The Lion's Den
Rating: R for language
Summary: This chapter generally deals with where Sands is (but not what he's been up to; that's for later) since that fateful meeting with the cartel six months before. He also meets up with an unexpected (but hardly welcome) old acquaintance...enjoy!
x x x x x
"That comes to $2.50."
"Sure." A self-rolled cigarette hung limply between Sheldon Jeffrey Sands' chapped pink lips as his hands dug into his brown coat pockets. He fumbled around for a bit, then finally produced three dollar bills and placed them on the Starbucks counter and took his cappuccino, then took a long, steady sip. He listened to the coins in the cash register clinking against each other. Someone behind him was listening to mind-numbingly annoying techno music that was thrice as loud as anyone's normal hearing capacity could handle. "I'm kinda in a hurry, buddy, come on."
"Just hold on a sec," muttered the kid, who sounded no older than fifteen. He finally plopped a few coins in Sands' palm, and he fingered each one to make sure it was correct.
"Thanks." Sands pulled his gloves over his cold fingers and walked out of the Starbucks with two hands slightly in front of him, clutching his cappuccino.
It was freezing already, at 8-fucking-am.
Sands groped his way down 86th and Lexington, still trying to get used to the feel of the street. He had just moved in with his cousin Hunter, after his tendency for not paying the rent on time in his old place was apparently pissing certain people off.
He knew that after you passed Starbucks there was a Staples, then a Barnes and Nobles, and then a subway station. Then there was a rather conveniently large Best Buy on the corner, where Sands frequently would stop by just to nose around and irritate the employees by fiddling incessantly with the video cameras.
The only thing Sands hated about New York now was the traffic lights. Glowing signs that read "Walk" and "Don't Walk" obviously weren't of much use to him, so usually he just stood very, very close to a person (even though it made them uncomfortable as hell) and just sort of moved with them. If they went forward, so did he; if they stopped suddenly, he stopped with them.
And Sands never admitted he was blind. Ever. Unless it got him a free meal. In cases like crossing the street, it was generally a case of...well, he didn't know. He'd just make something up. One time, he heard a woman in a husky voice ask why he was standing so close, and his on-the-spot reply was it was because he thought she was beautiful--and that lady turned out to be a very flattered Nicole Kidman. So spontaneity certainly had its perks.
He turned the corner and began down 86th and 3rd, running nonstop into burly men and giddy teenagers, trying to plow his way down to York Avenue. Sands didn't go outside much; too many people. Usually the trip was only for his morning coffee.
He arrived at the apartment at last. He pressed the intercom, and a muffled voice moaned, "What? Who is it?"
"It's Jeff. Let me up."
The line clicked off, and the door gave a loud obnoxious buzz. Sands pushed through the door, trudged over to the elevator and rode up to the sixth floor.
He opened the front door, which was always left stupidly unlocked, and "White Rabbit" by Jefferson Airplane was playing loudly somewhere in the house.
"Hunter," he yelled, "turn that goddam music off."
"Fuck you," came a lazy shout from the bedroom.
Sands tested the area in front of him with his feet until he finally found a chair. He plopped himself down and finished sipping his drink, and then he let out a sigh. "Did you make me breakfast?"
"Who the fuck do you think I am? Marcia Brady? Make your own fuckin' breakfast."
"I can't, asshole," Sands muttered.
"What proof do I even have that shows me you're fucking blind, anyway?" A young, handsome man with a thin build and dark hair walked slowly into the living room, where Sands was sitting. Sands heard him yawn. "Since you won't ever take those fuckin' sunglasses glasses off..."
"Shut up. Make me breakfast."
"What time is it...?"
Sands frowned and shrugged as Hunter paused, presumably checking his watch. Sands kicked his boots off and fully reclined on the couch he was sitting on.
"Holy shit," hissed Hunter. Sands heard him dart across the room and down to the bedroom. "I'm fucking late!"
"What am I supposed to do about breakfast?" asked Sands loudly.
