Page 40 of The True Garza
“You’ll do nothing,” I curtail. “I’m taking care of it.”
“For shit’s sake, Lonny, why’re you always like this?” he snaps.
“Ifand when I need your help, I’ll ask for it,” I snap back. “I don’t need you all making a mess of things.”
“You know if you were still with us, they wouldn’t have been bold enough to do that, right?”
“Oh, you mean like how they were bold enough to go after Uncle Walter, or shoot at you, or try to kidnap Brook?”
He expels a noisy sigh. “I know it’s pointless to try reasoning with you on this, but, from a loving brother to a pigheaded sister, I’ve always admired your strengths and your street smarts—but you aren’t invincible. It feels like you’ve been on this deliberate path of destruction since Dad died. But please…pleasejust remember that there are people who love and care about you. People who’d… probably never recover if they lost you.”
~
Rain beats downonto the roof of the rental car. Fat, unrelenting streaks of water blur the view of my attacker’s small bungalow in Watts.
Perfect.The best time to do a B-and-E is during a torrential downpour. Not only is it loud as hell, masking unusual or suspicious sounds, but people are more likely to be cozied up inside rather than looking out their windows. But even if they are, the visual aberration prevents immediate suspicion of movements.
Ricky Gonzalez, an old ex and one of the smartest people I know—with special skills in forensics, tech, and hacking and who chooses to offer his services underground rather than work for a government organization—ran the prints on the attacker’s knife and got me the information I needed.
I’d hoped the prints would lead back to someone at LX-BI, but no such luck. They belong to twenty-nine-year-old Justin Bertin. A shaved-head, tattooed-skull bartender by night, pill-pusher by day. He was evidently a cheap and desperate hire by whoever’s really after me. No point busting in and beating the shit out of him. What I need to know iswhosent him.
I’ve been casing him for over a week now, so I know he lives alone and never gets any visitors aside from the latch-key, underage schoolgirl three blocks down, who sneaks in after school to get herself some bad-boy dick. He does his pill-pushing outside a complex downtown. He’s not messy. None of his shit follows him home.
Until now.
I flip up the hood of my black pullover, grab my umbrella, and step out of the rental. Then take unfaltering strides toward his house. I reach inside the mailbox for the spare key I know is taped on the side, unlock the door, and let myself in.
The air reeks of stale cigarette smoke. From my pocket, I retrieve my mini flashlight and begin my search. Not exactly sure what I’m searching for, but I’ll know when I find it.
The house is rundown, but tidy. A smoke alarm beeps nonstop, signaling the battery needs changing. I plant a bug in the cracked vase of plastic flowers on his dining-room table. One behind the framed painting on the wall in his living room. One in the night-lamp in the bedroom.
I’m snapping pictures of scribbled names and figures in a notebook I found under the mattress, when a chill ghosts across the back of my neck. Someone’s in here with me.
Quietly, I return the notebook where I found it and unholster my gun. Steadily, I sneak along the wall and toward the door. Pause, listen, take a breath, then move again. I glance in the direction of the kitchen first, and then the front door. No silhouettes, no sounds. No one. Just the relentless downpour of the rain on the shingles and against the glass panes.
Though still not convinced I’m alone, Islowlybegin to lower my weapon. In a flash, I’m grabbed by the back of my neck and slammed face-first to the wall. Before I can react, I’m yowling as pressure is applied to my wrist, forcing me to loosen my grip on my weapon. In the blink of an eye, it’s pried from my hand.
I reach around and latch onto the hand gripping my neck, ready to fight to the death, when a familiar voice gives me pause.
“You’re gonna be trouble for us, aren’t you?”
What the…?
“What are you….” I trail off when the weight of his chest presses against my back and… hiserection,against my ass.
Well, hell. What a delightful turn of events.
He loosens his grip on my neck, but not enough for me to move. Not that I would. I won’t fight him.I could never fight him.
“You’ll try to fight me if I let you go?”
Unable to help it, I push my ass back against him. “You’re hard.” And again. “You… want me.”
Inwardly, I curse myself, hating the way my voice is filled with surprise and elation at that realization.
“Not me. Just my cock.”
I’m good with that.
