitar and slung it over his shoulder with the bag. As he did so, he heard a car pull into a spot about three spaces away. Starting back for the hotel, Sands stopped when he realized that nothing was guiding his way.

‘Fucking cane.’ He’d left it on the driver’s side of Jackson’s car.

As he walked around the car his hearing was focussed on the sound of someone getting out of the vehicle that had just parked.

Bending down to search for his cane, he immediately bristled when the footsteps didn’t pass him and continue to the hotel entrance, instead coming to a halt directly in front of him.

Not knowing whether the individual was a threat or not, he continued to search for his cane, deciding to wait the person out. He heard his unknown visitor pick something up off the ground, so he stopped his search and lifted his head towards them.

"Looking for this?"

Sands straightened up from his crouch slowly. A woman’s voice, and a familiar one at that.

"In a manner of speaking," Sands said dryly. "Hello Tina."

He didn’t bother asking what brought her here. He was sure the Company had sent others besides Cam to bring him back to the States.

"It’s just business, Sands."

"Nothing personal," he finished, smirking. He took the cigarette from his lips, flicking off the dangling column of ash.

She had his cane still clutched in one hand as she continued. "Please don’t make this difficult, Sands. If you’re innocent of these crimes, like you say, then you don’t have anything to worry about."

She walked out from between the cars, and Sands followed, setting the bag and guitar down on the asphalt beside him.

"I’m hardly worried," he said, taking one last draw of his cigarette before dropping it to the ground.

He heard her sigh, and noted a hint of regret in her voice, as she said, "You should be."

Sensing what she was about to do, he ducked and kicked her legs out from under her before she could deliver a blow to his head with the cane she still held. She let out a startled cry as her feet went out from under her and Sands pushed her weight backwards as she fell. He knew he’d guessed her intentions right when the cane connected hard with his shoulder as she went down flat on her back.

The cane fell to the asphalt, rolling out of her reach. Tina struggled for breath, the sudden contact with the cement knocking the wind out of her.

Sands stepped over her prone body and knelt down, straddling her. Taking hold of her neck, he applied pressure, making it impossible for her to get her wind back.

Leaning in close, his expressionless mask in place, he said quietly in her ear, "You were always good, Doll, but never try and best the best."

He pulled away from her, listening to her wheeze. Loosening his grip on her neck slightly, he continued. "Although you’re not as sharp as you used to be."

Her knee came up, hitting him in the back in an attempt to push him off. Unfortunately for her, she was too weak from lack of oxygen and the blow lacked force. His grip on her neck loosened, however, when he was jarred forward from the blow, his sunglasses slipping down his nose.

Finding her voice, she said weakly, "And you’re not as pretty as you used to be. Guess we both…" She was cut off as Sands shifted his position, knee now pressed firmly against her throat.

He pushed his sunglasses up with an index finger, oblivious to the fact that she was reaching for the gun at her hip. As blackness closed in on the edges of her vision, she used the last of her strength to cock her gun, aiming it at his stomach.

Hearing the gun being cocked brought his attention back to Tina in a hurry. Not thinking clearly in his surprise, he looked down expecting to see the gun, and realized where she was aiming it. Cursing his foolishness, he quickly twisted to the side, hoping to escape the path of her bullet.

As blackness cloaked her vision, she squeezed her eyes closed and pulled the trigger. Sands let out a hiss of pain as he fell to her left. The pressure on her neck let up and she gasped for breath, her lungs burning. Coughing, she dropped the gun to the ground and opened her eyes. She lay on the ground for a minute, struggling to catch her breath. It took a moment for everything to come into focus, and she turned to see Sands lying beside her in an oddly twisted position, one leg still on top of her own.

Tina’s head swam as she sat up. Eyeing Sands warily, she picked up her gun and moved her legs out from under his. He seemed to be unconscious, and after retrieving her gun she crawled over to him cautiously, still not trusting her own legs to hold her up just yet.

She bent over him, her hand going to his throat, feeling for a pulse. Finding one, she breathed a small sigh of relief. It was better to return him to the Company alive rather than dead. Hearing someone, she looked up to see a man walk out of the hotel. She tucked her gun away and out of view just as he caught sight of the two of them.

"¿Quál es el problema?" he called out to her, approaching quickly.

"Do you speak English?" she asked, and he nodded.

"Si. A little. Is he hurt?" he asked, motioning to Sands’ still form as he stood next to her.

She closed Sands’ jacket to cover the blood on the side of his torso before she stood up. "Yes, but I think he’ll be alright. I’m afraid I wasn’t paying attention and ran into him. I must have caught him off guard because he stumbled and fell. Hit his head on the ground."

He looked at her somewhat skeptically, and she reached over and grabbed the cane. "He must be blind," she continued, and he dropped his suspicious look.

"Need help?" he asked.

She shook her head. "No, thank you. He doesn’t seem to be bleeding or anything. I’ll stay with him until he wakes up. No need for you to stay."

"What if he is hurt badly?"

"I don’t think he is, but if so I can go into the hotel and ask for help. Thank you, though."

The man nodded, wishing her luck as he walked away and got into a truck. Within a minute he was gone, and she let out a shaky breath before she leaned over Sands again, intending to disarm him while he was still out.

So it was a big surprise to her when he pressed his gun to her temple. "Don’t run. You’ll just die tired."

She didn’t have time to think about his comment. He pulled the trigger and she fell onto his chest, dead.

He pushed her off him roughly and stood, grimacing as he felt the pain in his side. He buttoned his jacket closed, covering the wound. Adjusting his sunglasses, he felt around until he found his cane.

Picking it up, he slipped its band around his wrist, got out Jackson’s keys and unlocked the trunk. Opening it, he grabbed hold of Tina’s arms and dragged her to the trunk of the car, thankful that he didn’t have far to take her. Ignoring his protesting side, he picked her up and deposited her in the trunk.

He was sure El would be thrilled about this turn of events. One side of his mouth twitched up in amusement at the thought.

Closing the trunk, he slung the bag and guitar over his shoulder and headed back into the hotel.

Dropping the bag and guitar off in his room, and picking up an envelope he’d prepared earlier; he walked back down the hall to El’s room. He knocked on the door; it didn’t take long for El to answer.

Sands dangled the keys in front of El, and El took them with a grunt. "It is about time."

"Oh, stop complaining El," Sands said, leaning against the doorway, managing to keep the pain he felt out of his voice. "I’d think you would be happy. After all, you’re on your way home." He pulled a cell phone out of his pocket, handing it to El. "Don’t be a stranger."

Pushing himself off the doorframe, he reached into the room and grabbed the doorknob. Before closing the door, he paused. "By the way, you might want to empty the trunk when you reach a deserted area."

Sands closed the door, leaving El to stand in his room, wondering what surprise Sands had in store for him now.

The moment Sands stepped into his room, he knew that something was wrong. He listened carefully for signs of anyone else in the room. Hearing none, he closed the door and walked further into the room. He didn’t make it far, his foot tripping over an unfamiliar object lying on the floor. Sands groaned in irritation as he caught himself before he fell, narrowly avoiding a hard collision with the ground.

Kneeling, his hand brushed up against the lump on the floor. As his hand ran along it, his stomach turned at the realization of just what it was.

A body.

And judging by its temperature and stiffness, a dead one.

"A gift for me?" Sands muttered as he searched the body, trying to figure out just who was lying on his floor. All he could tell was that the body was that of a man, but he didn’t know whose it was. "But it’s not even my birthday…"

His hand grazed a piece of paper that was pinned to the man’s shirt. Pulling it off, he quickly realized it wasn’t just an ordinary note. The paper wasn’t smooth. It had bumps on it.

But it wasn’t just bumps… it was Braille.

Sands let his fingers do the reading, and when he figured out what it said he nearly dropped it in horror.

"Shit!" Sands spat. Slowly he stood up and backed away from the body. His hand clutched the note tightly, as his mind screamed.

‘Who’d know? Who’d know what Barillo said to me right before he took my eyes? Who? Who? Who?’ Sands took a deep breath. ‘They’re all dead.’

Sands ran his fingers over the note again.

Barillo was dead. He knew that. Ajedrez was dead too. He shot her himself.

He was startled out of his thoughts by a phone ringing, but the ring wasn’t coming from the hotel phone. Sands snatched Jackson’s cell off the dresser. Making up his mind, he flipped open the cell and answered. "County morgue. You stab ‘em, we bag ‘em."

There was a pregnant pause on the other end of the line. "My God…. Sands?" It was Martin. "Where’s Jackson?" he asked, catching on quickly.

"I haven’t seen him," Sands said, keeping his voice neutral despite the rage he was feeling.

"You’ve killed him, haven’t you?"

