Her Chosen Protector: Navy SEAL Romance (Night Storm Book 3)

by Caitlyn O'Leary

  “I don’t really give a shit. It happened, and we now have ten civilians whose lives are on the line, because he was stupid, greedy, or a coward. All three of those options are fucked-up in my book,” Asher said heatedly.

  “What Ash said.” Max nodded. “You get Carter on the goddamn phone. You find out which way the wind is blowing. We have two more Nomad employees in the bank with those civilians and I don’t want to find out that those people are in a henhouse with a fox. If those other two Nomad Security people are giving Maduro info, I want to know, now!”

  Kane just raised his eyebrow. Ash knew what that meant. It meant that Kane was on it, and that Carter’s ass was going to be grass if he didn’t get back to him. And it probably meant that—

  “I got sick of waiting on him, so I have one of my less reputable friends working on this from a different angle. Him, I trust.”

  Asher chuckled. “Let me get this right, you trust the untrustworthy guy, but the man we’re supposed to depend on?” He let his voice trail off.

  “Carter’s new to me. Since Isaacson got pissed-off and decided to quit, and Worthington retired, I’m nervous. So yeah, my friends who have spent their lives in the shadows are A-plus in my book.”

  “Yep, as long as they’re working on the side of the angels, I don’t care about their means and methods,” Asher agreed.

  Max pretended like he wasn’t listening.

  Must suck to be an officer.

  Kane’s satellite phone pinged. He looked at the display, then looked at Asher and Max and said, “nothing personal,” before he walked away.

  Max’s jaw clenched, but that was the only outward sign that he was upset about what was going on. Asher knew he had to be seething with everything that had gone wrong, but Max Hogan would never let his team know that. Instead, he would be the rock that they could all depend on.

  “Asher, I know you can open up a space into the gate, but how many can get in at a time?” Max asked.

  “One. If we did it where Kane is suggesting, we could do it two at a time, no problem.”

  “It’s not worth the risk,” Max’s voice was emphatic. “You have it right, we need to do it around back. You’ll make it work. I want you going through first. The problem is determining who’s going to meet you. I don’t want Nomad personnel to be your reception party.”

  He’d been thinking the same thing, but how in the hell were they going to prevent that? “Let me give this a minute of thought. There has to be a way to get this accomplished without running into an ambush.”

  “I’ve got something,” Kane said as he returned.

  “What?” Max asked.

  “Bradshaw is dead. Fucking Carter from CIA doesn’t even know it yet, but there’s been a fire at the Imperial Hotel on Aruba, multiple casualties and one death. It was Bradshaw’s alias. We’re not quite sure when it happened, but it was recent.”

  “So, somebody is trying to tie up some loose ends. That only makes it more likely that Nomad was on Maduro’s payroll and that we can’t trust Patel or Carlson,” Asher surmised.

  “That’s my take,” Kane agreed.

  Chapter 6

  Señora Azua hadn’t moved much when Eden had applied a real bandage to her neck, and now she didn’t even flinch when Carlson’s phone rang. That really worried Eden.

  “Yes,” Carlson answered tersely. He looked around before putting it on speaker. Can’t say she blamed him, since Schlessinger had been roosting in the office for the last hour. She wouldn’t want him listening in either, not that he could understand Spanish.

  “Is this Carlson?” a voice asked.

  “Yes, which one are you?”

  “This is Asher Thorne. I’m going to be coordinating the entry into the bank. I need to ask a few questions of Señora Azua or one of her employees, preferably one who is familiar with the building layout and security.”

  “How are you planning on getting into the bank? We’re surrounded by Maduro’s men,” Carlson demanded to know.

  “It’s Mike, right? Mike Carlson?”

  “Yes,” Carlson answered slowly.

  “Well, Mike. I can’t rightly answer that question since I haven’t spoken to the people who need to provide me with some details I need. Are you going to put them on the phone or not?”

  Oh, he’s good. He just shoved that knife right through Carlson’s ribcage straight into his beating heart. Eden had to smother a grin at Carlson’s less than happy expression.

  “Señora Azua is resting. I’ll get Hector, he’s the bank manager,” Carlson bit out.

  “Actually,” Eden interrupted. “I spoke to the Señora before she went to sleep. She said that we should find the guard named Torres, he would be the best one to help us get information. It sounded like Hector was more of a bureaucrat.”

  “Hi, Eden,” Asher said.

