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.
He heard the boots first—not military, but expensive leather. A voice like whiskey and smoke: "They say you can play a song that makes a man’s heart explode." Erase una Vez en Mexico
"No," he said softly. "I killed him with a song. The guitar was just the delivery system." The hacienda was a fortress of white stucco
"Because you're already dead inside," Sands smiled. "That makes you invisible." He heard the boots first—not military, but expensive
But Sands had lied. The silver revolver was not in the piano. It was in Sands's hand, pointed at the Mariachi's back.
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.
"She was the one you shot in the plaza. You said she was a mistake."