Asher just knew there had been sparklers involved in that karaoke contest. He just knew it.
Asher must have hit his head a whole hell of a lot harder than he thought. The birds were beginning to sing, and he had just managed to slog his way through the twenty kilometers of jungle, and here he was looking at a brightly colored food truck. Ash watched as it lumbered up the last little bit of hill toward the clearing.
Even in the dim light, the garish paint job couldn’t be missed. The bottom third was red, the middle of the truck was surrounded with a stripe of blue and the top third and roof were painted in yellow. Just so nobody could mistake it, the blue was covered with stars, so it was clearly a representation of the Venezuelan flag.
Asher and his team all stayed hidden.
Fuck me. A food truck? Please tell me the Super Banker Babes aren’t giving us a ride in that thing.
Whoever the driver was, laid on the horn. It sounded vaguely familiar. For just a moment, Asher was back in his childhood chasing after the ice cream man with his little brother during those hot summer days. He shook his head to get back to the here and now.
“Stay put,” Max whispered.
The music stopped and a woman’s voice began talking in English over the loudspeaker.
“Americans, my daughter sent me. We need your help. Come out where I can see you.” There was no mistaking the authority in the voice. It sounded a little like his maman’s.
I definitely have a concussion.
The driver’s side door opened, and a tiny woman stepped down. She wore a coral-colored pantsuit with her white hair up in a bun. Asher thought she looked like she should have been at a bridge club except for her tennis shoes. Despite the fact that she looked to be one hundred and twelve years old, she was steady on her feet.
“My daughter sent me, she is Suzanne Azua. I am her mother, Lenora. She’s the president of the Banco de la Gente and she said we don’t have much time to…what is the phrase?” She paused, then snapped her fingers. “Dilly-dally.”
Cullen snorted with laughter.
“Cover us,” Max motioned for Raiden to follow him.
“I want to go,” Cullen whined. Max gave him a hard look as he and Raiden moved out into the clearing with their rifles at the ready.
She took a long look at Max and Raiden. “Is it just the two of you?”
“Ma’am, I’m Lieutenant Max Hogan, United States Navy, and this is Chief Petty Officer First Class, Raiden Sato. More of my men will be here in a few moments. Do you mind if Raiden and I have a look inside your truck?”
“It’s not mine, it’s my great-nephew’s truck,” she gave a distracted wave. “You need to hurry.” Then she pulled herself up to her full height, which was almost five feet nothing.
Asher’s lip twitched. He’d bet his last dollar this was legit, but he wouldn’t risk his team’s lives. He continued to carefully monitor the scene in front of him through the scope of his rifle.
“She’s right, they’d better hurry,” Cullen whispered behind him. “I’m hungry, and I smell deep-fried empanadas and plantains.”
Ash grinned. Now he recognized the smell. He really didn’t think the little old lady was driving around members of Maduro’s secret police in a food truck. The two SEALs coordinated their swift entrance into the front and back of the truck.
“Clear,” Raiden shouted.
“Nothing,” Max said clearly as he jumped out of the back of the truck.
Cullen chuckled. “She just rolled her eyes at our lieutenant.”
“Señora Azua, thank you for your patience. We needed to make sure that everything was safe before we got started,” Max explained.
She gave a regal nod. “Can your men come out now? We need to move quickly. My daughter and the others are surrounded at the bank by that pig of a dictator’s men.” Asher snorted with laughter. The lady didn’t have a filter.
Max gave a nod and Asher followed the others out to where the truck was parked.
“Is this everybody?” she asked. “Just eight of you are going to save everyone?” She was clearly skeptical.
Max nodded.
“You better be good,” she muttered in Spanish as she started toward the driver’s door.
At the door, she turned back to the team. “We need to get to my hacienda before sunrise. People are waiting.”
“Who would that be?” Max asked.
“My granddaughter and great-grandchildren.” She began to open the driver’s side door when Cullen stopped her.
