She looked down at the boy. “All right, Carlos, let’s go.”

They headed along the dirt street to the Cantina Imperial, in one of the flat-roofed square buildings on the opposite side of the road, this one painted bright blue. Gage pushed open the swinging door and held it so she, Carlos, and Mateo could enter. Edge was out doing whatever he did to ensure their security and wouldn’t be back before nightfall.

The dimly lit interior of the cantina was a cool respite from the outside heat, but the tile-floored room wasn’t empty. Clusters of men sat at rough wooden tables off to one side, disreputable-looking with their shaggy hair, mustaches, dirty clothes, and rubber-soled leather sandals.

They sat up straighter as Abby and their small group walked past, and she could feel their eyes on her. Her pulse quickened. She was suddenly glad Gage was there and that he was armed.

They ordered the dishes Carlos suggested, and the meal was brought out: poc chuc, slices of pork marinated in sour orange and achiote sauce, and sopes, tortillas stuffed with beans, topped with shredded chicken and lettuce.

The boy wolfed down the food as if he were starving, which his appearance said he was. At least he would have decent meals for the next two weeks.

Unless they were able to find and retrieve the gold before then.

Tonight they were going to the spot pinpointed on King’s map, the ruins of the original Peralta plantation, about fifteen miles from the town. They would scout the area and plot their course. If everything looked as it should, they would go back tomorrow and search for the treasure in the light of day.

The Devil’s Gold was in reach. Abby could feel it.

Tonight, she thought, their search would truly begin.

* * *

Gage could sense danger a mile away. In this case, it was lurking in the corners of the Cantina Imperial, nothing more than a painted stucco structure with an open tin ceiling, shutters that closed over windows without glass, and a red tile floor.

He didn’t miss the weapons some of the men openly carried, semiautomatic pistols, stout wooden bats, and knives, the blades occasionally flashing in a ray of sunlight that managed to force its way inside. Cartel members, he figured, though he had no idea which group.

Los Zetas, or one of the others—either way, it wasn’t good news.

And the way the men were looking at Abby made the hackles rise on the back of his neck. She was a beautiful woman. He caught a few lewd remarks in Spanish, and his jaw tightened, his protective instincts kicking in. Gage forced himself to ignore them.

There were at least twelve men in the bar, possibly more in the back room. If a fight broke out, the odds weren’t good. An incident could be deadly.