He placed his good hand on Sands's chest and hummed the final bars of "Adiós, Carolina." Then he stood up, picked up the broken guitar, and walked out into the Mexican dawn.
Because in Mexico, there is no such thing as an ending. Only another verse in a never-ending ballad.
The shootout that followed lasted eleven seconds. Sands got off two shots—one took a chunk out of the Mariachi's shoulder, the other shattered his guitar. But Ajedrez was faster. Her first bullet blew Sands's sunglasses off his face. The second went through his knee. He collapsed, screaming. Erase una Vez en Mexico
The sun over the Mexican state of Jalisco was a white-hot bullet. In the dusty plaza of Santa Cecilia, a blind man tuned a guitar that wasn't there. Tourists threw coins into his empty case, mistaking him for a beggar. He was neither. He was a ghost waiting for a war.
Sands tilted his head. "No. Barrillo did." He placed his good hand on Sands's chest
But Sands had lied. The silver revolver was not in the piano. It was in Sands's hand, pointed at the Mariachi's back.
"I'm counting on it being more than that," said Agent Sands of the CIA. He sat down on the bench next to the blind musician, his sunglasses reflecting the dying sun. Sands placed a photograph on the Mariachi's knee. "General Barrillo. He's meeting with a cartel boss named Marquez. They're planning a coup against the Mexican president. I need you to play a private concert for Barrillo tomorrow night. Inside, you'll find a silver-plated revolver in the piano." The shootout that followed lasted eleven seconds
The Mariachi turned slowly. "You killed Carolina."