"Oh yeah, he’s dead," Sands drawled. "But I’ll have him call you back later."

"You can’t stop what’s going to happen, Sands. I’ve put too much thought into this. You can’t escape this time. I know where you are."

"I know. So come and get me. Or are you such a coward that you can’t deal with one blind officer on your own?" God, how he hated to say that, but he needed Martin to come after him, and he’d rather Martin did it on his terms and his turf, rather than the other way around. "I know you’re nearby. Had to keep an eye on Jackson, after all." He paused for a moment. "So come and get me yourself mother-fucker, if you’re man enough."

Sands snapped the cell phone shut, feeling his hands shaking.

Goddamn it, he should have known. He should have put the pieces together sooner.

Throwing the cell phone as hard as he could, it hit the wall with a crunch as he ran a hand through his hair. "You asshole!" he screamed to nobody but himself, allowing his mind the loss of the trademark cool he was so known for, his voice cracking. "You fucking did this to me!"

He ran a hand over his face, taking a few deep breaths to steady himself.

Returning to his bed, he lifted the room phone from the cradle. Speaking to a man at the front desk, he asked about the package he was expecting. His blood ran cold when the man told him that it had already been picked up.

"What?" Sands asked, unable to believe it. "By who?"

"Signature says Sheldon Sands."

Slamming the phone down on the cradle, he tried to clear his mind enough to figure out just what his next move should be.

Approaching the body again, he knelt down next to it as he wondered just whose body it was. The only thing he knew for certain was that the body was that of a full-grown man, and his stomach knotted when the only two obvious choices entered his mind.

It was either Jackson… or Cam.

Not bothering to get up this time, he reached over and yanked the phone, cradle and all, off the nightstand. The base hit the ground with a thud and the same man he’d spoken to previously answered at the front desk again.

"Eric Cameron’s room." He tapped the side of the phone with his index finger nervously as it rang. ‘Answer the phone, Cam.’

After five rings, Cam picked up, and Sands felt surprisingly relieved.

"Yeah?"

"This is your wakeup call," Sands said.

"I don’t remember asking for one. Why’d you call?" Cam asked with a yawn.

"Because of all the people I know, you’re one of them," Sands said, his free hand searching the pockets of the man on the floor.

"I’m honored. Any other reason you called me in the middle of the night?"

"There have been some changes to the plan," he said cryptically. "Keep a sharp eye out. The wolves are baying at our door and we can’t be caught by surprise." He found a wallet in the right pocket, and as he turned it over in his hands he realized that he’d done so before. Recognizing the shape, size and clasp, he sighed and sat back on his heels.

"What’s happened?" Cam asked, quickly waking up as he realized that something must have happened.

"The package you ordered has been picked up," Sands said, opening the wallet and pocketing the money inside. Tossing the wallet over his shoulder, he interrupted Cam as he started to reply. "By me, no less."

"Then what’s the problem?"

"I wasn’t there at the time."

Cam paused a moment before figuring out what Sands was saying. "That’s not good. What’s the new plan?"

"You stay in your room. Wait for me to come. Don’t answer the door to anyone but me; not Ava, not El, not anyone. I may be a while, but stay put."

"I don’t like this," Cam said. "I’m here to help you, not sit here and do nothing."

"I’m touched," Sands deadpanned. "Just do it."

Hanging up, Sands turned his full attention back to the body on the floor. "Thanks for the spare change, Jackson. I’d hate to find out you’d stuck me with the hotel bill."

The note’s message repeated itself in his mind over and over as he bent over the body. "So, were you delivered by UPS, Fed Ex, or Air America," Sands mumbled. An image popped into his mind and before he even realized it, his right hand went to Jackson’s cheek. Fingers touching something wet and sticky, Sands’ steeled himself as his fingers moved further up Jackson’s face.

When he encountered the empty holes he’d been dreading, an involuntary shudder ran up his spine. He snatched his hand back quickly as if it had been burned.

He took a deep breath. Then another.

Sands pulled off his sunglasses. His breathing hitched as his hand grazed over one of his own empty sockets. "No," he whispered, pulling himself off the ground and backing towards the bed in the center of the room. "Just like me, but it’s not me. It’s not me," he muttered. Shaking his head back and forth as if to convince himself that it wasn’t true, he snatched up the pillow on his bed, and the gun that was hidden beneath it.

Kneeling down, he placed the pillow over Jackson’s face, cocked the gun, and held it against the pillow.

Then he pulled the trigger.

He pulled the trigger three more times before he was able to regain control.

‘I’m on the razor’s edge,’ Sands thought to himself suddenly. Panting heavily from the sudden rush of adrenaline, Sands got up, not bothering to take the pillow off Jackson’s head.

‘What am I doing?’ he thought, tired of his constant struggle to remain in control.

A sharp twinge reminded him suddenly of the bullet wound in his side. He pulled his coat off gently, tossing it on the bed with his gun. When he felt his shirt, he realized that he’d lost more blood than he’d thought. It hadn’t felt like it was that bad.

At least it explained why he felt so drained. Removing his shirt, he held it against the wound as he dug around in his bag for his first aid kit. Finding it, he went over to the minibar and found another bottle of liquor, taking both items into the bathroom with him.

Taking the shirt away, he felt his side tentatively. He had accumulated an unbelievable amount of scars over the past few months, and now he had yet another one to add to the list.

The bullet had cut straight through his left side, in the front and out the back. He’d live. It hadn’t hit any vital organs, but it was bleeding like a son-of-a-bitch. "Glad I dodged that bullet," Sands mumbled, as he began to patch himself up. If he had been in a better mood, he might have considered himself lucky. It had been a damn close call.

After fixing himself up and taking a couple of aspirin to ease the pain, he decided to go through the bag of stuff he’d taken from Jackson’s car. He was especially curious about the locked box he’d taken from under the driver’s seat. What he found was interesting, indeed.

Sands knocked on Ava’s door. He had to admit, he was curious to see whether or not she had decided to stay. His question was answered a minute later when she opened the door.

She looked at Sands for a moment, noticing that he looked even paler than he had before, and stepped aside to let him in. "Come in."

Acting on her invitation, he came inside and she closed the door behind him. Sands turned to face her as she stood in the entryway. "Well, I must admit, I thought you were brighter than this, Miss Hunter."

She looked at him curiously. "What do you mean?"

"If you were smart you would have left when I gave you the chance. But seeing as how you’re not, I don’t see why I shouldn’t use you to my advantage." Sands turned away and took a couple more steps into the room. Opening his coat and taking out an envelope, he redid a button before turning to her, holding up the envelope. "The information in this envelope can boost you to the highest ranks of journalistic excellence. Or, if you choose, it can make you very, very rich by selling it to the highest bidder. So, if I hand this envelope to you, what are you going to do with it?"

She came to stand next to him, sensing that he was testing her. "I’m going to do whatever you tell me to do with it."

"Are you, Sugar?

"Of course. But why tell me how valuable the information in it is?"

"If you were crooked, you’d open it anyway," Sands shrugged, handing it to her. "This includes information on a CIA operation in Culiacan. I am asking you to hold on to it."

"You don’t want me to do anything with it?" she asked, surprised.

"Just keep it," he said, giving her the envelope. "If you don’t, I’m sure I can think of a fitting end for you."

She nodded, swallowing thickly. "You don’t seem like the type to trust someone with documents such as these, so why are you?"

"Don’t flatter yourself Miss Hunter. Everything in that envelope is a copy of the original. You’re nothing more than backup. A little extra leverage against the Company." Sands smirked. "I believe in covering all bases."

"Can I ask you something?" Ava asked after a moment, envelope in hand.

"Shoot."

"Are you really blind, or is it just an act?"

Sands arched an eyebrow. "Are you really trustworthy?" he asked, walking past her to the door. "Pack up and leave. Right now. I assume that Tom knows how to contact you?"

"Yes."

"Groovy," Sands said, opening the door and listening for any movement in the hallway. Hearing none he stepped out of her room and called "Happy trails," to Ava, before closing her door. He had one more stop to make.

"What is this?" Cam asked, taking the clear baggy with two half-inch minidisks.

"My proof. At least part of it."

"You’re kidding! These are the recordings from your cell?"

"Seems that Jackson had a few surprises in his car," Sands said, removing a second smaller envelope from his jacket.

"Why are you giving these to me?" Cam asked. He knew that Sands was anything but trusting and he wondered why he didn’t just keep the recordings on him.

Sands tilted his head, pursing his lips slightly. "Any reason I shouldn’t?"

"Of course not… I just don’t think I’ll ever understand you. Why not keep them yourself?"

