Page 8 of The True Garza

These men must be raking in some serious moolah because it’s like a luxury hotel lobby in here. Sleek, classy, sophisticated. From the polished gold-accented marble floors to the lit, futuristic-style reception desk, to the indoor waterfall along the wall with their logo illuminated inside it, to the artistic hanging light fixtures above. Designed to intimidate the lowly and seduce the wealthy.

“Hi, I’m Jennifer,” the gorgeous, young receptionist greets with a bleached-white smile. “How may I help?”

See,shewould do well luring a trafficker to nab her. This is the kind of young, fresh, girl-next-door pretty they like. Not some bitter, ill-tempered old croon. I can’t believe I agreed to this.

“Yeah, I’m here for a meeting with True Garza and, uh, Sacha Allard.”

“Okay, one moment.” She clacks around on her keyboard. “London Bridge?”

“Yup. That’s me.”

“Extend your arm, please?”

Frowning, I hesitantly extend my arm over the counter.

As she latches some sort of gold-jewelry band around my wrist and seals it with a weird, beeping device, she informs me, “This is your visitor pass. It has a built-in tracker and can only be unlocked and removed by this device. So please return here before you leave.”

Seriously?“Is this necessary?”

“To prevent security breaches, yes.”

“Ah.” Makes sense with a place like this.

“Please take the elevator up to the third floor. Once you’re there, Daniel will take you to the meeting room.”

“Got it.”

As I make my way into the elevator, I think on how ridiculous it is thatIhave to go to them. Why is it not the other way around? What gives them so much power thatwehave to meet them? I knew about Red Cage in Denver only because Dad always talked about them and how much he’d love to work with them. He’d applied twice and got rejected. He figured it was because of his age, so he applied a third time—but for the private-security division, where he believed his age wouldn’t work against him. He had still been waiting for a response before he died.

The elevator doors slide open on the third floor, revealing another burly guard waiting with folded arms. This must be Daniel. “London Bridge?”

“Yup.”

“This way, please.”

He leads me through a smaller lobby with a wet bar and a coffee station, down a glass-walled hall allowing me to see a large office area with workers in black-and-red uniforms seated at their cubicles. We then go down a hall of doors into a small waiting area with large plants, club chairs, a water cooler, an instant-coffee machine, a fancy bookshelf, and a door with “Meeting Room” in embossed letters.

“One moment,” Daniel mumbles, then moves to knock on the door before he opens it and sticks his head in. There’s a muffled exchange of words before he returns to me. “You can go in.”

“Thanks, Daniel.”

He nods and leaves.

Two men stand in quiet conversation at the front of the room when I enter.

“Hey,” I say, pulling their attention.

Both turn to look at me, and I’m almost bowled over by a double force of holy hotness.

Hotness One, with Clark Kent glasses, jet-black hair and groomed beard, dressed in jeans, a long-sleeved shirt along with suspenders and a bow tie. Has sort of a preppy vibe going, but something quietly insidious lurks under his façade. The tattoos peeking out at the collar of his shirt are in direct conflict with the person he wants people to see.

Hotness Two, has a unique kind of handsomeness. The kind that makes you tilt your head and look longer than intended. He’s definitely foreign. Crew-cut brown hair, azure blue eyes, sharp jawline, a long gash along his left cheek, tall and leanly built.

He moves toward me with a small smile, hand out. “Hi, London. Sacha Allard.” A thick accent hugs his words.

“French?” I ask as I shake his hand.

He nods. “Correct.”