“Maybe it would be better if I drive,” Cullen suggested as he opened the truck door for her. The smartass was gone, now he was all business.
She craned her neck to look up at him. “Been driving the streets of Caracas a lot, have you?” She had a glint in her eye.
Kane coughed, trying to disguise his laugh. Everyone could see that Cullen had a fight on his hands.
“Nope, but I’ve driven in Brazil, Africa, and Afghanistan,” Cullen answered. He was the most proficient driver on the SEAL team. Asher knew it would kill him to let this little old lady drive.
She looked him up and down. “This truck is unwieldy,” she admitted reluctantly. Asher would bet anything she had trouble seeing over the steering wheel. “I suppose I could let you drive. Have you driven a food truck before? It took me a couple of kilometers to get used to it.”
“I’m certified for all sorts of vehicles,” Cullen said patiently. He was laying the charm on thick.
“Okay then. This way I can explain what I know. My daughter can do only so much. I expect you to get them to the airport. Do you understand me?”
She pointed at Max.
“Don’t worry, ma’am, we’re going to get all of them out of there.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You’d better.”
Chapter 3
Eden’s fingers clenched longingly for the comforting feeling of her Glock 43. The woman’s version of the gun fit perfectly in her hand, and she could do some real damage with it about now. She did her best to block out Schlessinger’s whining and focus on what Suzanne Azua was saying to the security team member who was fishtailing the SUV around the winding streets of Caracas. Seriously, did they not know how to produce a straight road in this country?
As the black Escalade took another punishing turn, Eden York gripped the seat in front of her and struggled to listen to the Venezuelan bank president. It sounded like she was saying that somebody had been killed. At this rate, it would be all of them in a heap of twisted metal on the city boulevard. Was Carlson trying out for a spot on the NASCAR team?
“What? What? What?” The Swiss Finance minister yelled at her in French. Lord save me from self-important assholes. “Why are they trying to murder us?” the man demanded as he jabbed his fat finger in her direction. “I command that you tell me, Eden.” She turned her face before spittle hit her.
I’m not going to hit him.
“Monsieur Schlessinger, I need you to stay calm so I can listen to what they’re saying,” she soothed.
Señora Azua was now talking on the radio that connected the three-vehicle caravan while the driver poured on the speed. He had to, because Eden saw a blue truck pull up beside them with its windows rolled down. There were at least two guns pointed at them. She braced.
Bullets sprayed along the driver’s side of their Escalade, but nothing penetrated their vehicle’s specially designed armor.
“They’re shooting at us!” Schlessinger screamed.
“Calm down, you fool.” Leland Hines barked in English from the back row of the vehicle. Eden tried to pull Schlessinger away from the window, but his meaty body was not moving away.
Eden decided to take the forceful approach. “Duck down, Maurice,” Eden ordered in French.
Another round of bullets hit their vehicle.
“Hold on,” the driver yelled out English.
Eden repeated the driver’s command in French and Spanish for the others, since translating was what they were paying her f
or.
The SUV swerved right and sideswiped the front of the blue truck, causing it to careen into oncoming traffic. Eden watched as car after car after car plowed into the truck and one another. She prayed only the bad guys were hurt. And hurt pretty damn bad.
The assholes.
“Are you still with me?” Suzanne Azua asked into the radio. “We all have to get off the highway.”
People started speaking over one another on the radio, but the bank president cut through the chatter like a flaming sword through sun-warmed butter. “I heard someone say something about some of the security team being dead. I only want that person to talk.”
“This is Corey Bradshaw with Nomad Security, ma’am. We finally have a count of casualties at the US Embassy. It isn’t good.”
“Where are you?” Suzanne demanded to know.
“Aruba.”
Eden could easily see the steam coming out of Señora Azua’s ears. Probably because she was just as pissed as Eden was. Really, the head of our security high-tailed it to Aruba at the first sign of trouble and left us to be killed?