"Who said I wasn’t keeping a couple myself? But don’t you think it’s possible that when Martin comes, he’ll try to ensure that I have no evidence of his illegal acts of treason? What if he has someone else with him to search me or my room for this evidence? Never put all your eggs in one basket."

Putting the recording in the false bottom of his suitcase, Cam asked, "So what are we going to do now that the package with all the equipment didn’t arrive?"

"Sometimes you just have to do a little bit of improvising. Go with the flow. Stay here like I told you to. I’m hoping that they don’t know that you’re here. I’ve been careful about not being followed, but it’s better to be safe than sorry." Sands took out a second envelope, handing it to Cam.

"Alright," Cam said, recognizing the mode that Sands’ mind was now set in. All the bizarre metaphors, riddles and mind games dropped away, stripping Sands’ dialogue down to the bare need-to-know facts. It was the way he became with another officer or agent when an operation was at its climax. Somehow, seeing that Sands was still able to reach this mindset was oddly assuring.

"If anything goes wrong, and I don’t return to this room, you take this to the dead drop specified in two days."

Cam nodded, looking down at the directions taped to the envelope. Turning it over, his eyes widened as he read the name on the back.

Sheldon Sands.

"What is this about?" Cam asked.

"If I wanted you to know, I’d tell you. Just do it."

Cam sighed, tucking the envelope away in his suitcase. "Why are we staying? Why not leave with what we’ve found? Get the information El discovers and take it to the Company?"

Sands sat down at Cam’s table and took off his sunglasses, hanging them off the collar of his shirt. He sat there for a long time, and Cam could tell that he wasn’t in the room anymore, but somewhere else. He wore an indescribable look that seemed oddly out of place on his face. It took him a long time to speak, and when he did, he sounded utterly drained. His face was haggard and pale, and uncharacteristically pained.

"My biggest problem is that I believe everything that I tell myself."

Cam took a deep breath. Sands had never talked to him this way before, and might never do so again. He didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing, waiting for Sands to elaborate.

"I told myself that I had control. If I don’t have control over myself, then I am nothing. I told myself that they couldn’t break me." He paused as he lit a cigarette. "I have to win this. I have to get my revenge against Martin. I have to prove him wrong." Sands took a long drag, holding the smoke in as long as he could. "I have to prove that I can’t be broken so easily," he said at last, leaning forward in his chair, elbows resting on his knees as he smoked.

Cam was speechless. This doubt was not part of the Sands he knew, and he realized that Sands needed to do this to prove to himself that he was still the officer that he’d always been. He needed to prove that Officer Sheldon Jeffery Sands hadn’t died on the Day of the Dead.

"Little fish get eaten by big fish, and big fish get eaten by sharks, Eric. So what are you? Have you ever stopped and asked yourself that? What am I? What is Martin? I can’t live the rest of my life blind, wondering about the answer to that question. If I’m not the shark, then fuck it."

Sands stood and walked to the door. He didn’t want Cam to say anything. He just wanted to leave. But before he could walk out he heard Cam behind him. "If you think you’re anything but the shark, than you really are crazy."

Sands allowed himself the ghost of a smile as he walked back to his room. He had no intention of losing.

Sands stepped into his room, forcing himself to appear more confident about the current situation than he actually felt. Closing the door behind him, he removed his jacket and tossed it to his left, not caring if it landed in a crumpled heap on the floor.

No matter how many times he told himself that he could best Martin any day of the week, that he could win, the doubt in the back of his brain always presented itself, rattling his already shaky state of mind.

Maybe that was why, at this very moment, he was standing in the middle of his hotel room as if he couldn’t decide which way to go.

Sighing, Sands took his cell phone out of his pocket, intending to call Tom. With the number already set in his speed dial, he hit the call button and waited. Pacing the room as it rang, he breathed a sigh of relief when it was finally picked up.

"Tom, clear your dance card," Sands stated. He hadn’t even given Tom a chance to say hello.

"What odd requests can I fulfill for you this time?" Tom asked wryly. "What do you need? A butler? A Pontiac Firebird? Or do you need a weapon? Perhaps a sniper rifle? Ion Cannon? Hornet Missile Launcher?"

Sands smirked. "As tempting as the missile launcher sounds, it’s not what I had in mind. Maybe later."

"So what can I do you for?"

"Your time."

There was a long pause. Sands could only hear the crackle of the line and Tom’s breathing on the other end.

"That’s the oddest request you’ve made yet," Tom said at last. "You know my time is money, a lot of money, so you’re aware it’ll cost you? I’ll have to clear a couple other projects."

"So bill me," Sands replied dryly. "Sit tight and see if you can hear this."

Sands pressed a button on the side of his cell, turned up the volume on his end, and set the cell down on the bed. Walking to the center of the room, he spoke in his typical drawl.

"I do not like green eggs and ham. I do not like them, Sam, I am." He took another step back. "I do not like them on a boat. I would not, could not, with a goat." He took two more steps back. "I do not like green eggs and ham."

When Sands picked the cell back up, he was greeted by the sound of Tom laughing like a hyena at Sands’ rendition.

"I take it you could hear that?" Sands asked, slightly amused despite his situation.

"You are one weird asshole," Tom said, still chuckling. "Could hear you fine. It got a bit faint when you recited the last line, but I could still make it out."

"Groovy. I need you to set yourself up so that you can record this line, and I need you to do it in a hurry."

"I suppose that’s possible if you give me, say, twenty minutes."

"Done. I’m going to call you when a certain slime-ball arrives. I want you to record the conversation. Once it’s all over I want you to make four duplicates. Send the first copy to the Company’s Director of Operations. Send the second copy to the FBI’s CODIS unit, care of Sheldon Sands, Sr. The third copy I want you to send to my P.O. box in Florida. You know the address. The last copy I want you to hold on to."

"You’re sending a copy to your father? The guy you never speak to? What’s going on?"

"You’ll find out soon enough. Any questions?"

"Yeah. What is going on?" Tom repeated himself, never one to be easily fobbed off. "You know, I recently heard a rumor about you."

Sands tipped his head back and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Is this important? Because I’m a little short on free time and the grapevine is the least of my worries today."

"It’s goddamn important if it’s true. You’re sucking me into this without telling me a goddamn thing. So, I’ll ask two questions... since you’re in such a hurry. You don’t answer them; I don’t do this next job for you. First question: Have you gone rogue? Second question: Why did you need me to send a driver?"

‘Shit. Shit. Shit.’ Sands sat down heavily, the bed creaking under his weight. The last thing he wanted to do right now was get into all this with Tom. "Why does it matter?"

"Because it does," Tom stated. "I’ve worked with you for six years, and I want to know if what I heard is true."

"Fine. The answers are yes, and because I can’t drive," Sands said flatly.

"Why can’t you drive?" Tom pressed.

"Fuck you. You already know why. I’m not going to say it."

"What happened? Your flamboyance finally catch the wrong person’s attention?"

"Are you going to do it or not?" Sands asked, not having the time or energy to talk about the subject further.

The lack of immediate response from the other end was not a good sign, so he was surprised when, after twenty seconds of stony silence, Tom answered. "Yeah. I’ll do it."

Sands fell back against the bed, rubbing one of his pounding temples with his free hand. "Good to know that you still have a spine," he drawled.

"That has nothing to do with it and you know it. But I’m not sticking my neck out for your cocky ass, you understand? You get caught and I’ve never heard of you or this ‘operation’ of yours."

"How touching. I wouldn’t expect anything else from you. I have to jet. Get ready." Sands hung up and stuck the cell back in his pocket.

Getting off the bed, he pulled the sheets back. Having temporarily stashed Jackson’s body in the bathroom, Sands went to retrieve it. Walking into the bathroom, he grabbed Jackson by the ankles and dragged him to the bed.

"You’ve never been anything but dead weight," Sands grumbled, as he lifted Jackson onto the bed and turned him so that he was facing away from the door.

Sands wiped the sweat off his brow with his sleeve. All the stress, both mental and physical, was taking its toll on his strength, and the new wound did nothing to help the situation, even if it was mostly superficial.

He picked up the bloody pillow from the floor and shoved it under the bed, hoping it was out of sight. After pulling the sheets over Jackson, he took a step back. He figured that in the dark, Jackson’s body might fool Martin from the entryway, at least long enough to give him an edge.

Lighting a cigarette, Sands took a long draw before grabbing a gun and a clip out of his bag. Loading the clip into the gun, he tucked the weapon into his pants. Searching the floor for a minute, he found the jacket he’d tossed and slipped it back on, hiding the gun from view.

After making sure all the light switches were switched off, he dug around in his suitcase. Finding his small travel-size cologne, he went over to the foot of the bed. Spraying a large dose of the cologne, he tucked the bottle in the front pocket of his jacket and made his way over to the nightstand.