"Figure it out yourself, for god's sake! There's a diner on the corner, just"--he heard him pause as he pulled his shirt over head--"check it out. I gotta go." Sands heard Hunter come back into the living room, holding keys that jingled merrily in his hands as he moved. "Okay, so the keys are in the bowl..." He heard the keys drop. "Phone is on the wall, and the door is, uh...right here."
"Very descriptive," muttered Sands. "I appreciate it."
"Shut up. If you have any problems, call...well, call the police, I guess. Bye."
"Have a good day, love ," Sands drawled. He heard Hunter give a short grunt and close the door behind him.
He was alone now.
He heard a Rolling Stones song playing now, probably coming from the bedroom. It was irritating, but Sands didn't dare go in and try to turn it off. A blind man in Hunter's bedroom would probably lose his life after about four minutes. His cousin kept an enormous python named Siggy in a fish tank; furniture was always overturned, there were clothes all over the place--it was a nightmare.
Stupid asshole, he thought. Can't even pour a bowl of cereal for his poor kinsman.
Well, he sure as hell wasn't going to any diner. He got up and strutted over to the kitchen area, which he hadn't yet been in. It was a frighteningly tiny kitchen, with an enormous fridge and counters that formed a right-angle in the corner. That left about twenty-four square inches of empty space for him to move around.
He ran his hands over the cupboards, pulled one open and to his great relief found a tall, slender box. He smiled to himself and shook it-- definitely cereal. He took a bowl from the shelf, opened the box and poured, then took a carton from the fridge and doused his cereal. He took a spoon from the silverware drawer, which took a while to find, mixed up his breakfast with it, and put some in his mouth...then promptly spat it out.
It was cat food in half-and-half.
"Fuck," he gagged. "Holy fuck..." He groped around for the sink, finally found it and drank greedily from the faucet, spitting every few seconds.
He heard a soft mew behind him, knowing that it was Hunter's cat Tom.
"If I still had my gun, I'd shoot you," Sands hissed. The cat yowled and he heard it pad away.
Guess it was off to the diner after all. He thrust his boots and jacket on again, took the keys from the bowl and slammed the door behind him.
"On the corner," Hunter had said. Very fucking informative, indeed.
He licked the roof of his mouth irritably; the dense and bitter taste of the cat food and cream was still in his mouth. He should have brushed his teeth, but he was starving.
When he opened the front door, the freezing air grabbed him suddenly, making him shudder.
"Where's the fucking diner?" he asked aloud. He could feel passer-by's eyes hot on his skin. He reached out and touched someone shoulder, and before they could cry out he asked, "Is there a diner nearby?"
"Right on the corner," replied the obviously confused man. God damn, Sands thought, people are morons.
"Which corner?"
"Well, just go to the end of the block," said the man quietly. "See?"
"Um, yeah. Thanks." Sands gave let him go and he put his hands in his pockets, and then started down the street. When he got to the fucking "corner," he held his breath and walked in.
Success! It sure sounded and smelled like a diner; he hoped to god he wasn't just playing the stupid blind guy again.
"How many?" asked a peppy woman, whose voice came out of nowhere and caused Sands to jump.
"Just me," he answered quickly.
"Right this way."
Again, a useless instruction, but luckily she was wearing pretty strong perfume, and he followed her as closely as he could. He heard the menu being slapped on the table with some silverware, and he scooted into a booth next to the window.
He finally felt somewhat at rest. This feeling lasted until about ten minutes after the waiter took his order--someone was watching him.
Sands was able to pick up this feeling better than virtually anyone, especially now that he was blind--which didn't make much sense to him at all, but he just knew it. He felt eyes on him, and he didn't like it.
What troubled him was that it wasn't just a simple glance, or a normal person just gazing off into space. Somebody was actually watching; spying even.
Then the feeling was gone, abruptly. The eerie presence ceased, and Sands exhaled heavily and slumped in his seat. He heard the front door open, felt the cold air prickling his skin, and the perky woman asked the customer how many.
"I'm meeting someone," he said.
