3

      Brunhilde Rojas’s feet slapped the wet tiles in the prison shower. She admired her taut muscles as she ran the hard, coarse bar of soap over them. Though she was closing in on her fifties, seven years in prison had given her time to maintain a lean and firm body.

      Not that Rojas had worked in the prison weight yard for her looks. She kept her body strong for the sake of survival and the hope that maybe, in ten to fifteen years, when she was released, she’d have a chance to get revenge against the bastards who’d killed her boys.

      It was a long shot, Rojas admitted to herself as the hot water splashed down on her, matting her inch-long black tresses to her scalp. The spatter of droplets on her skin and on the tile almost drowned out the sound of footsteps behind her.

      “Don’t drop the soap, Hilda!” came a husky, slurred voice. Chuckles accompanying the speaker’s own simplistic tittering confirmed to Rojas that she was outnumbered.

      She didn’t stop the shower as she turned to face the trio. The speaker, the leader of this group of women, was two inches taller than Rojas, an even six feet. However, this woman was as wide as two of her. The others were slightly smaller than their leader.

      Despite Rojas’s strength, these women had at least seventy-five pounds on her—each. They were dressed in their orange coveralls, rubber-soled canvas sneakers giving them some traction on the slippery shower floor. Their calloused fists were mute testimony to their experience bludgeoning people.

      Rojas didn’t say anything, and Pequita Morales cracked her knuckles, smirking at each of her minions in turn.

      “Don’t worry, Hilda,” Morales taunted. “We’ll leave your face alone so you can have an open casket funeral.”

      That was all Rojas needed to hear. She squirted the water she’d trapped in her mouth, hitting Morales in the eyes. Rojas slipped off her shower sandals to get more traction from her bare feet, but she needed to get to the high ground. As Morales brought her hands to her face to protect her splashed eyes, Rojas grabbed on to one of the woman’s big, muscular forearms and swung her knee up into the pillowy gut of the hired bruiser. The sudden blow made Morales step backward, pushing her two partners aside and dragging Rojas with her. The naked woman kicked out to her right, the sole of her foot slapping hard into the cheek and jaw of one of the other brawlers. A screech escaped the woman’s lips as she staggered back.

      Rojas pivoted on her heel and delivered a kick to Morales’s sternum. With the speed and lithe power of a leopard, she then brought her elbow into the side of the second minion’s neck. Pudgy but powerful arms wrapped around Rojas’s shoulders, squeezing her tight and propelling her toward the second bruiser, who was now baring her teeth. Rojas tucked her chin against her chest at the last second. She winced as her opponent’s incisors sliced her scalp before they snapped off against her skull.

      The grappler let go of Rojas, and the naked woman dropped back to her feet. Her most recent opponent was pouring blood from mashed lips and gums. Morales lunged forward again, having recovered quickly from the blow to her chest. Rojas brought up her elbow in a swift scythe, meeting Morales’s face with a crunch. Rojas was knocked off balance as the big woman threw her hands up to her own face. She lost her footing on the slippery floor and hit the tiles. Within seconds, the rubber sole of a sneaker smashed into her ribs.

      It was the woman she’d swatted in the face with her bare foot, giving Rojas what she’d paid.

      Rojas lashed out and snagged the witch’s ankle before she could pull her foot away.

      “Puta!” the attacker spat, hopping and windmilling her arms in an effort to stay on her feet. Eventually, Rojas’s leverage and gravity won out, and the woman slammed to the ground.

      Using every ounce of control in her strong limbs, Rojas rolled on to all fours despite the slickness of the tiles. Two hands clamped on to her neck, hauling her up. Rojas let herself be lifted, feigning weakness as she prepared for her next move. Suddenly, the fingers around her neck let go, and she fell face-first to the floor. She grunted, stunned by the drop.

      Morales stomped hard on Rojas’s shoulder, and she wanted to cry out in pain. She tried to push up off of the floor when something crashed heavily on to her arm and shoulder. Again her face struck the tiles, blurring her vision and jarring her jaw.

      Morales’s bulging forearm pushed across her face, and Rojas kept her chin pinned to her clavicle. If that hunk of muscle and power got across her windpipe, everything would be over. Jagged nails stabbed at her forehead, raking back in an effort to wrench her head up.

      “Don’t struggle so much, Hilda,” Morales sneered. “It won’t hurt for—”

      Rojas lunged up with her good arm, blindly digging her fingers into Morales’s meaty face. She jabbed her eye with a thumbnail, and Morales let out a howl. “Enough!”

      Heavy boots stomped across the wet tiles. Rojas felt rough hands grip her own trying to make her release Morales’s face. Rojas grit her teeth, resisting the guard’s efforts. Morales had come after her, taunted her, given her the desire to kill.

      She wanted to ensure Morales would never forget her failure to end the life of Brunhilde Rojas. The memory would be scrawled across her face in the unmistakable signature of Rojas’s claw marks.

      A punch connected with Rojas’s jaw, and the world went black.

      It had been a good run, but her sons would go unavenged, she thought as she descended into oblivion.

      * * *

      WHEN ROJAS OPENED her eyes, she was dressed. She was in a pair of coveralls, though one of her arms was hanging in a sling under the open front of the prison jumpsuit. She was in an office with a window that showed the open sky outside. She spotted the guard tower nearby. So, she was still on prison property. The desk was clean—no papers, but more importantly, no pens or letter openers that she could grab and turn into a weapon.

      A burly man sat in the chair behind the desk, and a tall, dark stranger stood, arms folded, against the wall. Rojas blinked, lingering on the man’s cool blue eyes. He was observing her, his features impassive. His presence in the room was a weight, a magnet for her.

      “Brunhilde Rojas, aka La Brujah,” the seated man read from a file. “Born in Argentina, daughter of a Colombian father and a German mother, hence the name Brunhilde. Naturalized citizen of the United States at age four.”

      Rojas glanced at the man behind the desk. He was a broad, serious fellow who showed a road map of years on his face. “So you know who I am…”

      “You followed in the footsteps of the Cocaine Godmother and the Queen of the Pacific, right down to having your teenaged sons follow you into the business,” the man continued.

      “And who are you?” Rojas asked, anger spiking in her voice. Her teenaged sons. Mis hijos.

      “My