Locating the bedside lamp, he ran his hand along the bottom of it until he found the power cord. He followed the power cord down to the wall and, not finding a plug and outlet, but a cord that went straight into the wall, he took out his pocketknife, made a kink in the cord and cut it quickly.

After doing the same with the lamp on the opposite side of the bed, he moved on to the light switch by the door.

Taking out his wallet, he sifted through his spare change until he found a dime. Sticking the edge of the dime into the flat screw head, he proceeded to unscrew the cover from the wall. The dime’s edge was hardly ideal, and made the task a bit slower than normal, but he got the job done nonetheless.

Carefully feeling around for a moment, he found the power wires and yanked them out from the switch. Wary of being shocked, he bent the hot wires up so that the ends weren’t touching anything.

He planned on making Martin talk, getting Martin to brag about how clever he was, and how involved he was in the whole unraveling of his operation. Sands didn’t think that this part of his plan would prove to be a problem.

However, his whole scheme would go to hell in a hand-basket if Martin himself didn’t come. Unfortunately, all he could do was hope that just this once things would go his way.

He had several weak points in his plan that he had to compensate for. Because the things he’d ordered had been intercepted by one of Martin’s men, he only had one crude method of getting Martin’s confession recorded. His cell phone, and Tom.

Not only was using his cell to transmit unreliable, it relied on Tom actually doing what he asked, and the recording actually being understandable. He hated having to rely on anyone else to do something so important.

As if that wasn’t enough, he’d given his only extra cell to El, so if Martin discovered the one he was using before or during the recording process, he’d be shit out of luck.

El and Ava would help him provide documented proof against Martin to the Company. However, documents could be forged. A taped recording of Martin confessing his dirty deeds would be hard to ignore. All the evidence together would seal Martin’s fate.

He needed this extra proof, because even if he managed to prove his case to the Company on paper, there was always the possibility of Martin pinning the whole thing on someone else.

Then he had to make sure that Martin didn’t see him dial out, or spot the cell lying open. Since he had to place it in a spot close to where they talked, he figured killing the lights would be the best course of action. Plus, the darkness would give him an added edge, since he was more used to it than Martin.

Making sure the deadbolt on the door was not in place, Sands took the tracker he’d taken off Jackson’s car, reinserted the battery and flipped it on. Not hearing the telltale beep, he took out the battery and put it in the other way round. Hearing the beep, he placed it by Jackson, under the sheets.

‘Can’t make it any easier for you, Martin, so come and get me,’ he thought to himself as he walked into the bathroom and sat behind the partially closed door. The only thing left to do now was the one part of being a spy that he’d always hated: he had to sit there and wait.

He flipped open the phone and hit speed dial as he heard the intruder enter his room. Putting the phone to his ear, he made sure that it had dialed out and was picked up before he got up from his seated position. Still hidden by the door, he held his breath as the man took a step into the bathroom. He heard the flick of a light switch as the man turned on the only light he hadn’t disabled.

The person he assumed was Martin didn’t check thoroughly. He just peeked in before flipping the light back off and moving further into the room.

Sands skirted around the door and followed silently as the person approached the bed. Gently setting the open cell down on the desk as he passed it, he quickly crept up on the man, taking out his gun as he heard the rustle of sheets being pulled back. By the time the man knew that he’d been duped, Sands had the barrel of his gun pressed into the small of the intruder’s back.

"I’m afraid that’s overkill. Not that overkill is a bad thing, mind you. I’m a firm believer in it," Sands said, cocking the gun. "You may not be the sharpest tool in the shed, but even you wouldn’t come in here unarmed. Drop it." He heard the sound of something hitting the carpet.

"You won’t pull that trigger if you care at all for your standing in the Company."

"Ah, Martin… if you really believe that, then why did you drop your gun?" Sands asked, hearing Martin turn around to face him.

"Because you’re crazy," Martin stated as if it were fact.

"Well it’s a crazy world we live in, and I’ve always prided myself on my ability to adapt to any situation."

"Even the one you’re in now?" Martin asked. "I think even your adaptability has its limits. But I’m betting you won’t pull that trigger because doing so won’t help you. You’ll only dig yourself in deeper."

Sands smirked bitterly. "I can’t dig any deeper. I’ve already hit the earth’s core."

"Why are you here in Mexico? Killing me won’t help you…"

"That’s true, but it would make me feel so much better." Sands tapped the barrel of his gun against his chin thoughtfully. "However, if you must know, I’m here because I want to know one thing. Why?"

"Why?" Martin laughed.

Sands bent down and picked up the gun Martin had dropped.

"You don’t know why?" Martin asked again. "It seems you’re blind in more ways than one."

Sands bit his tongue painfully to keep himself in check. It was obvious that Martin was trying to rile him. He turned and took a couple steps closer to the open cell phone. No, Martin wasn’t going to get under his skin. Not now. He smiled to himself when he heard Martin take a couple steps with him. "I overestimated you. I really did," Sands said, as if to himself. ‘Come on, asshole. Time to spill the beans.’

"Overestimated me?" Martin asked.

"I thought you knew where your loyalties lay." Sands spun on his heel, facing Martin again. "Why?" he demanded, nudging Martin with the barrel of the gun.

"Money, of course," Martin answered, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"Ah, the root of all evil," Sands drawled.

"What else would it be? As much as you grate on my nerves, I hold no secret grudge against you. I had nothing to gain as far as the Company was concerned by burning you. It was business. Cold hard cash. Plain and simple. You just happened to be in my way."

"How disappointing. I had credited you with more imagination."

"Did you?"

He couldn’t put his finger on it, but something about the way Martin said that caused it all to click. "You unbelievable bastard." So his suspicion had been right after all. The subtle admission settled in his stomach like a brick.

Sands took a step back, shaking his head. It was almost unbelievable… almost. "Was it your idea?" Sands asked, his voice practically oozing venom.

"Your eyes? Oh yes. A nice touch, wouldn’t you agree?"

Of course now it made sense. After all, why would Barillo bother to go to the trouble of removing his eyes, and then set him free? He’d always wondered about that. Barillo was cruel, yes, but he’d had more important problems to deal with at the time. He’d always wondered why an officer from the Company who hadn’t seen anything worth dying over would be worthy of such time. He’d been given time on a day when Barillo had been fresh out of it.

‘All for fucking money. Shit in a barrel.’ Martin had destroyed his entire way of life… for money. Oh, but it was only business. He couldn’t claim that he didn’t relate.

Hell, he’d ended many lives. Being an assassin for the Company made sure of that. But asking for another Company officer to be tortured to make extra money? He did have his limits, as far-fetched as it sounded, even to his own mind.

Still, he wasn’t going to let Martin shake him. "There are other ways to make some fast cash. Have you ever tried betting on bullfights? I’ve found it very profitable, if you know how to work it right."

"You’re thinking too small."

"Why not just kill me?" Sands asked, his grip tightening on the gun until his knuckles turned white.

"You’ve always confused your life with your career, Sands. Your mistake," Martin said, taking a step closer.

"You are a traitor," Sands stated, pointing the gun in his direction."You’re really not in your right mind if you think you can mess with me, a PsyOps assassin, and get away with it."

"Ah, but you and the PsyOps unit had a bit of a falling out, didn’t you? That’s why you’re here in Mexico, isn’t it? What I’ve done is nothing – nothing – compared to what you’ve done in your life. Or have you forgotten about what you did to your wife?"

Sands’ body went rigid. He hadn’t expected Martin to bring her into this. "That was never supposed to happen."

Martin laughed. "What did you think was going to happen?"

"It wasn’t my fault. I had nothing to do with it."

"You’re the only one who believes that, and I don’t even think you truly believe it, but you tell yourself what you have to. Can’t have yourself another breakdown, after all."

Jolted back to reality, Sands leveled his gun at Martin. "You know nothing about it."

They couldn’t go down this road. He couldn’t go down this road.

"Was she good practice?" he asked, and Sands struck out quickly, ramming the gun into Martin’s face.

Hearing Martin yelp, Sands was about to pull the trigger, but was stopped by a sharp pain tearing into his already wounded torso. Sands dropped to his knees. Hissing in pain, Sands’ left hand went to his side, grasping the handle of the knife Martin had stabbed him with. As the pain tore through him, he was unable to stop Martin from wrenching the gun from his grip.

Gritting his teeth and doubling over, he took a deep breath to steady himself. In his head he counted to three, then jerked the blade out quickly, biting down on his lip to keep from crying out in pain.

Weak, Sands remained on his knees, listening for Martin, but Martin wasn’t making any noise. Realizing what Martin was doing, he remained stock still, listening for any movement. He wasn’t going to lose it like he did with El. Not this time.

