A Chance Meeting

Disclaimer: How I wish I could say I've spent the last few months having my lawyers working on getting me ownership to El and Sands. Alas, I cannot. They still belong to Robert Rodriguez. That's all right. They're in very good hands with him.

Summary: Three years after the events in the film, El Mariachi meets the legendary blind gunfighter.

Rating: Strong PG-13, will probably change to R in later chapters.

Author's Note: Yes, you read the above correctly. I think this story might be a long one. It is not in any way related to my Still Standing trilogy, or any other OUATIM stories I have written. I don't know if there will be any slash – I can't see too far ahead right now – but if there is, I will give out appropriate warnings.

Many thanks go to Melody, my lovely beta reader, not just for being my beta, but for everything. And thanks to everyone who has written me or submitted a review. Your support is what keeps me going.

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It was a blazing hot Thursday when the cartel finally caught up to El Mariachi.

He wasn't really surprised. He had been expecting it. They had been drawing closer for weeks, and at last they had run him to ground. He had arrived in this dusty town three days ago and decided that he would go no further. He was tired of running. And here seemed as good a place as any to end it all.

His hotel room had two tall thick doors that opened outside. He was on the first floor, the end room, and it had cost him dearly. On this, the appointed afternoon, he opened both doors and calmly walked out.

The plaza beyond was utterly deserted. Water tricked merrily into the fountain, but no kids ran around it, shouting and playing. No couples strolled by, hand in hand. Nobody sat on the many benches having a late lunch. Even the American tourists who were normally too stupid to know better were gone.

El looked around carefully, his weight poised on the balls of his feet. He was waiting. For the flash of sunlight on metal, or the quick movements of a man trying to stay hidden. Something. Anything. A hint of what to expect in the next few seconds.

There. Above. On the balcony of the bank building across the square.

He drew his guns and began to pivot.

A gun boomed. The wall behind him exploded. Chips of stone stung his skin and embedded themselves in his hair.

Gunfire filled the plaza now from all directions. El turned, letting his hands move on their own. He no longer controlled them. They fired and reloaded all by themselves now.

Around the square, men toppled from balconies. They fell in doorways, and even out of a window. El continued his deadly pirouette, the guns in his hands still blazing, but a part of his mind was suddenly wide awake and clamoring for attention. There were too many shots. Those were not all his kills. He had not even been aware of the man in the window.

He completed his circle and dropped into a crouch. Across the square, a man – already wounded – stepped out from the doorway of a café. He held a rifle in both hands.

El raised his pistol.

The man across the street took another step. Broken glass crunched under his foot.

A single shot rang out. Like magic, a smoking black hole appeared in the center of the man's forehead. He dropped like a stone.

That was the last of them. No more men appeared to take his place. The plaza echoed with unearthly silence.

El rose to his feet, the pistol still raised. And finally he saw the source of the other gunshots, the reason why half the men in the square were dead. To his right, on a balcony not too far above him, stood a man.

The man was dressed all in black, and he wore many guns. Dark sunglasses hid most of his face. He did not even glance in El's direction. He stood on the balcony for a moment longer, then he disappeared into his room.

El stayed where he was, too stunned to move. Then at last his racing brain remembered that it was supposed to be the one giving orders. He broke into a shambling run, back through his rented room, dodging the wooden table that wanted to trip him up. He flung open the door and skidded out into the hall. He hesitated a moment, then turned left and ran down the hall.

The man in black was staying at the same hotel as him. A floor above him, but the same hotel.

El ran. He could hear hurried footsteps up above, the pace nearly matching his own. The ceiling creaked directly over his head.

At the far end of the hall, a door led out into the hotel's courtyard, where another fountain burbled all day long and jasmine bloomed at night. El hit the door running and flung it open so hard it rebounded back and nearly hit him in the face. He shouldered it aside and rushed into the courtyard.

On his left was a staircase rising to the upper levels. He pulled both his pistols and whipped around to face the staircase.

The man in black was already there. And he had two guns aimed at El's head.

El froze. The gunman was slender, with dark hair worn down to his shoulders. White stone chips dusted one sleeve of his black shirt, evidence that at least one bullet had come close to hitting him.

The man just stood there, one leg bent at the knee, his foot resting on the step behind him. He looked perfectly relaxed.

El narrowed his eyes. There was an indefinable aura to the gunman. That casual pose was a deception.

And most amazing of all, he seemed strangely familiar.

Then the gunman spoke, and that sense of recognition flared even stronger in El's mind. The man's Spanish was slightly accented, and there was a flat drawl to his words that even the language could not cover. "Stay where you are. Unless you wish to join your friends out there."

"They are not my friends," El corrected.

The gunman gave a small start of surprise. His head cocked slightly. A thin smile curved his mouth. "El Mariachi," he smirked. "You know, I had started to wonder if you had gotten yourself killed in an alley somewhere."

Those last words were spoken in English, and the sense that he should know this man tugged even harder at El. He tried to see beyond those dark sunglasses. "Who are you?"

"Why El – I can call you El, can't I? – don't you recognize me?" The gunman was grinning now. The guns in his hands sagged a little as he relaxed his wrists, but his entire body was tense, ready to spring. Now more than ever his studied pose was a sham.

