Río Seco, Mexico
April 1985

The Mexican village slumbered under the light of a waning crescent moon. In the empty plaza, windblown shadows flickered over the cobblestones. The cantina was closed for the night, its outdoor tables and chairs locked away behind corrugated metal doors. A bat fluttered from the tower of the old adobe church and melted into darkness. A skinny dog foraged for leavings in the deserted marketplace.

The night was almost peaceful. But the stillness was heavy with tension — especially in one small adobe house on a dusty side street. Nothing in RÃo Seco was the way it had been before the Cabrera cartel took over the town. And for Rose Landro, after tonight, nothing would be the same again.

* * *

The click of a boot heel on the tiled patio startled Rose to full alertness. Lying fully dressed in the dark, she checked the impulse to sit up, fling aside the covers, and bolt out of bed. She was a small woman. Face-to-face, she'd be no match for the burly intruder who was stalking her. Her only chance of survival lay in surprise.

The loaded Smith and Wesson .44 was a cold lump under her pillow. As footsteps clicked across the patio, she closed her hand around the grip, cocked the hammer, and slid to the floor. Her free hand bunched the pillows into a semblance of her sleeping body and covered them with the blanket.

She knew who was coming for her. Lucho Cabrera, younger brother of the local cartel boss, was built like a short pile of bricks. He wore high-heeled cowboy boots to make him appear taller. The sound of those boots, clicking across the kitchen, chilled Rose's blood.

Gripping the heavy pistol, she crawled across the floor and pressed upward to stand against the wall, in the shadows behind the door. Her breath came in shallow gasps. Her pulse hammered in her ears.

The cartel would kill anyone who stood against them. They had already murdered Ramón and María Ortega, who'd taken Rose into their home twelve years ago. Rose would have fled for her life before now, but she could not leave without avenging the couple who'd cared for her like their own daughter.

Honor. The Ortegas had lived by that code. Now it was Rose's turn to carry on the tradition.

The footsteps were coming closer. Would Lucho stand in the doorway and fire at the lump in her bed, or did the sadistic pig plan on raping her first, as he'd done two months earlier when he'd caught her walking home alone after dark?

At the memory of his filthy, sweating body, her finger tightened on the trigger. If ever a man deserved killing, it was Lucho Cabrera. Only his older brother, Refugio, was worse.

The bedroom door creaked open. Rose held her breath as Lucho stepped into the room, his pistol drawn. The faint moonlight, falling through the high, barred window, cast black shadows across his fleshy face. As he neared the bed, he holstered the gun. One hand fumbled with his belt buckle. Good. This was almost too easy. She could shoot him now, in the back. But something in her wanted more. She wanted him to see her. When the bullet tore into his body, she wanted him to know who had fired it.

She forgot to breathe. Every muscle was a coiled spring as she waited for the right moment.

"Brujita fea ..." he muttered. The name, given to Rose because of the birthmark on her face, meant "ugly little witch." Over the years she'd learned to bear it with a measure of pride. Superstitious people tended to fear her, especially some of the men. But that wouldn't stop Lucho. He might even be planning to take a trophy back to his brother — an ear, a hand, or even her head — as proof of his bravery.

Still muttering, he loosened his trousers and jerked back the blanket. That was when he realized he'd been tricked. He spun around, cursing as Rose stepped out of the shadows, the .44 gripped between her hands.

"Muera, pendejo. Die, you bastard," she said, aiming the heavy revolver at his chest.

Lucho had no time to draw his weapon, but in the instant her finger tightened on the trigger, he lunged for her. The pistol roared, but Lucho's move had thrown off her aim. The bullet struck his right shoulder, barely slowing the brute's charge.

Slammed by the recoil, Rose staggered backward. Her feet tangled in the loose rug on the floor. Losing her balance, she went down hard, landing on one arm.

She managed to keep a one-handed grip on the gun, but now he was standing over her, blood streaming down his sleeve. She could hear the hiss of his breath between his teeth as he reached for his holster, then paused, cursing. That was when Rose realized her shot had disabled his shooting arm. The flicker of distraction as he switched to draw with his left hand gave her the only chance she had left.

She cocked the .44 and pulled the trigger.

This time she didn't miss.

Steeling her shattered nerves, she scrambled to her feet. Her knees quivered as she stepped over Lucho's supine body. He was dead, all right, his trousers gapping open to tell the story. Rose fought back a wave of nausea. This was no time to fall apart. The sound of gunfire was bound to alert the cartel. If she wanted to live, she had to collect her wits and get out of there.

Her duffel was already packed with the few clothes and necessities she owned. What she needed most was hidden outside.

The patio was eerily silent. Knowing she'd have to run, Rose had already given her beloved goats and chickens to the neighbors. All that remained was to move aside a potted palm, lift up the tile underneath, and scrape away the earth that covered a small, rusting metal box.

The box contained her U.S. birth certificate and the American dollars that her self-appointed guardian Bull Tyler had given Ramón toward her keep. Ramón, kindly man that he was, had refused to spend a cent of it, instead putting the cash aside for the day when Rose would need it. Now, after twelve years, that day had come.

Rose opened the box and checked to make sure nothing was missing. Then she snapped it shut and shoved it into the hip pocket of her jeans. Back in the house, she glanced around for anything else she might need. The .44 lay on the kitchen table where she'd left it. She thrust it into her belt and flung Ramón's old woolen serape over her shoulders to hide what she was carrying.

From the next street over, she could hear dogs barking. Someone could be here any minute. After snatching a set of keys from a nail inside the cupboard, she grabbed her duffel and raced across the patio, out the back door.

One key opened the padlock on the shed behind the house. Inside, covered by a canvas tarp, was the 1947 Buick that had been Ramón's pride and joy. The cartel knew about it, but none of the swaggering thugs who trailed after Don Refugio wanted an old car. They wanted new cars, sleek and fast and showy. None of them had tried to claim it.

There were tools in the shed, as well — hammers, saws, picks, shovels, a coil of rope, and more — tools she would need where she was going. With the car uncovered, Rose flung them all, along with her duffel, into the Buick's cavernous trunk. Last of all, she took her grandfather's double-barreled 12-gauge shotgun from its hiding place under Ramón's workbench, wrapped it in a blanket, and laid it at the back of the trunk along with a box of...