Raw Talent

Florescitaf, Mexico

The cantina looked exactly like the sort of dump Gabrielle Jordan had expected. Based on what she'd read and heard about Sloan, he would fit in at Los Laureles just fine. Her jaw clenched automatically at the very thought of the man who had killed her father. A man who cared for little but himself. She didn't have to go inside the place he'd once frequented to know the clientele would be every bit as sleazy as the rundown building looked.

An alley sliced between the cantina and an open air meat market next door. The alley as well as the market appeared deserted and about as welcoming as the rest of this side of town. But that was okay. She wasn't here to make friends or to even tour the sights and sounds of a part of Mexico sheltered from the passage of time.

She was here to settle a score.

She'd traveled all this way to do one thing and one thing only: to watch a man die a slow, painful death.

No matter if she died in the process. No matter how much pain she had to endure to make it happen. She wasn't leaving until one of them was dead, him or her.

The odor of stale cigarette smoke, alcohol and plain old male sweat met her at the entrance to the cantina. Ancient overhead fans that had long ago seen better days stirred the thick air.

She moved fully into the cantina, feeling the suspicious stares cast her way like razors sliding over her skin. Tables were scattered around the room. Only a few were occupied, but that handful looked meaner than junkyard dogs. The dubious glares quickly evolved into lustful leers that made her shudder inwardly with revulsion. But she wasn't afraid. Not for a second. If any of these scumbags thought for a second that their ogling would scare her off, they had another thought coming.

Nothing scared Gabrielle. Nothing at all. A girl didn't spend eighteen months in a Texas prison without getting tough. Not to mention she'd existed her entire adult life for this destiny. No one would get in her way.

Ignoring the audience of onlookers, Gabrielle strode up to the bar and propped against its worn smooth top. "You speak English?" she asked of the man drying glasses behind the bar. He was sixty if he was a day.

"Sý. What is your pleasure, seýorita?"