Eden forced herself to keep listening to what he was saying. “Our people were butchered by the president’s secret police. They killed everybody but one man who dragged himself into the Embassy’s safe room. He’s still in there. From the monitors, he was able to see what happened to his team and report back to us.”
“We need an alternate plan,” one of the Nomad security drivers yelled over the radio. Eden couldn’t figure out who was talking.
“Your bank, Suzanne?” It was Heinrich Becker, the chairman of the International Money Fund, the man running the show.
“That would work,” Señora Azua agreed.
“What the fuck are you all talking about?” Carlson demanded to know.
“Your useless boss who ran away to Aruba says the Embassy is no longer viable,” Eden shouted over the seat.
“That’s right,” Señora Azua bit out. “Carlson, we need to focus on getting everybody to Banco de la Gente. Bradshaw, are you aware that someone just tried to run us off the road?”
“Dammit! I need to look into this. Maybe there’s someone else I can deploy.” Eden heard Bradshaw’s tension, and she didn’t like it. He had no one—that’s probably why he flew the coop. He wasn’t even pretending to care what his boss was saying anymore.
Yep, we’re screwed. I’m not going to scream.
Eden wanted a gun. The only person you can ever rely on is yourself. Or family. That was it. And she sure as hell didn’t see her dad, brothers, or sisters around here right now, so she wanted her damn gun.
One-handed, Suzanne Azua grabbed for something on the floor in front of her and brought up her extremely large handbag. She shoved it over the seat to Eden.
“Find my cell phone, it’s in there somewhere,” she said in rapid Spanish.
Eden dug. When she found the Señora’s phone, she thrust it over the seat to her, then Suzanne did a trade and stretched the radio’s cord over the backseat and handed it to Eden. “See if Bradshaw comes up with something.”
The bank president keyed a number into her phone and was soon giving orders to someone.
“Hector, you told me that one of our guards is a sniper. Have him get a rifle from our armory. I want him up on our roof, now! Anyone else who was ever in the military, get them up there too with a rifle. As for the rest, I need any and all guards we have at the main entrance to the bank. I want their guns drawn.”
Shit, they have an armory? At a bank?
Señora Azua paused. “Dammit, do you think I don’t know it’s Carnival? I don’t care how few guards are working, you get the rest of them to the lobby, right now.” Eden thought she was going to laugh. She’d never noticed the resemblance until right now, but this kick-ass woman was just like her mother! “Hector, we’ll be pulling up with three black Escalades. I want the doors open and ready for us to enter. As soon as we’re all in, slam those doors shut behind us.”
There was one more pause. “Good. I’m counting on you.”
“Team, we have a plan,” Eden said into the radio.
Through the radio, Eden could hear shots being fired.
“Who’s being shot at?” she demanded.
“This is car three. I’m fine. What’s the plan?” The driver’s voice was hoarse. Eden recognized him as Patel.
“This is Rivers in car two, one of our tires has been blown. We can’t keep this up. Tell me that we’re going to be able to stop soon.”
“Tell me what is going on,” Schlessinger yelled at Eden in French. “Where is our security team?”
Sunbathing in Aruba.
They rounded another corner and their driver laid on the horn. Señora Azua was giving further directions to the bank.
“Eden! I demand that you answer me,” Schlessinger commanded.
Eden felt her fist clench as she quelled the urge to hit the Swiss man’s doughy face. Not. Going. To. Hit. Him. “You need to be quiet so I can hear what’s going on. Our lives depend on us being calm,” she enunciated every French word slowly and precisely.
“Shut your damned mouth, Maurice,” the British banker barked from the back seat.
Schlessinger might not’ve understood English, but he caught Leland’s tone. The Swiss man squeezed his lips shut, which allowed Eden the opportunity to concentrate on the voices coming out of the radio. She heard more shooting. Dammit.
“How much longer to the bank?” She yelled her question at Suzanne above the squealing tires.
“Another kilometer.”
Eden flinched when more bullets exploded against their SUV.