Beginning to feel dizzy, he was forced to steady himself with his right arm in order to stay upright. It was then that he heard a rustle of clothing, ever so soft.

The knife clutched in his hand, he swung towards the faint sound, but nausea was slowing down his reflexes and disorienting him and he hit nothing but air. Freezing in place, he waited for Martin to make a move. "Ah, we got ourselves a game of cat and mouse, but which one of us is the mouse?" Sands drawled, keeping his voice miraculously steady for someone in so much pain. He was thankful that the room was dark. Martin wouldn’t get a good look at what bad shape he was in.

It seemed that Martin was thinking along the same lines, because he moved away from Sands. He was moving towards the light switch as a matter of fact.

Sands gritted his teeth as he pushed himself up, doing his best to ignore his body’s protest.

"What’s the matter? Afraid of the dark?" Sands taunted as he stood, unable to keep the pain from lacing his voice this time.

He stumbled towards Martin as Martin reached out to the light switch, intending to gain the advantage of light. His hand didn’t hit the switch though, but went straight into the metal panel, contacting the hot wires Sands had exposed earlier.

Martin let out a startled gasp when the wires shocked him, and Sands took advantage of the small distraction to make his move. The electricity in the wires was not powerful by any means, but it sent a heavy tingle down Martin’s spine nonetheless.

Sands swung with the knife again, and this time made contact with flesh. What part of Martin’s body he’d pierced, he couldn’t say, but he found that he no longer cared. Martin cried out in pain, and Sands grinned maliciously, turning the blade before yanking it out.

Sands grasped the front of Martin’s shirt and pushed him down to the ground. Leaning close, he searched Martin for any other weapons. Recovering from the fall, Martin began to struggle, but Sands pressed the sharp blade against his throat and he instantly stilled.

"Your life is in the hands of this psychotic asshole, so I wouldn’t move again if I were you," Sands said, his voice dangerously low. "Even after everything you’ve done to swing things in your favor, you’re still no match for me."

Hearing Martin’s pain laced breaths beneath him, Sands smiled. "You know, Barillo’s doctor of horrors didn’t completely take my sight," Sands said, almost offhandedly. He leaned down and whispered into Martin’s ear, "I can still see red."

Martin shivered involuntarily as Sands’ breath passed over his ear. Feeling the knife begin to cut into his throat, he made a last ditch effort to free himself. He reached up and snatched Sands’ sunglasses.

Feeling the sunglasses pulled off, Sands leaned back in surprise, and on reflex his free hand tried to cover his face. Wasting no time, Martin kicked Sands where he’d stabbed him earlier. Pain erupted through Sands’ entire body. It was so intense that he was incapable of containing the gasp that escaped his lips as he dropped to the floor.

Martin stood over him. "I have news for you. The man who ripped your eyes out wasn’t working for Barillo. Officially, he works for a company that I believe you’re familiar with."

Sands whole body froze, the news striking him like a punch in the face. For once, he found himself speechless.

"Get in here!" Martin yelled out, and Sands could hear the sound of his room door opening.

‘Oh shit,’ Sands thought, trying to get up and failing miserably. The pain was no longer sharp, but dulling quickly, and he knew that was a bad sign. Two hands grabbed him and roughly pushed him into a seated position. "I knew you were too much of a coward to come alone," Sands said, his voice rough. "Kill me, and you ruin yourself."

A hand grabbed him by the hair and snapped his head back violently. Sands held back a cry, not willing to give them the satisfaction.

"So I finally get to see the results of my plan," Martin said, standing in front of him. "I wanted to see for myself on the day it happened, but those damn white coats wouldn’t let me."

Sands shivered suddenly, feeling cold all over. He knew he’d lost a lot of blood. He was going into shock. "Resurgam," Sands smiled weakly.

"Not this time," Martin said. His Latin was rusty, but he understood the simple word.

Sands felt the overly familiar prick of a needle as it entered his neck. Had he had the energy, he would have panicked. Instead, he smiled and spoke with a hoarse voice. "In a tunnel of darkness lies a beast. Sharp and made of iron, it leaps for the kill and attacks when pulled back."

Martin chuckled. Sands felt Martin’s hand under his chin, tilting his head up. "Is that a riddle, Officer?"

"Kill me and your life is over," Sands said thickly, the drug quickly affecting him in his weakened state. "Likewise, if you don’t kill me… you’re life is still over." Sands fought to stay awake. He knew it was a futile effort, but instinct always overrode thought in situations like this. It struck him then, what his error had been ever since the Day of the Dead. His lips quirked at the irony of realizing it now. He’d been running on nothing but instinct and that was a dangerous thing. "You’re fucked if you do, fucked if you don’t."

Right before his slipping hold on reality gave way, he heard Martin say, "Who said anything about killing you?"

He felt like shit.

That was Sands’ first thought as he came to. He inhaled deeply through his nose, then let the air out slowly, repeating the action a few times to clear his hazy mind. He could still feel the after effects of something, most likely a powerful sedative, running through his bloodstream.

Slowly, he sat up, groaning under his breath when his body protested at the movement. Feeling pain in his side, his hand instinctively went to the wound. His arm felt like it was made out of lead, heavy and sluggish. That didn’t surprise him; what did was that someone had taken the time to patch him up.

But why should he be surprised? It was obvious that Martin had never intended to kill him. Torture was just so much more satisfying.

Sitting upright, he felt the cool floor beneath him, and it occurred to him that he had no idea where he was. The hotel room had had carpet, and its bathroom had had a tiled floor. Running a hand across the ground, he decided that it felt a lot like concrete. He fought to calm his nerves, feeling the beginnings of a panic attack stirring in his gut. Damn, how he wished he could just open his eyes and see where he was.

Taking a painfully deep breath, he struggled to get his feet underneath him, but just couldn’t seem to get his limbs to work properly.

They’d injected him with some heavy duty shit.

He reached out to find something nearby to help him stand, but there wasn’t anything around to support him; at least not within arms’ reach. Just sitting upright was exhausting and painful, and he was soon forced to lie back down.

Where was he? How long had he been here? He had no idea. The room was completely silent, save for his breathing, and a faint hum that was most likely emanating from something electric. He figured that is was probably a light.

He sighed, letting his mind clear. His first impulse was to fight, to use force, to kill every last son-of-a-bitch that had taken part in any of this treachery; and hell, why not anyone in the near vicinity, just for good measure? But that was exactly the problem. It was suddenly clear as day, and he wondered why the hell it had taken him so long to realize what he was doing wrong.

He’d thought that he was thinking, but his mind had been setting him up for another fall. He’d been acting on pure impulse; he wanted revenge and he was going to get it. Instinct and impulse could be a good thing, if used in moderation. He knew that. He’d known that for a long time. But somehow his anger towards everything and everyone had clouded his judgment.

Looking back on it, he knew it hadn’t been the wisest move to go to Mexico with no plan and no backup. Still, he really hadn’t had much of a choice. There was a conspiracy against him, and he was slated to take the fall for someone else’s disloyalty. He wasn’t about to give up without a fight, and he certainly wasn’t going to let the Company cart his ass off to jail, or worse…

But even so, he’d gotten himself caught up in revenge. Revenge on Martin would mean nothing if he fucked himself over in the process. It was time for him to start thinking again - really thinking - instead of acting blindly on instinct. No pun intended.

He needed to stop being the handler. He needed to stop being the assassin. His body couldn’t take anymore. He’d pushed it to its breaking point and it was finally giving in. Even when the last of the drugs in his system wore off, he had the feeling that he’d have a hell of a time standing for any length of time, much less fighting his way out of this place. He’d been shot, stabbed, drugged, suspended, and had his eyes ripped out, all in little more than a month. Really, enough is enough.

If he’d had the energy, he would have smacked himself in the head.

He’d been running from the real problem, and that was his fear of failure. Why he hadn’t recognized it before was beyond him.

Failure in his life. Failure in his marriage. Failure in his job. Failure in his ability to adapt.

But most importantly, failure of his control.

Sands sighed, frustrated with himself. Did it really have to come to this, a second capture, for him to finally start thinking, and confront his fear head-on?

He heard the sound of a door opening not far from where he was lying, and even though it probably should have unnerved him, it didn’t. Not now.

It was sound. Sound gave him information, and he needed all the information that he could get about his surroundings. Now, not only did he know where the door was, but he knew that he was being watched as well. The timing was far too coincidental. A camera in the room, perhaps?

He heard two sets of footsteps enter the room and approach him. The first set went straight to him, while the second stopped several feet short.

Someone grabbed him by the shirt and pulled him up to a sitting position.

"Get up, Sands. We need to have ourselves a little chat," Martin said, revealing himself to be the one who was standing a few feet away.