Sands focused all his attention on this guy, which was something he had gotten very good at; singling a person out of a crowd, that is. The man wore pants that jingled as he walked, probably with a set of chains in his pocket, and he had what sounded like heeled boots on. Cowboy boots, perhaps.
Then Sands tensed. The man was moving to his side of the restaurant.
Sands, who always followed the better-safe-than-sorry rule, slowly took his knife off his placemat and held it under the table.
The boots stopped next to Sands. The man was standing right next to him, but didn't say anything. He walked a bit further, and Sands heard him slide into the booth.
"So how's business?" he asked. His voice was low and husky, almost weathered--and Mexican.
Holy shit...
Mexican. From Sands' past experience with Mexicans, he learned they were people he'd rather avoid--that, or blow their fucking brains out.
"Who the fuck are you?" asked Sands sharply.
The man paused. "You don't recognize me?"
"Apparently not."
"Think back."
"No. Now you can either give me a fucking name, or get the fuck out of here."
"Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?" asked the man, a smile in his voice. Sands, however, was not particularly enthused.
"Now!"
He heard the waiter come by and place Sands' BLT and Pepsi in front of him. "White Rabbit" by Jefferson Airplane started up on the radio, for the second time that day, Sands noticed.
Suddenly the man was chewing on something. "This is good."
Sands put his hand on his plate; one of the halves of the sandwich was missing. "That's my fucking lunch!"
"Shut up. This is delicious. Think I should go in and shoot the cook?" the man quipped, then let out a smooth chuckle.
Sands stopped. Now the voice sounded familiar.
'You want me to shoot the cook?' 'No. I'll shoot the cook. My car's parked out back anyway.'
"Holy shit," muttered Sands. "You're that El guy. El Mari...fachi..."
"Mariachi," El grunted, the accent rolling freely across his tongue.
"Yeah, whatever. Why are you in New York? Finally given up on that shithole of a country?"
"Not quite," grumbled El, obviously irritated by Sands' brashness on the subject. "I need your help."
Sands almost laughed. He shoved a handful of fries into his mouth and chewed hungrily. "My help?" He took a sip of his Pepsi. "You need my help?"
"Yes."
"And why's that?"
El took a deep breath, and said, "Children are being murdered throughout Mexico City. And women. All in a particular way..."
"Shot?" asked Sands bluntly. He almost laughed at this again.
El wasn't amused in the slightest, but he seemed to ignore Sands' comment. "The victims were found with their eyes and tongues pulled out, ears cut off. The boys had their genitalia removed"--Sands winced--"and the girls had their throats sliced."
"I don't mean to be crude," muttered Sands, "I mean, I care just as much about mass homicide as the next person, but what the fuck does this have to do with me?" He paused. "Or you, for that matter?"
"I'm getting to it," hissed El, irritated.
Sands lifted his hands in a meant-no-offense gesture, and then continued eating.
"These are just maniacs," El continued. "They are killing at random--and at large. The reason I come to you today is quite complicated, but I'll do my best to explain--"
"They?" asked Sands. "There's more than one?"
"We know it is a gang from some evidence and eyewitnesses," El said. "The reason I am concerned with all this is because they killed several children and their mother in my village. Good people. Ones I knew well, and who did not deserve to die."
"So you're just trying to avenge them," said Sands slowly.
"In a way, yes. But I am also curious to crack this case, because it involves you."
"How?"
"We captured one of the gang. His name was Less Hewitt."
"American?" asked Sands, raising his eyebrows.
"Yes. We don't believe there to be any Mexicans in this gang, we got that out of Hewitt. He also said..." El paused. It sounded like he was pulling a piece of paper out of his pocket. "Here."
He pushed the note over to Sands.
Shit.
Sands cleared his throat. He picked up the paper, 'looked' at it, then shook his head and handed it back to El. "I don't have my reading glasses."
"Fine. It says, 'Find S. Jeffrey Sands. His brothers are waiting in the Lion's Den.' Does that mean anything to you?"