“They’re beside us,” the Brit bellowed. “Speed up.”
“Hold on.” That was the only warning the driver gave them before he rammed the bumper into the side of the large jeep that was shooting at them.
Please God, let us get out of this alive.
“Carlson, you maniac, you’ll kill us all,” the fat man screeched in French.
Three people yelled shut up in two different languages. They might not know what he was saying, but every single person was sick of his petulant squeals.
More bullets hit their armored vehicle. Eden was pissed off when she felt herself wince again. She needed to man-up—this SUV was built like a tank, for God’s sake!
Hot, sticky air suddenly suffused the interior of the Escalade. Carlson had his right arm braced over his left, his right hand holding a gun, the left on the steering wheel. Eden followed the sight of his gun and watched as he sprayed bullets into the interior of the jeep. Gusts of red plumed into the air. The jeep veered into the next lane where a tractor-trailer slammed into it.
“Fuck! Señora, how bad are you hit?” Carlson yelled.
Eden looked away from the jeep and saw blood dripping down Señora Azua’s neck.
“There, on the left.” The woman’s voice was hoarse, but Eden could understand her. She can’t be hurt too bad, but that bleeding needs to be stopped.
Señora Azua slumped against the front seat. “The bank is on the left.” She pointed to a tall building across the meridian.
“The bank is on the left. The gates are open,” Eden informed the others on the radio.
Now Señora Azua was whispering something.
“What the hell is she saying, Eden?” Carlson demanded to know.
Eden damn near crawled over the seat so she could put her ear next to Suzanne’s mouth.
“Say it again,” she coaxed in Spanish.
“Go up to the traffic circle,” Señora Azua waved her hand at the windshield. Eden looked up ahead. With people setting up for Carnival, the zoo was already beginning to start. The driving looked like a cross between Paris and Mumbai. We’re screwed.
“You need to go to the traffic circle to get to the bank,” Eden told Carlson.
“Hold on,” Carlson said again.
Eden heard the Swiss banker whimper as he clutched at his leather seat, but he didn’t need to worry. The man driving t
heir car cut off three other vehicles as he sped into the traffic circle. It was all a matter of dominance. The security specialist was supremely confident and every other driver on the road got out of his way. She just prayed that the two other members of his team following them would be as well-trained.
“Good. Good.” Suzanne gasped. “There.” Again, she waved weakly toward a gleaming building that was surrounded by a high security fence.
Eden looked out the rear window and saw one of the two other Escalades behind them. “Check in. I only see one of the two,” Eden snapped into the radio.
“Patel here.”
Then there was silence. As their driver made a shuddering right between the security gate into the bank’s courtyard, he bellowed, “Rivers! Where the fuck is Rivers?!”
Eden’s SUV slammed to a halt. Carlson leaned over and made a grab for the radio in Eden’s hand. “Give me that.” She shoved it at him.
“Rivers, check in, goddamnit.” His voice oozed authority.
Nothing.
Eden opened her passenger door and Schlessinger shoved her out of the way as he dove out of the vehicle. He ended up falling to his knees. Serves him right. Leland Hines was coming out of the third-row seat. Eden moved back so he could get out first.
“Beauty before age,” he said as he waved her toward the closed passenger door. “Let’s go this way and avoid the blubbering blob, shall we?”
Whatever would get her to Suzanne the fastest was fine by Eden. She looked over the front seat and saw Carlson giving her aid, but she wanted to look over the wound. She’d learned a few things in college. It might not have been how to work on two-legged animals, but it still applied.
She jumped out the passenger door, then opened the front passenger door where Suzanne was. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Heinrich Becker, Sharon Foster, Kaito Nakamura, and Professor Nilsson all pile out of Patel’s Escalade.
She ran over to the group. “Sharon, I need your pashmina.” At least she had asked before ripping it off the woman’s shoulders.
The woman was pale and looked frightened to death.
Her Chosen Protector: Navy SEAL Romance (Night Storm Book 3) Page 3
