"‘I am glad we can talk.’ – Alejandro says and Graver nods to the waiter waiting close by to bring the wine menu. Alejandro takes it, and chooses a red one from Spain, a rich Tempranillo from the Basque region. It arrives promptly and being poured into the large glass, precariously balanced on the top of a delicate stem. As Alejandro holds it up to the light, it seems he could crush it with just two of his fingers.
Graver watches him as he takes a sip.
‘Excellent.’ – Alejandro finally says, his glass is topped up, and they stare at each other. Graver thinks the man’s eyes are almost benevolent, maybe thanks to their long-time connection, but he knows all too well why they are here.
‘You are a liability; I am not happy that you are around.’
Alejandro nods, acknowledging his concern.
‘I have come for other reasons. I am not here to deal with you. Other matter brought me to the US.’
Graver’s lips stretches into a wry smirk.
‘Macer? Don’t tell me a pussy brought you here.’
Alejandro’s eyes are dark, the lids are half-lowered. Graver is on dangerous territory."
Stepping through the pouring rain, Simon climbs over the fence and the first thing he sees are the corpses of shot Mexicans. At the main entrance to the residence, policemen with flashlights were already running around at full speed. Dogs were barking. It was necessary to act quickly. Gabriel's interrogation gave them some information before he died of bleeding. And while the operatives were still figuring out where to look for Carlos, Ana decided to find him before them. Madness. To stand alone against an entire residence teeming with guards was suicide. Matt's hound has finally broken loose.
Walking through the corridors with a gun at the ready, Simon looks around, assuming that it was Ana who cut off the electricity.
The silhouette comes out to meet him, leaving the darkness behind.
"Ana. Put down your weapon." he says, leaving the darkness.
Ana doesn't answer right away, just stares at him as if she doesn't believe he's really here. Definitely not to help her.
“I know what happened to you.” Riley says softly, and sees a note of panic flicker in her eyes, "I also know that you and I are alike. More than I could have guessed. And I won't forgive myself if I let you die like this.”
"You're a lousy pretender. And you don't know anything about me.” Her words were like poison. Reyes tried very hard to sting. They've called her a dog so many times... and she really looks like a rabid dog. She barks loudly. And she bites. But Simon is not afraid of this. Let her bite.
"I'll make it easier for you.” She presses the muzzle to her chin with the obvious intention of firing. He knows she's not afraid. She'd rather blow her own brains out than have one of Matt's henchmen do it for her. There is determination in her eyes. Despair. Anger. She won't let Graver win.
"I finally saw your face." He whispered, putting his hand on her gun and squeezing.
Ana shuddered, her breathing became quieter.
"You said you trusted me." He hooked his fingers around the edges of the balaclava and pulled it off, showing his face to someone for the first time in a long time. Few people were worthy of such a privilege. “Now, I trust you.”
Caught off guard, she stares at him intently and lets him lower her gun. The ghost hugs her to him. He can feel her heart pounding even through her clothes.
"You're coming with me," he whispers, putting on a balaclava. " Thank me later.”
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
The diner is small, nondescript: the standard four walls and a dingy vinyl floor, every surface peppered with dings and scrapes and carelessness. There's a sign for it just before the freeway off-ramp, generic and unpromising: a deep blue stamped with cartoon cutlery and a fuel pump for the gas station across the street. An H for hotel is on there, too. That one's a lie, but there is lodging, in the dingy strip mall motel further up or the RV parks stashed around the valley. The types that want cash, the paper per diem. All of it—lies included—make up the tiny little holler for passengers who can't wait for the bigger city just up the interstate. Families, mostly, on road trips with children who overestimate how long they can hold it. Some tourists—usually hippies with too much sense of adventure. Van life, whatever that is. Shirking the ocean for the mountain, waves for land. They all move on quickly, though.
No one ends up here on purpose.
The people that do are the people who get stuck. They stay and pretend it's a choice, like pitching a tent by the side of a car-wreck. There’re houses splattering the dirt roads that branch off from Main Street, fences made of wire, posts stuck haphazardly every so often. Bent and wrecked, a hit and run of neglect that means nothing ever looks new around here. It may have been a sparkling little town at one point, a postcard-cute sampling of good ol' country living. Now it's been painted over with a filter called Abandoned.
No police department, nor fire. The county handles all that. "Better for the budget", as though bureaucrats have ever concerned themselves with line items like Affordable Housing or Cost of Living. None of you are worth the investment, is what they mean. Even the YIMBYs and the NIMBYs don’t bother playing tug-of-war with this scrap heap.