Sands shrugged. "Nothing whatsoever."
"I was surprised to see your name," said El. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say he was naming a suspect."
"Hey, pal, don't you start pointing any fucking fingers," growled Sands. "I've been in New York the last six months staying with my..."
"Girlfriend?"
"No. Cousin. And I've been far better-off in Manhattan than in your fucking Ciudad de Muchcas-Crap."
"Well, you must return with me to Mexico," said El flatly. "I need your help, Agent Sands."
"No fuckin' way," hissed Sands. He took out a cigarette, licked the tip and put it in his mouth, then cracked the flame on in a smooth hiss with his lighter.
"Why were you fired?" asked El suddenly.
"No," said Sands curtly, "I haven't been fired. I'm still employed, and I'm still on their payroll, but they're still deciding whether or not..."
"Bullshit," El muttered.
"It's not bullshit, you fuckin' whore," spat Sands angrily. "If I hadn't gotten my eyes ripped out by that fucking Barillo..."
His voice trailed off as he realized he'd gone too far. Way too far.
"What?" asked El sharply. "They took your eyes?"
Sands didn't say anything, but he felt two hands suddenly touch his temples. It was the first time somebody had touched him since Adrejez pressed her lips against his, and then fell dead on the ground in front of him. The glasses slid off a tiny bit.
"Holy fuck," drawled El, pressing the glasses back on Sands' face and sitting back in his chair. He sounded horrified. "What did they do to you?"
"Just what you think they did," muttered Sands. He took a long drag of his cigarette, dug some change out of his pocket and slapped it on the table. He didn't bother to count how much; it could have been a $1 or a $50, but he was in too much of a strange dazed state. He stood up and left the restaurant, stumbling a bit over the linoleum floor, and closed the door behind him.
The cold air attacked him, but it didn't bother him all too much. He felt tired. He went briskly back into Hunter's apartment, slamming the door and lying on the couch. He exhaled heavily. "I'm not going," he breathed. "No fuckin' way." He dozed off a few minutes later.
Rating: R for language
Summary: This chapter generally deals with where Sands is (but not what he's been up to; that's for later) since that fateful meeting with the cartel six months before. He also meets up with an unexpected (but hardly welcome) old acquaintance...enjoy!
x x x x x
"That comes to $2.50."
"Sure." A self-rolled cigarette hung limply between Sheldon Jeffrey Sands' chapped pink lips as his hands dug into his brown coat pockets. He fumbled around for a bit, then finally produced three dollar bills and placed them on the Starbucks counter and took his cappuccino, then took a long, steady sip. He listened to the coins in the cash register clinking against each other. Someone behind him was listening to mind-numbingly annoying techno music that was thrice as loud as anyone's normal hearing capacity could handle. "I'm kinda in a hurry, buddy, come on."
"Just hold on a sec," muttered the kid, who sounded no older than fifteen. He finally plopped a few coins in Sands' palm, and he fingered each one to make sure it was correct.
"Thanks." Sands pulled his gloves over his cold fingers and walked out of the Starbucks with two hands slightly in front of him, clutching his cappuccino.
It was freezing already, at 8-fucking-am.
Sands groped his way down 86th and Lexington, still trying to get used to the feel of the street. He had just moved in with his cousin Hunter, after his tendency for not paying the rent on time in his old place was apparently pissing certain people off.
He knew that after you passed Starbucks there was a Staples, then a Barnes and Nobles, and then a subway station. Then there was a rather conveniently large Best Buy on the corner, where Sands frequently would stop by just to nose around and irritate the employees by fiddling incessantly with the video cameras.
The only thing Sands hated about New York now was the traffic lights. Glowing signs that read "Walk" and "Don't Walk" obviously weren't of much use to him, so usually he just stood very, very close to a person (even though it made them uncomfortable as hell) and just sort of moved with them. If they went forward, so did he; if they stopped suddenly, he stopped with them.
