Excerpt of Raw Talent by Debra Webb

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.

"Sí. What is your pleasure, señorita?"

The dingy apron scarcely reached around his considerable girth. His thick dark hair gleamed with the slightest peppering of gray. The wide mustache made her think of old Western movies and the commancheros depicted through clichés exactly like this guy.

"Tequila."

"Sí."

He set a tumbler on the bar then filled it without once taking his scrutinizing gaze off her.

Like the others scattered around the room, the bartender would be not only suspicious, but also curious as to her business in town. Tourists were easy to spot. Those watching her had probably figured out by now that she was not a tourist. No mere tourist would stumble into a place like this without running like hell to get right back out the swinging door.

"You come for Cinco de Mayo?" The bartender set the bottle of tequila aside and studied her even more closely as he waited for her response.

Gabrielle downed the shot, relishing the hot burn as it slithered like a wildfire down her throat. "No." She didn't see the point in lying. She wasn't here for any sort of festival. She was here for Sloan. "I'm looking for someone."

The old man reached for another freshly washed glass and slowly turned it in his hands, wiping away the moisture from its recent rinsing.

Gabrielle tapped her glass to prompt the pouring of another shot. "His name is Sloan. Trevor Sloan. Have you heard of him?"

The bartender tensed noticeably as the tequila splashed into the glass. He shook his head. "I do not know of this man."

She knew he lied. She'd asked around and though only one person had admitted to recognizing the name Sloan, the woman had told Gabrielle to ask at this cantina.

Gabrielle cradled the glass for a moment before indulging her thirst. When it came to good tequila, one shot was never enough. "That's not the way I heard it." She stared directly into the man's eyes, let him see her unyielding determination. "I understand you know him quite well."

He slung the drying cloth over his shoulder, shelved the clean glass behind him, before leaning across the bar toward her. "What is your business with Mr. Sloan?" he inquired quietly, as if it was not safe to speak of the subject in public. The suspicion in his eyes had evolved into something along the lines of anger.

Gabrielle wasn't intimidated. She inclined her head and met that lethal glare head-on. "It's personal."

His gaze narrowed. "Personal can be dangerous, señorita."

She smiled; the reflection captured in the mirror behind the bar wasn't pleasant, she noted in her peripheral vision. Good. She wanted him to know she didn't like his games. "You'll either tell me where I can find him, or you won't. But don't waste my time, señor." She said the last with a warning tone of her own.

Sloan had obviously made himself a few friends in town. Or, maybe, they were all afraid of him. She didn't really care which it was, she simply wanted an answer to her question.

How the hell did she find him if she couldn't get anyone to talk?

The file she'd taken from the Colby Agency hadn't given his specific address, just the general vicinity. She'd spent twenty-four hours checking out the surrounding area with no luck at all. Flat-out asking about his whereabouts carried a significant risk, but she was tired of wasting her time. She needed a location. Now. Today. No more playing hide-and-seek. Not to mention someone at the Colby Agency would likely warn Sloan the moment her breach was discovered. Time was not on her side.

The bartender turned his back on her and went about the business of checking his stock of liquors.

Gabrielle swore under her breath. Another dead end. There had to be someone around here willing to give her a location.

"What do I owe you?" No point hanging around in this seedy joint and killing more time. He'd made his decision and she wasn't going to change his mind.

The bartender shifted slightly, just far enough to make eye contact with her. "You owe me nothing."

Nothing? What was the deal with this guy? She reached into the pocket of her jeans and dragged out an adequate number of pesos. Whatever this guy's problem, she wasn't about to leave owing him a damned thing. She slapped the money on the bar. "That should do it."

He glanced at the payment then at her. "Your money is no good here, señorita."

Now she was plain old ticked off. "Why the hell not?" He faced her squarely, braced his hands on the counter and looked deeply into her eyes, his intent un-readable. "I do not accept payment from the dead."

Never one to squander her hard-earned cash, Gabrielle snatched up the money and walked out. She didn't spare a glance for any of the scumbags staring after her. To hell with all of them. She wasn't beaten yet.

All she had to do was to stick with it. In her experience, patience and persistence paid off. She would find Sloan. Maybe not today. But soon.

And then she would kill him.

Just like she'd dreamed of for three long years. Some girls fantasized about their first date or their first kiss, maybe the first prom. Not Gabrielle. Ever since she'd been old enough to understand what betrayal and murder really meant, she'd dreamed of finding her father's killer and having her revenge.

She'd survived a childhood in pure hell, with a drunken mother who had given her just one thing: the understanding of why her life had stunk from the moment she'd been born.

Gabrielle's father had been a special investigator for the State Department. He'd traveled extensively, hadn't even been there when his only daughter was born. His work had turned particularly ugly, forcing him to, in effect, abandon his only child, to protect her. But he'd called, her mother had insisted, once in a great while when it was safe. If he'd ever sent money, Gabrielle's mother had blown it on booze.

And then, just before Gabrielle's eighteenth birthday, the calls had stopped, according to her mother. It wasn't until she'd graduated high school a few months later and was poised to enter college on an academic scholarship that Gabrielle had learned the truth of what happened. An old enemy had murdered her father. The State Department had disowned him. The newspapers had called him an assassin, a cold-blooded killer. Gabrielle hadn't needed her mother's pathetic ramblings to know what that meant. She remembered watching a television interview once about a man who had given his all to his country and then been abandoned to cover their involvement in certain activities. Her father had deserved better. So had she.

Her mother had fallen even more deeply into her depressive state and then promptly proceeded to drink herself to death, literally. Gabrielle had buried her the day before she'd been supposed to head for college.

She'd realized something painful as shovel full after shovel full of dirt had been tossed atop her mother's cheap coffin. She was alone. Completely alone. That was when the need for vengeance had begun to eat at her like a rapidly spreading disease.

She'd gone off to college as planned, but sticking to that hard-earned and long-awaited agenda for her future had fallen by the wayside as she'd formed a new goal. Obsessed about it really.

Find her father's killer and make him pay.