"Who’s this? Your babysitter?" Sands drawled, his words slightly slurred as he fought off the drugs in his system, and the man hefted him up unceremoniously. Although his mind was clear, his body seemed almost detached; limbs numb and refusing to respond as he was pushed down onto a chair that had been there all along just out of his reach.

So Martin had wanted him lucid, but physically weakened. Sands was beginning to understand this man’s style.

‘Wonder who’s duds I’m wearing?’ he thought suddenly, as he realized he wasn’t wearing his own clothes anymore; these were much baggier than the things he'd been wearing before. His own clothes were probably covered in blood. Shit, but he was going to miss that ‘Bomb Squad’ T-shirt.

Martin must have made some sort of gesture for his devoted muscleman to go, because after a moment the man left, closing the door after himself.

Trying his best to shift to a more comfortable position, Sands reached a clumsy hand out in front of him, fingertips quickly coming into contact with the smooth wooden surface of a tabletop. Using the table to prop himself up, he rubbed an index finger along its edge, feeling the lip of the trim.

It was familiar. Small room, cement floor, table, a couple of chairs, faint buzz of a light; he was in a CIA interrogation room. Most likely, he was still in Mexico. So now he was on Martin’s turf.

Still, the known was far better than the unknown, and a familiar place was better than an unfamiliar one.

"You must have a lot of questions running through your mind right now." Sands could hear the sound of a chair scraping across cement, echoing in the near-empty room as he spoke.

"You’d be surprised how few questions I actually have for you," Sands said. He held his head up, but didn’t bother to turn towards Martin. He thought that he was probably facing the door. It was at that moment that he realized he couldn’t feel his sunglasses against his face, and he was surprised that he hadn’t noticed their absence immediately.

‘Well, fuck it. It’s not like he’s seeing anything he hasn’t already seen.’ As a matter of fact, the more he thought about it, the more he realized that the full view of his face could work to his advantage. While not blatantly disturbing to Martin, and in fact probably quite the opposite, the sight could help him wheedle his way into Martin’s subconscious in much the same way a virus entered the human body; undetected, unstoppable, and at its very core, destructive.

"Are you really that far gone?" Martin asked, cracking his knuckles. Sands had been around Martin enough to know that the action was a nervous habit. His very presence had always set Martin on edge, and despite his physically weakened state, that still seemed to be the case.

"Quite the opposite, actually," Sands said, his voice steady with the confidence of understanding his enemy. Martin couldn’t have known that the very fact that Sands knew he was in a Company interrogation room had empowered him. Even if the headquarters was Martin’s turf, this room was his. Despite being a skilled sniper, and his knack for learning foreign languages aside, his true talent had always been messing with the human psyche. Cecelia had learned that the hard way, and Martin was going to learn it to. "I can read you like an open book," Sands drawled.

"You can’t read an open book."

"I beg to differ. Luckily for me, translating you into Braille is a snap."

"You have to be wondering what I’m going to do with you."

"Right now I’ve only got one question for you." Sands smirked. "Can I bum a smoke?"

Martin barked out a dry laugh. "You've got balls. I'll give you that. No. You’re not here to be comfortable. I’m the one in control."

"No, you only think you are," Sands said, as surely as if it were fact. "I’m going to have a bitchin’ time messing with your head."

"It's amazing to me that the Company would keep you around. You’re an obvious sociopath."

Sands finally turned to face Martin, flashing him a feral grin, before answering. "Is that your professional diagnosis? Are you sure I’m a sociopath, and not a psychopath, or antisocial, or narcissistic, or just plain fucked in the head?"

"Same difference," Martin said offhandedly, and Sands could imagine his shoulders shrugging in dismissal.

Sands leaned forward, forearms on the table supporting his weight. "I see that you have no idea what you’re talking about." Sands smirked in an all-knowing sort of way, then mimicked a shrug that he’d seen Martin give on several occasions. "But let’s stretch the suspension of disbelief a bit and pretend that you do know what you’re talking about. Tell me, since your keen ability to diagnose my state of mental health knows no bounds, which subtype of sociopath am I?"

"It’s all the same fucking thing," Martin grumbled, leaning back in his chair.

Sands leaned back in his own chair and crossed his arms, thankful that his body was a little more willing to obey his demands. Martin was so unerringly predictable in his mannerisms that it made imitating him easy. "Am I common, alienated, aggressive, or dissocial?" He paused a moment before heaving an irritated sigh. "Just pick one."

"I don’t care which one you are."

His face a mask of stone, Sands replied, "I do. A small hint: don’t pick common. I could never be that."

"Why ask me? Are you having some sort of identity crisis?" Martin asked, quietly uncrossing his arms and shifting in his chair.

"Do you want me to be having an identity crisis?"

"You can’t play your little head games with me," Martin said, his voice low, but his temper still firmly in check.

"I can play my little head games with anyone. That’s the beauty of them."

"I’ll break you, Sands. You’re here so that I can do just that."

"You’re doing a bang-up job so far. I can feel myself losing brain cells as we speak. Can I have a smoke?"

"I already told you, no," Martin said, and Sands had to give him credit for his patience. Martin knew him well enough to expect this sort of thing, but Sands knew from experience that he could wear down even the most patient man eventually.

"I just wanted to see if you’d changed your mind," Sands said offhandedly.

"And you could have sprouted a new set of eyes to see that, too."

"Cute. Amateurish, but cute."

"Bring her in!" Martin said loudly.

‘Yup, definitely a camera in the room,’ Sands thought to himself, and he had a bad feeling that he knew exactly who ‘she’ was.

"I thought you might act bull-headed because of some half-assed plan of yours. Just thought you’d like to know that she never did get to the dead drop."

"I’m crushed. Whatever am I going to do now?" Sands asked theatrically, landing his arm heavily on his chest in mock fright. "Especially since she was never supposed to go to a dead drop in the first place." He was far from worried about that, at least so far. After all, the whole reason for having more than one person with evidence was in preparation for something like this. Ava was not only the easiest target that he’d set out, she only had copies of the original papers.

"Cut the crap, Sands. I know she had to be dropping something off to someone."

Sands cocked an eyebrow. So they hadn’t even found the envelope he’d given her? Maybe Ava was a bit more experienced than he’d originally given her credit for.

"She was my original chauffeur," Sands offered by way of explanation. He wondered how long he’d been here.

The door opened again and he heard the unsteady click of high heels on concrete, as if Ava had been shoved through the door. He was positive it was her, since there was really no one else it could be.

"Hiya, Sugar," Sands greeted her, never turning his attention away from Martin while she seemed to catch her balance.

She must have got a good look at him then, because she gasped in what sounded like a mixture of horror and shock, delivering Sands his first real ego blow since he’d woken up here. He was probably white as a sheet too, resembling one of those skulls from the Day of the Dead. Wonderful.

"Oh, damn. Did I just let the cat out of the bag?" Martin asked.

"Well, it was meowing quite loudly," Sands said, trying to be as blasé about it as possible.

"Oh my God," Ava whispered, approaching the table slowly. "Who did this to you?"

"I know how much you like to toot your own horn, Martin, so I’ll let you answer that," Sands said. His hand unconsciously tugged at the hair tucked behind his right ear, letting it fall across his face.

Ava’s attention snapped back to Martin. "You did this?" she asked in angry disbelief.

Before Martin could say anything, Sands answered. "Only in spirit. He’s far too squeamish and cowardly to do it himself. He just dreamed it up."

"You’re just bitter because I got away with it," Martin said to Sands.

Sands uncrossed his arms. "Ah, but defeat isn’t bitter if you sprinkle dirty revenge on it."

"Considering I am the one in complete control, and you can barely stand, if you can stand at all, that threat really scares me."

"It should. I never make a threat that I can’t carry out."

"For a supposedly brilliant man, you’re very stupid," Martin stated.

Sands laughed outright at Martin’s comment, and Ava gaped at him as if he were insane.

"Well, the dumber you think I am the better," Sands said, still chuckling. Little did Martin know how true that statement actually was. Sands jabbed a thumb in Ava’s direction. "Why bring my seeing-eye dog into this?"

"Insurance."

Sands cocked a dark eyebrow. "Well, you’d best take out another policy. Your diagnosis was that I’m a sociopath, remember?"

"Was she the one who broke into my office?" Martin demanded.

Sands tilted his head to the side, frowning. "What?"

"Who did you send to search through my files?"

Sands leaned forward, placing his elbows on the table. "Got a bit of a mole situation, have you? Nasty, destructive little critters, moles are… oh, but I don’t need to tell you that."

"You’re responsible for it."

"How?" Sands asked in challenge, knowing that Martin couldn’t answer the question. He intended on planting a small seed of doubt in Martin’s mind. With tender love and care, that seed would grow into full-fledged paranoia.