And Sands never admitted he was blind. Ever. Unless it got him a free meal. In cases like crossing the street, it was generally a case of...well, he didn't know. He'd just make something up. One time, he heard a woman in a husky voice ask why he was standing so close, and his on-the-spot reply was it was because he thought she was beautiful--and that lady turned out to be a very flattered Nicole Kidman. So spontaneity certainly had its perks.
He turned the corner and began down 86th and 3rd, running nonstop into burly men and giddy teenagers, trying to plow his way down to York Avenue. Sands didn't go outside much; too many people. Usually the trip was only for his morning coffee.
He arrived at the apartment at last. He pressed the intercom, and a muffled voice moaned, "What? Who is it?"
"It's Jeff. Let me up."
The line clicked off, and the door gave a loud obnoxious buzz. Sands pushed through the door, trudged over to the elevator and rode up to the sixth floor.
He opened the front door, which was always left stupidly unlocked, and "White Rabbit" by Jefferson Airplane was playing loudly somewhere in the house.
"Hunter," he yelled, "turn that goddam music off."
"Fuck you," came a lazy shout from the bedroom.
Sands tested the area in front of him with his feet until he finally found a chair. He plopped himself down and finished sipping his drink, and then he let out a sigh. "Did you make me breakfast?"
"Who the fuck do you think I am? Marcia Brady? Make your own fuckin' breakfast."
"I can't, asshole," Sands muttered.
"What proof do I even have that shows me you're fucking blind, anyway?" A young, handsome man with a thin build and dark hair walked slowly into the living room, where Sands was sitting. Sands heard him yawn. "Since you won't ever take those fuckin' sunglasses glasses off..."
"Shut up. Make me breakfast."
"What time is it...?"
Sands frowned and shrugged as Hunter paused, presumably checking his watch. Sands kicked his boots off and fully reclined on the couch he was sitting on.
"Holy shit," hissed Hunter. Sands heard him dart across the room and down to the bedroom. "I'm fucking late!"
"What am I supposed to do about breakfast?" asked Sands loudly.
"Figure it out yourself, for god's sake! There's a diner on the corner, just"--he heard him pause as he pulled his shirt over head--"check it out. I gotta go." Sands heard Hunter come back into the living room, holding keys that jingled merrily in his hands as he moved. "Okay, so the keys are in the bowl..." He heard the keys drop. "Phone is on the wall, and the door is, uh...right here."
"Very descriptive," muttered Sands. "I appreciate it."
"Shut up. If you have any problems, call...well, call the police, I guess. Bye."
"Have a good day, love ," Sands drawled. He heard Hunter give a short grunt and close the door behind him.
He was alone now.
He heard a Rolling Stones song playing now, probably coming from the bedroom. It was irritating, but Sands didn't dare go in and try to turn it off. A blind man in Hunter's bedroom would probably lose his life after about four minutes. His cousin kept an enormous python named Siggy in a fish tank; furniture was always overturned, there were clothes all over the place--it was a nightmare.
Stupid asshole, he thought. Can't even pour a bowl of cereal for his poor kinsman.
Well, he sure as hell wasn't going to any diner. He got up and strutted over to the kitchen area, which he hadn't yet been in. It was a frighteningly tiny kitchen, with an enormous fridge and counters that formed a right-angle in the corner. That left about twenty-four square inches of empty space for him to move around.
He ran his hands over the cupboards, pulled one open and to his great relief found a tall, slender box. He smiled to himself and shook it-- definitely cereal. He took a bowl from the shelf, opened the box and poured, then took a carton from the fridge and doused his cereal. He took a spoon from the silverware drawer, which took a while to find, mixed up his breakfast with it, and put some in his mouth...then promptly spat it out.
It was cat food in half-and-half.
"Fuck," he gagged. "Holy fuck..." He groped around for the sink, finally found it and drank greedily from the faucet, spitting every few seconds.
He heard a soft mew behind him, knowing that it was Hunter's cat Tom.
"If I still had my gun, I'd shoot you," Sands hissed. The cat yowled and he heard it pad away.
