James Colt travelled to Los Angeles on his fine arabian mare. He was frowning to himself, thinking hard. He had been thwarted at every turn. First it had been Matthew and Elizabeth's stubborn refusal to give back the designs for the weapon, and then it was the missing children who might know something and might even be witnesses. The weather had gotten worse, making the journey south almost impossible.

It was safe to say he was frustrated, and his normal mean streak was scheming how to get revenge as fast as possible. It was not directed to anyone specific, but he would think of someone. Probably the de la Vega family, who seemed to have been entrusted with the designs.

It was ahead of its time, and a wonder of modern science. He couldn't believe how it had been smuggled out of the American territories, but he had been tasked to fetch it back. The only copy in existence... Not even patented yet, and they had a miraculous weapon much more capable than anyone else's. Guaranteed victory was promised with that gun. No doubt about it.

If it fell into the hands of the enemy, Britain, or even Spain, it might spell disaster in the simmering conflicts that threatened the American territories. It couldn't happen, and the de la Vegas would have to die, whether or not they had seen that correspondence. It wasn't worth having witnesses.

He thought about his work with the Americans. As a double agent, he had been part of the Spanish spy agency, as well as the American. Being born in America made it more understandable that he could betray his Spanish comrades. His mother had been Spanish, and he had inherited her dark complexion and her skill with languages.

The inventor of the weapon had died in a freak accident a week before James had hunted down the design. No one could replicate the design, as he had worked with only one assistant and in secret. The Americans had insisted on it. James had personally killed the assistant who had stolen the design, once the assistant had confessed to where he had sent it.

It had been a shame to kill his old team mates, but it had been necessary. He knew he could never get Elizabeth to talk, and she hadn't shared the information with her husband, hoping to leave Matthew out of it. The only remedy was that she was killed, and it had only taken one shot. She defended Matthew as he knew she would, and it made it very economical. It was just a pity he had knocked Marguerite to the side to get past her, and she had hit her head hard on the marble hearth of the fireplace. He was almost certain he had killed her, but he hadn't wanted her dead. She wasn't meant to have been there.

He shrugged. Lots of people died in conflicts. She was an innocent bystander, perhaps, perhaps not. You never knew who was a spy these days, he told himself. She could have been part of the team, retired or not.

James reined in his arabian as it reared. A fox had wandered onto the road, and had startled the mare. She was skittish at the best of times, and he swore at the fox, wishing he had a gun in his hands to shoot the pest. It would have startled the mare a little more, and besides it was just a fox. Why waste ammunition on the creature?

The fox turned golden eyes towards him and stopped for a while. He shivered, feeling as if the fox was reading his mind, judging and condemning him for all his crimes. Then it turned and ran into the scrubland.

He shivered again, and then gathered himself together. There was nothing in it. A fox was a fox. A dumb animal, and a nuisance. It couldn't read his mind, and animals didn't judge people.

The town wasn't far away, if he hurried he could make it to the local tavern for a warm meal and some shelter from the elements.

zzz

James Colt saw to the stabling of his mare, and when he was satisfied that her care was to his standards, he walked over to the tavern, drawing his coat against the force of the wind. He pushed the doors open, and strolled inside, his eyes automatically scanning for known threats, possible threats and potential enemies. Seeing nothing of note, he sat down at a table close to the kitchen, his back to the wall to give him eyes on the arriving patrons.

He ordered albondiga soup, and it was soon served with a chunk of warm freshly baked bread. A bottle of red wine sat at his elbow, and he poured a cupful. He raised it first to his nose, and sniffed it appreciatively before sipping it.

"How is everything, Senor?" The tavern keeper, Victoria Escalante, asked as she waltzed around a table to serve someone else.

"Very nice," he murmured, as his eyes scanned her from the top of her head to her feet. Nice looking girl, he noticed. Curves in all the right places, and she could cook. He had always preferred Spanish women over English beauties. Maybe it was something about his mother. He dismissed the tavern keeper quickly from his mind, as he needed to keep his senses alert.

"Don Diego," Victoria said, greeting a tall, dark featured young man. "I'm surprised to see you out so late."

"I find with my father away it is a bit lonely at the hacienda," the man said. He was dressed well, and walked confidently. A gentleman, a cabellero. He sat down at a table near James Colt and ordered an albondiga soup, and some red wine.

"I thought you prefer lemonade?" Victoria asked.

"Well, I thought I'd have a change tonight."

"Mmm," she said, raising an eyebrow.

James Colt smiled slightly. Those two were friends - no doubt about it.

"I never thought Diego de la Vega would move from lemonade to red wine so easily," Victoria said, shaking her head. "I'm keeping my eye on you, senor."

"A change is as good as a holiday," Diego said.

He was a de la Vega? That was interesting, and something to follow up on. Colt watched him carefully, memorising his features and considering what to do with his discovery. He couldn't act immediately, having to reconnect with his paid mercenaries. De la Vega could wait a few days.

zzz

Alonso knew he had slipped up a little. How was he to know that Diego avoided wine? It was a strange habit for a young caballero. His cousin had a few strange ways, he had noticed. He had ridden Esperanza into the pueblo, and she was a fine horse, a little more spirited than he had thought Diego would have preferred. For all appearances the mare was docile and slow, but with an unfamiliar rider she was skittish and restless. He was an excellent horseman and had her controlled in moments. He had thought that Diego's nature was too docile to have such a spirited steed. He had been wrong.

Alonso was becoming more curious about his cousin, determined to explore who Diego was. Why would he pretend to be less skilled than he was? There must be a good reason.