What followed was not a shootout. It was a symphony. The Mariachi, blind but not sightless, moved through the dark like water. He had memorized every step, every shadow. He used the guitar as a shield, the case as a club. He reloaded by feel, fired by sound. When the lights flickered back on, ten men lay dead, and the Mariachi stood over Barrillo's body, his face expressionless.
"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."
Part One: The Man in Black
The hacienda was a fortress of white stucco and bougainvillea. General Barrillo sat at the head of a table long enough to land a plane on. To his right was Marquez, a man whose neck was thicker than a bull's and whose eyes had the warmth of a shark. Erase una Vez en Mexico
Sands tilted his head. "No. Barrillo did."
For six years, he had been hunting General Emilio Barrillo, the man who murdered his lover, Carolina, and crushed his fret hand under the heel of a boot. The general had since traded his uniform for a drug lord's silk suit, controlling the Yucatan peninsula with an iron fist wrapped in a rosary.
The first bullet took Barrillo in the throat. The second went through Marquez's hand as he reached for his own gun. The third shattered the chandelier, plunging the room into darkness and chaos. What followed was not a shootout
The song was "Adiós, Carolina." It was a requiem so beautiful that Marquez's lieutenants paused mid-laugh. Even the guards softened their grips on their rifles. Barrillo leaned forward, enchanted.
The Mariachi turned slowly. "You killed Carolina."
Halfway through the song, the Mariachi stopped. "General," he said quietly. "Do you remember a woman named Carolina Reyes?" He had memorized every step, every shadow
The Mariachi's fingers slid not to the strings but to a hidden latch inside the guitar's neck. With a soft click, the neck detached, revealing the pearl-handled revolver. He fired three times.
The Mariachi was brought in blindfolded, his guitar case chained to his wrist. He felt the cool marble floor, smelled roasted pig and gun oil. When the blindfold dropped, he didn't flinch. He just sat on a stool, crossed his legs, and began to play.
The End