Don followed a few steps behind Winter as they crossed deeper into the property.
From the outside, the villa sold a specific image. Wide frontage. Curved driveway. Stone and glass layered together in clean lines.
Luxury cars crowded the edges near the garage and along the front approach, parked almost like decorations—low profiles, dark paint, chrome catching the floodlights.
A few guards stood near the walls and railings, but they weren't alert. Some smoked. One leaned against a column with a beer in hand, rifle slung loose over his shoulder like an accessory instead of a tool.
Winter moved ahead with a lazy sway in her walk, head tilted, posture loose.
But her eyes weren't.
They tracked everything. Guard positions. Camera housings under the eaves. Which doors were watched and which weren't. Who carried long guns. Who didn't.
"They don't seem to take security too seriously," she murmured.