But it's enough. It's a life, anyway. Small and boring, a persistent trickle from dilapidated water faucets, tinted brown with oxidized metal. Boil it, and you're good. You've always been an accomplished pretender, anyway. Daydreamer. You have to be, before the day-in, day-out monotony makes you forget what real music is supposed to sound like. But the chime of the diner door brings you back to reality with a thud each and every time, marks the end of whatever symphony was filling your head, like a conductors last grand flourish. By now you have a shorter distance to fall—you know not to stray too far away. Hurts less, this way, as you leave the towel at the half wiped-down table, and head out to the front.
He saunters into this life with the noon day sun, shoulders set like he owns the place. Modestly dressed, an untucked shirt that might have looked nice when he first bought it five years ago. It all fits well, though—certainly not new, but taken care of. No accessories other than utilitarian ones. Watch. Sunglasses.
He's handsome, is your first thought, even though the glasses’ frames cut harshly into the outline of his face. Strong features though, the ones that are visible. Proud forehead, arrogant chin. It juts out when he notices you staring, cheekbones widening in a little grin as he moves the glasses to his collar.
He doesn't wait for you either, just settles himself into a seat at the counter with a view of the parking lot. You wipe your hands on your jeans, hoping there's no damp imprints now, cheeks hot as you approach him like he's the sun. He slides over, eyeing you, and doesn't look away even as you set the plastic menu in front of him.
He opens with, "Always this hot around here?" Not the worst line you've ever heard, and dropped so confidently you know that's just the way he talks; there’s no stakes in this for him.
"Not even real summer yet,” you counter. “Schools are barely out. You just wait another month, month and a half. Place’ll turn into a sauna. Now, can I start you off with something to drink?"
He doesn't hesitate. "Coffee, but—that thing it? Might need something stronger."
He tilts his head to get a look over the counter. The little drip machine looks as depressing as everything else in the place, but the bitter liquid it spews out can make a horseshoe stand upright. You don’t have time to defend the thing’s honor—just perk upright, hands on your hips.
"The closest bar is ten miles down the road. Only thing stronger I've got is the bleach under the sink."
"Stick with the coffee, then." He smiles. "No tiny little cups, ma'am. You bring that thing out in a punch bowl."
Out of spite you search for the daintiest little teacup you can find in the place. It's certainly not a punch bowl, but he toasts you with it when you set it in front of him, like you've brought him the grail.
You're bringing another table a refill of ketchup when you see him down the thing like a shot. Doesn’t even make a face, though you’ve seen grown men sputter and cough and choke on the bitterness. You quirk an eyebrow and go back to your cleaning.
He doesn’t want anything else—checking in a few times afterwards only gets you dismissed with grins and a wave of a hand. Finally, he asks for another cup, about thirty minutes after he finished the first. And then he stays, eyes now stuck to the TV up on the wall, wires duct taped strategically out of sight behind it.
Wiping down the counter a few spots next to him is a tad obvious, perhaps, but it lets you watch the news with him: big thick chyron about missing hikers; stone faced reporters with grim tones; a cut away to the grieving families issuing statements, huddled outside what looks like the county sheriff’s office.
"Awful, all that,” you pretend you’re saying to no one in particular. “Didn't use to be so bad a few years ago. Now people going missing, just on trips to the Park. Even on private land, like a couple months ago. They find ‘em sometimes…after.”
"Yeah, I imagine AKs shoved in their face didn't make it into the home movie."
He says it so flatly you almost wonder if you misheard. It’s the tone you’d have taken with a cashier who insists on chatting to you about your day, not grisly murders up in the hills.
But then he grins and stands up, slaps down what you can tell is already a disproportionately high tip, and nods to you as the sunglasses come back on.
The door chimes again—it can’t tell an exit from an entrance—but this time there is no thud of disappointment, no bitter fading of your daydreams as reality bleeds through. Just a thin sheen of dampness in your palms, and a jolt stronger than any caffeine patch as you pocket the tip and the note he left, the news story still playing in the background.
Denis Villeneuve's Sicario starring Emily Blunt has another sequel on its way. Here's everything we know about Sicario 3.
"With the strikes now out of the way, it’s now been confirmed that original Sicario writer Taylor Sheridan and Mission Impossible’s Christopher McQuarrie have been putting the finishing touches on their script for the movie. While both have the capacity to direct and write, with Sheridan, the critically acclaimed creator behind the popular Yellowstone series, and McQuarrie, the director of the Mission Impossible franchise, it remains undisclosed who will be in the director’s chair."
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