Page 18 of Renegade

He watched me for a few seconds and then shook his head. “I wasn’t really suggesting that, Miguel. And honestly, I only said what I said because I know Stockholm Syndrome is a real thing. Look at all these Americans who grow up here and become radicalized. I’m just saying, it could happen. Under torture or—”

“That couldn’t happen,” I said. Saying it out loud was what I had to do because ever since I’d had my little outburst this morning, I’d been doing my best to keep those thoughts from percolating in my brain. It’s just that I’d known John. I’d known the man he was back then and the man I’d known hated terrorists. He’d killed countless numbers of Taliban soldiers, never giving a second thought to killing men who’d twisted the words of the Quran, warping it to fit their own sick narrative. They’d sacrificed men, women, and children all in the name of their god. “You don’t take a Recon Marine and turn him into a terrorist. John wasn’t sent here with some master plan to blow up buildings, Raven. He loves his country the way I love my country. Is that so hard to understand?”

Raven shook his head and squeezed my hand. “Okay, Miguel. You know him. I don’t. I was just trying to think about how in the world he got back here.”

I wished I could tell him. It was a mystery to me and, though, I didn’t tell Raven, there was a tingling at the back of my brain that was telling me that him showing up here when he did,simply didn’t add up. Raven had been right about one thing. He had survived and gotten out of Afghanistan somehow. The fact that he’d turned up the very same day we went to meet Mrs. Flores, made me suspicious about this whole job.

Raven let go of my hand and reached for the ignition switch, turning on the truck. “I guess…now that he’s here and knows that you’ve seen him…well, maybe now he’ll get in contact with you.”

I could hear the fear lacing every word Raven said, and I understood it. He’d just gotten to know me and now a shadowy man who’d been a huge part of my past, had shown up out of the blue. I wanted to say something to make him feel the way he’d felt yesterday, like we were on solid ground, not like he was in danger of losing what we have.

“I love you, Raven. Whether he’s here or not, nothing will change between us. I don’t feel the way I used to about him. I want you and no one else. I hope you know that.”

He turned to look at me, and I breathed a sigh of relief when the tiniest of smiles curled his lips. He nodded. “I know, baby. I just got scared. Still—and I hope you don’t mind what I’m about to say—but the timing about his reappearance in your life is odd.”

I frowned, nodding because I’d been feeling the same way. The man I knew had never done anything by halves. There was a reason he’d shown up here in Los Angeles all these years later. “Yeah. I agree.”

He leaned in and kissed me before pulling away from the curb. Raven drove west toward an affluent area of L.A. called Bel Air, home to theveryrich and famous. As we turned onto Bel Air Crest Road, I whistled. Every mansion on the winding road spoke of unspeakable wealth. This place made JamesPassantino’s neighborhood pale in comparison. The streets were pristine, the lawns were magnificent…what you could see of them behind privacy gates and fences to keep out the riff raff or maybe just the dreadedpoor. Most homes were set way back with long stretches of rolling front lawns. One dude had Grecian white marble statues of Venus de Milo and Michaelangelo’s Statue of David. I almost laughed.

Most Los Angeles millionaires had homes either in Bel Air, Beverly Hills, or some parts of the Malibu coastline…at least that’s what Judy told us when she was researching the origins of Benedict Flores’ wealth. I’d come to respect the woman who ran our work lives. She knew just about everything about L.A. When I’d asked how she knew all these things, she’d told me that she spent a hell of a lot of weekend time at the beauty salon. Apparently, all L.A. gossip came from the beauty shop. Who knew?

As my eyes roamed over the amount of wealth clustered on this street alone, I let out a heavy sigh. A few miles away, homeless tents littered the back alleys of Hollywood, tucked away where the tourists wouldn’t see them…but they were there. Some days, I wondered if there was any justice in the world at all. I almost hoped when the apocalypse came, the hordes of hungry zombies would start with the occupants in these mega mansions. I nearly smiled at the picture of an aging socialite lying prone on her marble floor as her underpaid, overworked domestic servants started eating her brains. I suppressed a chuckle as we drove up to the gate in front of the Flores estate.

Raven turned to me. “What’s so funny?”

I grinned at him. “Do you think zombies like the flavor of BOTOX?”

He cocked his head and frowned, looking at me strangely. “What?”

I waved the thought away, grinning. “I’ll…tell you later.” I pointed out his side window. “I think there’s a button on the call box.” He dragged his eyes away to look. Sure enough, outside the ten-foot wrought iron gates which crossed the wide driveway sat a large pillar made of stacked flagstone. A singular screen was set into a small recess with a red button on the outside. I took note of a camera mounted on top of the pillar. It swiveled downward, following us as Raven drove up so that he could reach the button. The small red eye blinked at us as the feeling of being watched washed over my skin. It stayed on Raven as he pushed the button. The camera swept up, then side to side, scanning the street, before moving back down to look at us. Raven cleared his throat before speaking to the screen. “Hello.”

“Who’s there?” a tinny male voice asked.

I watched as Raven reached into his pocket and pulled out his identification, holding it up to the camera. “I’m Raven Mathis and this is Miguel Huerta. We’re here from the Trackers recovery agency. Mr. Aston and Mrs. Flores are expecting us.”

“Mr. Aston has been expecting you. Pull in and park in the drive.” The voice clicked off and the gates began to swing open on oiled hinges.

“With this kind of security on the premises, they want us to believe that a thief got onto this property, into the house, and then into a locked bedroom vault without being seen?” I asked as he drove away from the speaker.

Raven shrugged. “Yeah, that theory never made much sense to me.” He headed up the long, circular drive, passing by a large fountain positioned in the center of sweeping lawns and beautifully tended flower beds bringing color to the immaculatelandscape. He pulled past a three-car garage and parked in front of the mansion. It had a wide porch painted bright white with sculpted columns stretching up two stories.

The house was built solidly, looking almost regal as it sat there sparkling and almost too clean in the morning sunlight. It reminded me of a giant, white plantation house from the old south. Natural brick accented the white paint work along the front façade, broken up only by two wide, double doors inlaid with stained glass on either side and over the top. We were met at the door by a uniformed maid who ushered us into the richly appointed two-story foyer.

Set way back from the front doors, a sweeping, double staircase ran up either side, leading to the top floor. Gilded wrought iron formed the banisters on either side of the stairs and I almost expected Scarlett O’Hara to come sweeping down the stairs in her velvet dress made of curtains. I was reminded of the first time I’d entered James Passantino’s house, but this was on a much grander scale.

We followed the maid across white marble floors through several massive rooms brimming with priceless antiques, carpets, vases, and fresh flowers. I noticed that the walls in every room were covered with what appeared to be original, abstract oil paintings in stark contrast to the antique furnishings. But I supposed there was no accounting for taste. I didn’t recognize any of the artists, but since I knew as much about art as splitting the atom, that was no big surprise. The maid stopped at an open pair of double doors and swept out her hand with a small nod.

“Thank you,” Raven said.

When we stepped inside the library, Mr. Aston was waiting for us, seated on a brown leather couch. I glanced around the room, not seeing Mrs. Flores anywhere. The attorney rose,dressed impeccably again, and straightening his suit, he walked over and greeted us with a smile and a handshake.

“Thank you for coming,” he said.

“We appreciate you taking the time to show us the safe,” Raven said. He glanced around. “Are we waiting on Mrs. Flores?”

“Unfortunately, she apologizes. Another engagement came up this morning…but I’ll be able to show you the safe,” Aston replied.

“Thank you,” I said.

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