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.
"SΓ. What is your pleasure, seΓ±orita?"
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
clichΓ©s exactly like this guy.
"Tequila."
"SΓ."
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, seΓ±orita."
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, seΓ±or." 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, seΓ±orita."
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.
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