Page 56 of The True Garza
It’s all I can think about on the drive out to Nevada.
Trent didn’t divulge exactlywhatTrue did, but his words sort of hinted at it. “True’s disorder makes him disinterested in pretty much everything. But he’s got two strong, dominating interests, and that’s women and kicking ass.”
Seems he went and kicked the client’s son’s ass on my behalf. Exciting. But…why? Why would he do that? At least Trent is honest with his feelings toward me. But True… I just can’t tell with him.
He barely even looked at me when he came to get me an hour ago. He got out of the vehicle, tossed me the keys, mumbled, “You’re driving,” then went in the back seat and promptly fell asleep.
Why didheeven agree to have me accompany him?
The entire thing is mind-boggling.
“Because the only time we’ve ever seen him sit still, quiet, and focused is when you’re in his line of sight.”
What does that even mean?!
As fine drops of dew start dotting the windshield, I blow out an audible breath and roll my shoulders. Stressing over whether True hates me or not shouldn’t be my focus, but rather how to keephimfocused.
This ought to be an interesting weekend.
Three hours later, I pull up to the large, iron gates of the address on the GPS. A wide, bulky man steps out from the security hut and asks for my identification. He scans it when I hand it to him. “You’re supposed to arrive with True Garza, no? Where is he?”
“He—”
“Back here, Bobby,” True calls from the back seat, startling me. “Let us in and go back to listening to your Taylor Swift albums.”
How long has he been awake?
Bobby chuckles. “Fuck you, True.” He hands me back my ID card and jerks his head. “Welcome to MarValVilla, Miss Bridge.”
The gates open and I drive in.
According to the information Guy supplied, MarVaVilla is owned by the host of the event, Kenneth Gaines, a real-estate mogul. All twenty-three attendees will be here until Sunday. Based on the profiles, it’ll be a motley mix of “approved” criminals, politicians, law men, and businessmen. None of these attendees should have anything in common, but somehow, they’re all in bed together. Their one common denominator is Red Cage—they’re all clients.
I know so much, but understand so little. Still, I’m fine not knowing all the dark details. The less I know, the better.
One thing I now know for sure, however, is that Red Cage Commando Security & Investigations Services is much,muchmore than they purport to be.
I drive along the cobbled path lined with light-wrapped palm trees, dew-covered grass blanketing either side. The villa sprawls out ahead, well-lit and beautiful.
When I finally pull to a stop under the porte cochère, a valet takes the keys to the SUV while True refuses help with our bags.
“This way,” he tells me when I’m about to head inside to the reception. “Red Cage has a permanent villa here. No need to check in.”
Oh, right.
I follow his lead around the side, along the sinuous limestone path lit with ground lights and shadowed with tall, leafy plants, until we’re climbing a short set of steps to a raised deck with a set of French doors.
He retrieves a key and opens the door, then waves me in ahead of him.
And…whoa. Nice. Really nice.
Gold accents. Luxury furniture. Plush, sumptuous, ostentatiousness all around. Plus whatever that scent is, it’s divine. A bottle of champagne nestled in an ice-bucket sits on the four-seater marble table along with a welcoming bouquet of tastefully arranged flowers.
True retrieves a small dome-shaped device from his duffel and sets it on the coffee table. A Red Cage-exclusive high-tech bug jammer.
“Master bedroom’s upstairs, with its own bath and private balcony,” he tells me. “You can have it.”
“You want me on top?” I joke, hoping to crack the ice between us.
