“Medianoche sipped American coffee at a local café. She was out there. He knew she was. He had been in this business too long. Medianoche waited for her to show her hand, or show her gun. She was 51-50. She had tried a 10-56. She was dishonorable. She was a slag. On the stairwell, she had come from above him. It didn’t make sense. His lower IQ and experience was better than her higher IQ and arrogance. Books were only so good. Experience was where the rubber hit the floor. He was killing before ...Señorita Raven was a sparkle in her father’s Indian eyes. She didn’t belong down here. Not in The Four Horsemen. Not in the military. Medianoche was at a small corner café near Avenida Honduras. La Peca. Cold place. Wooden tables. Tile floors. Sólo efectivo. Cash only. A café that was advertised as being clean of foreigners. Not on the door or on the tables, but in the local magazines. No two wooden tables were the same size or height. Antique lights and chairs hung from the ceiling. Nothing matched, yet it all went together.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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