Guess it was off to the diner after all. He thrust his boots and jacket on again, took the keys from the bowl and slammed the door behind him.
"On the corner," Hunter had said. Very fucking informative, indeed.
He licked the roof of his mouth irritably; the dense and bitter taste of the cat food and cream was still in his mouth. He should have brushed his teeth, but he was starving.
When he opened the front door, the freezing air grabbed him suddenly, making him shudder.
"Where's the fucking diner?" he asked aloud. He could feel passer-by's eyes hot on his skin. He reached out and touched someone shoulder, and before they could cry out he asked, "Is there a diner nearby?"
"Right on the corner," replied the obviously confused man. God damn, Sands thought, people are morons.
"Which corner?"
"Well, just go to the end of the block," said the man quietly. "See?"
"Um, yeah. Thanks." Sands gave let him go and he put his hands in his pockets, and then started down the street. When he got to the fucking "corner," he held his breath and walked in.
Success! It sure sounded and smelled like a diner; he hoped to god he wasn't just playing the stupid blind guy again.
"How many?" asked a peppy woman, whose voice came out of nowhere and caused Sands to jump.
"Just me," he answered quickly.
"Right this way."
Again, a useless instruction, but luckily she was wearing pretty strong perfume, and he followed her as closely as he could. He heard the menu being slapped on the table with some silverware, and he scooted into a booth next to the window.
He finally felt somewhat at rest. This feeling lasted until about ten minutes after the waiter took his order--someone was watching him.
Sands was able to pick up this feeling better than virtually anyone, especially now that he was blind--which didn't make much sense to him at all, but he just knew it. He felt eyes on him, and he didn't like it.
What troubled him was that it wasn't just a simple glance, or a normal person just gazing off into space. Somebody was actually watching; spying even.
Then the feeling was gone, abruptly. The eerie presence ceased, and Sands exhaled heavily and slumped in his seat. He heard the front door open, felt the cold air prickling his skin, and the perky woman asked the customer how many.
"I'm meeting someone," he said.
Sands focused all his attention on this guy, which was something he had gotten very good at; singling a person out of a crowd, that is. The man wore pants that jingled as he walked, probably with a set of chains in his pocket, and he had what sounded like heeled boots on. Cowboy boots, perhaps.
Then Sands tensed. The man was moving to his side of the restaurant.
Sands, who always followed the better-safe-than-sorry rule, slowly took his knife off his placemat and held it under the table.
The boots stopped next to Sands. The man was standing right next to him, but didn't say anything. He walked a bit further, and Sands heard him slide into the booth.
"So how's business?" he asked. His voice was low and husky, almost weathered--and Mexican.
Holy shit...
Mexican. From Sands' past experience with Mexicans, he learned they were people he'd rather avoid--that, or blow their fucking brains out.
"Who the fuck are you?" asked Sands sharply.
The man paused. "You don't recognize me?"
"Apparently not."
"Think back."
"No. Now you can either give me a fucking name, or get the fuck out of here."
"Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?" asked the man, a smile in his voice. Sands, however, was not particularly enthused.
"Now!"
He heard the waiter come by and place Sands' BLT and Pepsi in front of him. "White Rabbit" by Jefferson Airplane started up on the radio, for the second time that day, Sands noticed.
Suddenly the man was chewing on something. "This is good."
Sands put his hand on his plate; one of the halves of the sandwich was missing. "That's my fucking lunch!"
"Shut up. This is delicious. Think I should go in and shoot the cook?" the man quipped, then let out a smooth chuckle.
Sands stopped. Now the voice sounded familiar.
'You want me to shoot the cook?' 'No. I'll shoot the cook. My car's parked out back anyway.'
"Holy shit," muttered Sands. "You're that El guy. El Mari...fachi..."
"Mariachi," El grunted, the accent rolling freely across his tongue.
"Yeah, whatever. Why are you in New York? Finally given up on that shithole of a country?"
"Not quite," grumbled El, obviously irritated by Sands' brashness on the subject. "I need your help."
