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and she was gambling they wouldn’t sacrifice her and her formidable skills because of a minor insurrection.
    Hammett dropped and did thirty quick fingertip push-ups to burn off the adrenaline. Then she padded to the bathroom, stripped down, and got into a shower of questionable cleanliness. The motel hadn’t provided shampoo, only a cheap sliver of soap wrapped in wax paper. But at least there was a private bathroom, a considerable bit of luxury in a place like this. She lathered up, scrubbing off her make-up, considering her next move.
    They’d trained her to kill, and she’d taken many lives for her country, without ever rejecting a target. She’d killed brave men who fought against tyranny and oppression, simply because they opposed the U.S. government’s foreign interests. She’d killed wives and girlfriends of targets—innocent collateral damage who were in the wrong place at the wrong time. She’d extracted information from U.S. allies in the most painful ways possible, because that was what she’d been ordered to do.
    But Hot Rod, and Tex Darling, and Fernando Guterez—these men were monsters. They needed death like the Sahara needed rain. For the first time ever, Hammett was using her skills to do real, measurable good in the world.
    So was it worth going AWOL and being hunted by her own organization, just to rid the world of a few profiteering pedophiles?
    Hammett turned off the water, shook her wet hair. “Fuck yeah, it is.”
    She dressed again, sticking the 340 in the back of her belt as Darling had, pulling her shirt over it. Then she left the motel and strolled the streets. They were crawling with activity, mostly young Americans in various stages of loud and wasted.  A block away, she found a tamale cart and scarfed down two with some bottled water. Another block later she bought a cheap poncho—the kind Eastwood wore in the Dollars westerns—and put it on even though the post-sundown heat was hovering around ninety. Then it was back to the motel where she strapped on the left-handed and right-handed shoulder holsters she’d liberated from Darling’s dead henchmen.
    With the poncho on, she did several practice draws, adjusting straps and buckles until she was comfortable. Then she abandoned the motel and went off to wait for Guterez.
    The streets of Tijuana hadn’t gotten any cooler, but had gotten louder as more partying asshole American kids whooped and screeched and acted pretty much like partying asshole American kids. Hammett knew of Baja’s old days, of criminal activity and illicit sex shows and hard drug use. It used to be dark and dangerous. Now it might as well have been Ft. Lauderdale, New Orleans, or Las Vegas.
    Some cute twenty-something guy with too many tequila shots in him stumbled up to Hammett and drunkenly groped her ass. She hit him in the kidney hard enough to tinge his piss red, then sidestepped some underage chick blowing chunks onto her micro mini and walked into Jack’s.
    The scene inside was like the scene outside, only hotter and a bit darker. Hammett pushed through the throng of partiers, found a corner to back into, and checked her watch.
    Still forty minutes before Fernando’s arrival. She killed time by memorizing egress points, finding six potential exits if things went sour, plus a door marked
No Admittance
that probably led to offices on the second floor. Hammett also spotted four men whom she pegged as bouncers (or maybe predators the way they scanned the crowd), possibly armed.
    There were a few other men packing. Slick, older guys, their jackets let out to de-emphasize the bulge of their firearms. Cartels. When things got hot, Hammett didn’t know how they’d react. Most certainly Fernando Guterez was connected. But were these his people? Or partial owners of the club, protecting their interests and watching how business boomed? Or local boys just relaxing with a cold Corona after a long day of cocaine trafficking and torturing informants?
    A total of