"Was it this woman, or the Mariachi you picked up?"

Although Sands inwardly damned Jackson to hell, he kept up his cocky front. He tapped the bridge of his nose with a fingertip. "You’re sniffing in the wrong direction. What you should be asking me right now is, ‘When is my unseen shadow going to swallow me whole?’ You have a cigarette?"

"Jesus, no! You just don’t give up," Martin said with exasperation, still a bit curious as to just what ‘shadow’ Sands was talking about.

"Something you should have thought of before you fucked me over."

"It was the Mariachi, wasn’t it? You sent him to gather evidence?" Martin pressed on, determined to get an answer.

"Well, that’s a far-out little theory you’ve got there, but you’re overlooking the fact that the Mariachi wouldn’t know how to get into headquarters without being caught."

"I’m not overlooking it. I’m sure you told him."

"I told him the entire layout of headquarters? Even I don’t have the security and layout of the entire complex in my photographic memory." He waited for Martin to say something, but Martin was silent, obviously trying to think of an explanation.

"I think you’ve got a rat living in your walls," Sands added smoothly. "Illius me paenitet, Dux." He paused. "You were a rich kid, weren’t you?"

Sands’ off the wall question snared Ava’s attention, and caught Martin equally off guard.

At Martin’s silence, he knew that he’d guessed right. "I see I nailed that one on the first try," Sands continued. "Should I continue?"

"No. We’re not talking about my damn childhood."

Sands ignored him, a hand lazily tracing patterns on the tabletop. "You were raised by a series of babysitters and maids. Your parents were too busy with their jobs and social lives to show you how much they cared. But don’t worry, I’m sure they loved you, despite the fact that you’re a sick bastard through and through."

"Shut the fuck up, Sands. This has nothing to do with anything."

"You liked to torture small animals as a child, didn’t you? You liked seeing things in pain. You still do."

"And you're saying you didn’t?" Martin asked challengingly.

"Torture small animals? No. I never got any jollies out of torturing something that I knew was inferior. There’s no real challenge in that." Sands tilted his head. "But eventually, torturing and killing your pets got a little dull, didn’t it? You moved on to people, then. Ah yes, much better prey." Sands ran his tongue across the front of his teeth, seeming to study Martin despite the impossibility of it. "You sure love to watch pain… but deep down you’re scared of it. You don’t ever want to experience it yourself. That’s why you never put yourself in danger," Sands leaned forward, his voice dropping low. "You feed on pain, but you fear it at the same time. Pain is what makes your whole world go round," Sands said, making a circle in the air with his hand. "That’s pretty fucked up, if you ask me."

"You got that shit off my 201."

Sands snorted, and sat back in his chair. "Yeah, right under the education section of your 201 it reads: ‘Enjoys pain. Is seriously screwed in the head.’" Sands gave him a look, as if to say, ‘you’re a complete moron’.

"I meant my family stuff. The rest isn’t even close."

"If that’s what you have to tell yourself. Got a cancer stick?"

Martin pounded his fist on the table, causing Ava to jump slightly. Sands had been expecting an outburst any moment, so he hadn’t even flinched. Even when a pack of cigarettes pegged him straight in the forehead, Sands didn’t seem surprised. He immediately bent down and searched for the pack, his fingers finding it without much trouble.

"You have no right to call me a sick bastard!" Martin said, his voice not quite shouting, but warning that he was close to reaching his limit. Dropping his voice lower, Martin added, "I’ve seen your 201 too."

"No, you haven’t," Sands said with certainty, pulling a cigarette out of the pack. "Got a light?"

Sands heard the sound of something hitting the ground several feet away.

"Go fetch."

"Your hospitality leaves something to be desired," Sands informed him. He heard Ava begin to get it for him, but stopped her with an abrupt hand signal. With some effort, he pushed himself up to a standing position. Leaning heavily on the table for support, he grabbed the lighter. By the time he collapsed back in his chair, he was weak and out of breath.

It was amazing what he’d go through for a cigarette.

"The hell I haven’t," Martin said, cracking his knuckles again as he turned the conversation back to the subject of 201 files.

"I see you still haven’t completely perfected the art of lying," Sands said offhandedly, lighting up. His repetitive use of the word see was no accident. Coupled with the visual of his empty sockets, and the fact that Martin couldn’t use the word against him, it was probably becoming rather annoying.

"Better enjoy that cigarette. Where I’m sending you, I don’t think they’ll let you smoke."

Taking a long drag, Sands faked a shudder. "Then that’s just not the place for me."

Martin seemed to come to the conclusion that his current tactic wasn’t working, and switched to a new one. "It’s really hilarious to hear you tell me how sick I am, and how I get off on pain. But you’re just like me. You can’t deny it."

Sands began to tap a rendition of the ‘Star-Spangled Banner’ on the tabletop with his forefinger, pretending to think about what Martin said. "I deny it," he said at last.

Martin shook his head. "An ex-assassin telling me that he doesn’t enjoy pain? Now I really have heard everything."

"Tu es mon chevre d’amour," Sands said, amusing himself more than anyone else. He could bet that Martin hadn’t heard that. Taking another long drag of his cigarette, he smirked. "You’re surprisingly dense. That’s why your time is almost up. You’d have to take a walk inside my head to figure out what makes me tick, but I don’t think you could handle the trip. I’m a completely different brand of psycho."

"If you don’t enjoy pain, then how do you explain what you did to your wife?"

Ava’s eyebrow rose at the mention of a wife. Sands didn’t seem like the marrying type; yet another surprise. Sands remained his usual unreadable self, continuing to tap out the national anthem as he puffed on his cigarette. Weird man. She decided that he was either brilliant or insane… quite possibly it was a combination of both.

"Have you been able to figure out what type of sociopath I am?" Sands asked suddenly, and the hasty change of topic didn’t go unnoticed.

"What’s the matter? Did I hit a sore spot? Can’t think about your wife?"

Sands inhaled deeply, letting the smoke escape from his lips slowly. Martin wanted to use his weakness against him, and admittedly, Cecelia had been, and always would be, a bit of a weakness. "Your logic is tragically flawed, Martin. You’re obviously trying to make me feel guilty about what happened to my wife, yet earlier you claimed that I was a sociopath. If you believe I’m a sociopath, then why try and make me feel guilty? I’m not capable of it."

"You had a mental breakdown after she went insane. She must have had an effect on you."

"We all go a little mad sometimes. Haven’t you ever?" Sands asked, cigarette bouncing on his lips as he spoke. "Never mind. I’m living with the answer to that one."

Martin smiled at Sands’ admission. "Of course you are. What possessed you to come back here in the first place, anyway? Was it some insane desire for revenge? An attempt to save your career? It’s beyond saving; you’re blind. What use could the CIA possibly have for you now?"

Sands’ tapping ceased, his lips tightening into a thin line. "More use than they’ll have for you," he said dangerously. "I came back because I wanted to watch you fall… figuratively speaking, of course." Flicking the ash off his cigarette, and leaning forward in his chair, he continued. "They will get you, because I have already gotten you. You just don’t know it yet. Sometimes, it pays to be paranoid."

"It didn’t pay for you," Martin pointed out bluntly, refusing to take Sands’ bait.

Sands smiled mirthlessly but otherwise ignored the jibe. "Paranoia, paranoia, everybody’s coming to get you," he said in a sing-song.

"Have you played enough of your games? I think it’s time we talked about what I plan to do with you."

Sands shrugged as he took another puff. "You had to have been expecting this. After all, I have an MS in experimental psychology. If you’d really seen my 201, you’d know that. I never tire of games. It’s what I do."

Ava gave Sands an appraising look. ‘A Master of Science degree? He’s full of surprises.’

Sands tilted his head to the side. "You still can’t quite decide what my motivation is, can you? It’s not that hard to figure out, really. I’d think that it’s written all over me. You must really be blind to that sort of thing."

Ignoring his last comment, Martin shot a glance at Ava. "Ava, get over here," Martin said, motioning her over with an angry jab of his finger.

His eyes told her that it was not a suggestion, and she joined them, coming to stand beside Martin. She knew the value of picking her battles.

Martin grabbed hold of her hand, roughly pulling her over to Sands’ side.

"Need her help?" Sands asked, amusement lacing his voice. To be honest, Martin did know something about interrogation, and wasn’t someone who flew off the handle. He was an extremely patient man, and an experienced officer, who’d probably done his fair share of questioning. But he had one fatal flaw in his style; he couldn’t read people, so he just kept switching tactics until one seemed to work. It probably worked on most people, but then Sands wasn’t most people. They’d been at this for at least half an hour now, and Martin still hadn’t gotten any information out of him, or covered exactly what he planned on doing with him. ‘Maybe I should throw the dog a bone.’ He wanted to stretch Martin to his limit, but he didn’t want the man to actually snap.