And suddenly El knew. The attempted Day of the Dead coup had happened three years ago, and he rarely thought about it now. He had not seen Fideo and Lorenzo in two years. He had not been back to Culiacan at all. Since the day he had walked away from Marquez's corpse, he had not once thought about the man who had started it all.

"Sands," he breathed. He could scarcely believe it. The man who had asked him to kill Marquez had been dangerous, but soft. There was nothing at all soft about this man standing on the stairs in front of him.

"At your service." The CIA officer gave him a mocking bow. "Now, if you wouldn't mind…" He made a gesture with one of the guns.

El did not move. "What are you doing here?" Despite the drilling heat of the day – only marginally less in the shade of the courtyard – he felt cold all over.

"Tidying up some loose ends, if you will," Sands said. He shifted his grip on one of the guns. Not much. Just enough for El to see that his finger was curled about the trigger.

"You're not here for me?" El asked. He asked himself why he had not already killed the American, but his brain had no answers for him.

"Not everything is about you," Sands said coldly. "Now get the fuck out of my way."

Briefly El considered not doing it. Then he decided not to press his luck. In the three years since the coup, Sands had obviously been learning how to be a better killer. There was no doubt that the man was good.

He lowered his pistols, and stepped to the side.

Sands smirked. "Good boy." He came down the stairs, moving with silent grace. Watching him, El suddenly understood that Sands had meant for him to hear the footsteps over his head as they had run their separate races to the courtyard, each of them on their own floor of the hotel. Sands had wanted this confrontation. Had the man chosen to avoid him completely, Sands would have slipped away undetected, and El would never have known the identity of his mysterious ally.

"Why are you still here?" he asked. "In Mexico?"

Sands had been standing very still in the courtyard, just a few feet away from El. Now he turned and gave El an exasperated sigh. "I have my reasons."

"I do not think--" El began.

One of Sands' hands shot up. "Would you shut up?" he hissed.

El suddenly realized that things were still too quiet out here. There were no sounds of approaching spectators. No curious people emerging from their hideaways, wanting to see the carnage.

"Someone's still out there," he said.

"You catch on quick," Sands said scornfully. He tightened his grip on his guns. He took four careful steps forward and then pressed himself against the wall of the hotel. The move put him behind the staircase, not far from the corner of the building, where anyone who came around the corner would see him instantly. It was a strange position to take, with no cover, and El frowned. What kind of game was Sands playing at?

"They are here for me," he said. He could not understand why Sands was still here. The CIA officer owed him nothing. Why was Sands fighting for him?

"Fuck you," Sands muttered.

I have my reasons, he had said. El wondered just what they were.

And then the cartel man suddenly staggered into the courtyard, and El's mind shut down. He didn't think anymore. He just reacted.

For a few moments the only sound in the hot afternoon was gunfire. Then the last echoes rolled away, and El could hear his own breathing again. He found himself stretched out flat on the steps, one arm draped over the side of the staircase so he had a clear field of fire.

The cartel man was dead, his body riddled with bullets. Blood streaked the wall behind him.

Sands stood over the dead man, both guns still smoking. As El watched, he dropped first one, then the other. Slowly, as if he wasn't sure he wanted to do it, he collapsed.

Instinctively El jumped off the stairs and hurried toward the fallen officer.

And then he stopped. What did he care if Sands died? Sands had tried to have El Presidente killed. Sands had stood back and watched while a bloody coup occurred, where innocent lives had been lost.

Sands deserved to die.

He holstered his guns and turned toward the door leading back inside. He would gather his belongings – meaning his guitar case – and leave. He had already stayed here too long.

In the courtyard, Sands stirred. He cursed under his breath, and started to rise.

El hesitated. He shouldn't linger. But he was so curious. He wanted to know.

He walked over to where Sands knelt in the dust. He grabbed Sands' upper arms and hauled him to his feet. Sands choked back a groan, and tried to double over. El saw the blood on his shirt and felt no sympathy at all. "Tell me why you are still in my country," he demanded.

Sands lifted his chin in defiance. "Your country?" he mocked.

El gave him a hard shake. "Tell me," he said.

"You really want to be letting go of me, El," Sands said. He kept his voice low, as if they were having a friendly conversation.

But there was nothing friendly about the gun suddenly jammed against El's skull. The mariachi swallowed a curse. He had walked right into Sands' trap. For all he knew, the man wasn't really hurt that bad. This had been a ploy to get him to lower his guard, so Sands could kill him.

Then why didn't he kill you before? He had plenty of chances, said a quiet voice in the back of his mind.

He scowled. "If I hear of you arranging any more coups, or--"

"Actually," Sands said, "I didn't organize it. That was all Barillo's work."

El restrained himself from punching the man in the mouth. He couldn't see beyond those dark sunglasses, but he knew Sands was laughing at him. "I want you gone," he growled. "Out of Mexico."

"No can do," Sands said. The gun at his temple suddenly dug deep. "And I told you to get your fucking hands off me."

There was no warning. El tried to duck, but he wasn't fast enough, no man was fast enough. The gun went off. Pain seared through his skull, and then he was falling.

His last thought was that he would get Sands for this, if it took him the rest of his life.

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When he woke up, he was in the ambulance, and Sands was long gone.

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