Sands almost laughed. He shoved a handful of fries into his mouth and chewed hungrily. "My help?" He took a sip of his Pepsi. "You need my help?"
"Yes."
"And why's that?"
El took a deep breath, and said, "Children are being murdered throughout Mexico City. And women. All in a particular way..."
"Shot?" asked Sands bluntly. He almost laughed at this again.
El wasn't amused in the slightest, but he seemed to ignore Sands' comment. "The victims were found with their eyes and tongues pulled out, ears cut off. The boys had their genitalia removed"--Sands winced--"and the girls had their throats sliced."
"I don't mean to be crude," muttered Sands, "I mean, I care just as much about mass homicide as the next person, but what the fuck does this have to do with me?" He paused. "Or you, for that matter?"
"I'm getting to it," hissed El, irritated.
Sands lifted his hands in a meant-no-offense gesture, and then continued eating.
"These are just maniacs," El continued. "They are killing at random--and at large. The reason I come to you today is quite complicated, but I'll do my best to explain--"
"They?" asked Sands. "There's more than one?"
"We know it is a gang from some evidence and eyewitnesses," El said. "The reason I am concerned with all this is because they killed several children and their mother in my village. Good people. Ones I knew well, and who did not deserve to die."
"So you're just trying to avenge them," said Sands slowly.
"In a way, yes. But I am also curious to crack this case, because it involves you."
"How?"
"We captured one of the gang. His name was Less Hewitt."
"American?" asked Sands, raising his eyebrows.
"Yes. We don't believe there to be any Mexicans in this gang, we got that out of Hewitt. He also said..." El paused. It sounded like he was pulling a piece of paper out of his pocket. "Here."
He pushed the note over to Sands.
Shit.
Sands cleared his throat. He picked up the paper, 'looked' at it, then shook his head and handed it back to El. "I don't have my reading glasses."
"Fine. It says, 'Find S. Jeffrey Sands. His brothers are waiting in the Lion's Den.' Does that mean anything to you?"
Sands shrugged. "Nothing whatsoever."
"I was surprised to see your name," said El. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say he was naming a suspect."
"Hey, pal, don't you start pointing any fucking fingers," growled Sands. "I've been in New York the last six months staying with my..."
"Girlfriend?"
"No. Cousin. And I've been far better-off in Manhattan than in your fucking Ciudad de Muchcas-Crap."
"Well, you must return with me to Mexico," said El flatly. "I need your help, Agent Sands."
"No fuckin' way," hissed Sands. He took out a cigarette, licked the tip and put it in his mouth, then cracked the flame on in a smooth hiss with his lighter.
"Why were you fired?" asked El suddenly.
"No," said Sands curtly, "I haven't been fired. I'm still employed, and I'm still on their payroll, but they're still deciding whether or not..."
"Bullshit," El muttered.
"It's not bullshit, you fuckin' whore," spat Sands angrily. "If I hadn't gotten my eyes ripped out by that fucking Barillo..."
His voice trailed off as he realized he'd gone too far. Way too far.
"What?" asked El sharply. "They took your eyes?"
Sands didn't say anything, but he felt two hands suddenly touch his temples. It was the first time somebody had touched him since Adrejez pressed her lips against his, and then fell dead on the ground in front of him. The glasses slid off a tiny bit.
"Holy fuck," drawled El, pressing the glasses back on Sands' face and sitting back in his chair. He sounded horrified. "What did they do to you?"
"Just what you think they did," muttered Sands. He took a long drag of his cigarette, dug some change out of his pocket and slapped it on the table. He didn't bother to count how much; it could have been a $1 or a $50, but he was in too much of a strange dazed state. He stood up and left the restaurant, stumbling a bit over the linoleum floor, and closed the door behind him.
The cold air attacked him, but it didn't bother him all too much. He felt tired. He went briskly back into Hunter's apartment, slamming the door and lying on the couch. He exhaled heavily. "I'm not going," he breathed. "No fuckin' way." He dozed off a few minutes later.