Martin grabbed hold of Sands’ jaw and turned his head so that he and Ava were facing each other… or at least, that’s what Sands assumed. ‘Shit.’ Now this tactic he didn’t like at all.

Cigarette dangling from his mouth, Sands grasped Martin’s wrist tightly, wrenching himself from the man’s grip. "Let’s not be rude to the lady," Sands said in a bored tone, and this time he wasn’t sure if it fooled anyone.

"Don’t like to be touched?" Martin asked, like an animal that could smell fear. He forced Ava’s hand to Sands’ cheek. Sands went rigid under her touch, and Ava tried to withdraw, but Martin still held her hand tightly and wouldn’t let her pull away.

Although Sands wasn’t doing much to show it, Ava had the distinct feeling that this physical contact was far more disturbing to Sands than anything else that had been thrown his way so far. The way his whole body stiffened under her touch and his jaw locked was proof of that.

"You were always such a vain man," Martin snickered, forcing Ava’s hand to move up Sands’ face.

Sands forced a smile, taking a long draw. "Why would you think that a caress from a hot woman would bother me?"

Ava felt her face redden for reasons she couldn’t begin to explain.

"She could be ugly as a dog and you wouldn’t know the difference."

Ava's fingers now touching the edge of his right eye socket, he couldn’t help but flinch. Not only were they still extremely sensitive, but the feeling of a finger probing the area was both nauseating and disturbing to him. He inhaled sharply. ‘Ignore it, ignore it, ignore it,’ his mind chanted, knowing that he needed to keep up his stony exterior as long as possible.

Ava again tried to break free of Martin’s grip, but to her surprise, Sands’ hand shot up and grabbed her wrist. His grip right below Martin’s, he held her hand fast and as Martin pushed her farther, Sands’ grip tightened with strength she didn’t think possible for a man so badly hurt and drugged.

But it was clear from his painful grip on her that Sands didn’t want her to pull away, and it was as if he was silently telling her ‘I’ve had worse’. So, fighting her own queasy stomach, she surrendered her hand to Martin. If Sands could withstand the worst of it, she could take the rest. It didn’t stop her from squeezing her eyes shut, however.

Sands swallowed, fighting down the bile that wanted to rise in his throat. When he was sure he had complete control of his voice, he asked, "Do I resemble your therapist, Martin? Because I could swear that I just slipped into one of your therapy sessions."

Martin dropped Ava’s hand and threw up his arms in disgust.

"Like any other therapist, I'm not free," Sands quipped.

Ava immediately began to move her hand away, but Sands wasn’t letting her go, only allowing her to lower her hand from his face. "Don’t move, Sugar," he said, and it was an order, not a request.

"What do you think you’re doing?" Martin asked, and it sounded as if he was ready to call for backup if necessary.

Paying Martin no mind, Sands languidly ran the full length of his hand down Ava's face twice, feeling out her features. It was an odd thing – trying to piece together someone’s face on touch alone. He’d never tried to do it before, and he was surprising himself by doing it now. It was almost like creating a face from a smattering of magazine clippings that had come from thousands of different pictures – choosing an eye here and a nose there and pasting them together in an attempt to construct a complete face. As he traced her features, he couldn’t quite get a grasp on his own mental image of her, and thought that perhaps it was something that took practice to perfect. Even so, he thought that he had a general idea of what she looked like. He didn’t think she was drop dead gorgeous, but he was willing to bet money that she wasn’t a troll, either.

Letting her go, he pushed her hand away from him, dismissing her without a second thought. He smirked and turned his attention to Martin. "If she’s ugly as a dog, then I still have eyes," he drawled coolly.

Shaken by the contact with Sands, Ava took a couple steps back from both men, wrapping her arms around herself in discomfort.

"You’d best smile. Tomorrow will be worse," Sands added, giving Martin a shit-eating grin. Sands moved to take another puff of his burned down cigarette, but Martin snatched it up quickly and stubbed it out on the table.

"I’m glad you’re taking your own advice," Martin growled. "Because I intend to commit you."

"Sending me to the land of magical white jackets, are you?"

"Don’t worry, I’ll send you to the same place you sent your wife. I’m sure it’s nice."

"Oh, it’s choice. They even let you go outside and smell the grass every once in a while. Only the best for my wife." Even though fear crept up his spine, Sands refused to lose control. Amazingly, it wasn’t as hard as it had been a day ago. It helped that he knew Martin was screwed. The fact that Martin didn’t intend to kill him was a very good thing, and gave Tom and Cam time to pass on all his evidence to the proper bigwigs.

"Did you care about her at all?" Martin asked, and it sounded as if he really was curious to hear the answer.

Sands raised an eyebrow before leaning forward, pushing the table away from himself ever so slightly. Ah, so it wasn’t attached to the floor. "You want me to get real? Fine. I fucked with my wife in more ways than one; then I committed her and threw away the key so I could book it to Mexico and play spy," Sands said, his voice icy and devoid of emotion. He knew that he should have said her name, it would have made what he'd said even more cruel, but he just couldn’t quite bring himself to do it, sure that his voice would falter if he did.

Ava involuntarily shivered. She couldn’t believe what she’d just heard. Could Sands have really done all that on purpose? It was obvious he was dangerous… but was he evil? Or was it just another one of his acts? It was pointless for her to try and read him; reading him was like trying to read a blank sheet of paper.

Even Martin seemed to be taken aback by Sands’ admission, and Sands took the opportunity to get to the point. "Why don’t we cut to the chase? You didn’t keep me here to catechize me about my love life, or who broke into your office. You have security cameras and eyes; why don’t you use them both, if you haven’t already." Sands paused. "There’s only one question that you’ve been dying to ask me since you set foot in this room."

"And what’s that?" Martin asked challengingly, sitting back down in the chair across from Sands.

"Do you have the twenty million pesos from the coup d'état, Officer Sands?" Sands said knowingly, hearing the telltale knuckle crack that suggested Martin was irritated. "The answer is, yes. I do."

"So where is it?"

Sands leaned back in his chair, crossing his legs. Whatever drug they’d given him had all but worn off now. The detached feeling had been quickly replaced by the pain in his side and the throbbing in his skull. "Well you know, it’s a funny thing. Two million US dollars may not be able to give me back what you took from me, but it will sure make being blind a lot easier to live with. When I think about it, two million bucks isn’t nearly enough, but I’ll take what I can get."

"You’re going to give me that money."

Hook, line and sinker.

Smirking, Sands shook his head. "Not without getting something in return."

"Would you like to be deaf too? Maybe paralyzed? How ‘bout I don’t take any more of your vital senses and we call it even?"

Sands face hardened, knowing that if he went down that road, there would be no coming back for him. One of Sands’ legs kicked up without warning, connecting forcefully with the underside of the table. It had the weight of a fold-up banquet table, and tipped over easily, hitting the floor with a heavy thud that bounced off the walls. It must have hit Martin on the way down like he’d hoped, because Martin let out an angry yelp.

"How generous of you," Sands drawled, before Martin could say anything. He wondered if Martin and Ava were surprised that he’d made no move to escape. But he was no fool. Trying to escape from a high-security CIA headquarters, blind and weaponless, was not a realistic expectation. "But you have to take me with you when you pick up the money."

"The hell I do," Martin protested, standing the table back up.

"If I’m not there, the people I left the money with might have a bit of a problem giving it to you. That might be… painful… for you. So what’s it going to be, Chief?"

Martin didn’t answer right away, probably suspecting that Sands had something planned.

Sands smiled like a cat that had eaten the canary, waiting patiently for Martin’s answer. He already knew what it would be before Martin said it. The man was a greedy bastard. He didn’t need the two million… which really wasn’t all that much when one played in the big leagues like he did. Truthfully, twenty million pesos converted to US currency didn’t even break one million, nine hundred. But Martin wouldn’t agree to go through with this because he wanted the money – no, Martin would go through with it just to take the cash away from Sands.

Like he’d really enjoy a little less than two million while in the loony bin. What was he going to spend it on? Extra padding for his cell?

Every choice Martin made depended on whether or not it would bring pain to someone else. Martin had quite a twisted, vicious temperament that would, in the end, be his demise. Sands intended to make sure his end came sooner, rather than later.

"Tick-tock, tick-tock… you really are running short on time Martin. Those long shadows are going to reach your doorstep soon."

"Fine. But you try anything, Sands, and your hot little tart over there will be the one to suffer, and if you don’t care about her, then I’m sure you care about the use of your legs."

Go to Sands Through The Hourglass: Part 9 ~>