  Yay, I got a pleasant voice. Screw you, Mike. See, you catch more flies with honey than vinegar. I’m loving Carlson’s pissed-off expression.

  “Why didn’t she tell all of us?” Carlson asked as he pointed to Leland and waved his hand toward the door where Becker was outside avoiding Schlessinger.

  “She can’t strain her voice,” Eden explained. “What’s more, the three of you were talking amongst yourselves.”

  “It’s true, we were,” Leland confirmed.

  “Stay on track,” Asher coached them. “I need some inside help. Get this Torres guy.”

  “I’ll go,” Eden said. She wanted a chance to see if Chairman Becker was out whispering with Dr. Nilsson. Or worse yet, was he on his phone making calls to Maduro’s men? Dammit, she needed a spy of her own to keep track of both Carlson and Becker in case one or both were bad guys.

  “Hurry up,” Carlson ordered.

  She rolled her eyes at him and hurried out of the room. At least as fast as her pencil skirt allowed her to go.

  There in one of the office cubicles, she spotted Heinrich Becker with Gerta Nilsson. She hoped that since Kaito Nakamura was with them that she was wrong, and they weren’t in cahoots with Maduro. Maybe, just maybe, they weren’t trying to figure out a way to sell everyone out and have the secret police smear them into the ground like roadkill.

  Okay, I need to quit obsessing and focus on finding Torres. Suzanne promised me he would be excellent. And I want excellent. Asher seems excellent. Please say I’m right. Please say I’m not just spitting in the wind.

  Eden saw two men coming out of the door at the far end of the open office area. One was kind of small, the other looked big and mean. She hoped that the big and mean one was Torres. She headed their way. Big and mean looked up at her and smiled.

  “Hello,” Eden started in Spanish. “I’m Eden York and Señora Azua has been telling me wonderful things about the guards here at her bank.”

  The small man frowned. “Where is the Señora?” he asked.

  “She is resting in her office, she’ll—”

  “How badly is she injured?” the man persisted.

  “Not too bad. As long as infection doesn’t set in or her throat doesn’t swell up, she’ll be fine.”

  “We need to get her to the hospital.” He looked over to big and mean. “Marco, I want you up on the roof. I want a count of exactly how many men, vehicles, and snipers are surrounding us. You have twenty minutes to get that report back to me.”

  The big and mean Marco hopped to it by immediately turning back to the door that led to the stairs, which Eden assumed led to the roof.

  The guard, who clearly knew his stuff, rubbed his right temple. “Thank you for taking care of Señora Azua, she is a fine lady.”

  Eden held out her hand and the man took it. “I’m sorry, where are my manners?” he asked with a small smile. “My name is Angelo Torres. Normally I supervise the guards on the night shift. I volunteered to work today because it is Carnival.”

  Eden felt herself relax. Suzanne had been right, this was the guy. “How much trouble are we in?” she asked.

  “A lot. I’ll know m
ore after Marco reports, but we’re in for a great deal of trouble. What I don’t understand is why Maduro’s men haven’t launched a full-on assault and just taken the Señora, you, and the other bankers. This makes no sense to me…unless.”

  He stroked the wispy stubble on his chin.

  After waiting patiently for almost a minute, Eden lost it. “Unless what, Angelo?”

  “Unless they don’t have Maduro’s permission. They won’t wipe their asses unless that pig gives them permission.”

  Eden winced at the imagery. Torres noticed it, then he winced.

  “I beg your pardon, Senorita. This is a difficult situation, but there is never a reason to use strong language in front of a lady such as yourself.”

  Eden laughed. “My father is retired military and now is a sheriff in a small town. My brothers, well, let’s just say they are all in different fields that take swearing for granted. I just haven’t been home for a while, so you caught me off-guard.”

  “That is still not a reason for me to not treat you with respect. Will you forgive my lack of manners?” She could tell he was serious about this forgiveness bullshit.

  She inclined her head. “Of course, you’re forgiven. This is a difficult situation,” she parroted back to the man. “But I would like to ask why you think that Maduro hasn’t given them permission.”

  Again, he stroked his chin as he looked off into space, then he looked at her with laser focus. “I think that they can’t get ahold of him. It is rumored that for our national holiday, President Maduro normally goes to the Isla de Margarita. I know for a fact that he has a second home under an alias on the Western tip of the Macanao Peninsula.”

  “I still don’t get it, why not just contact him?”

  “He doesn’t go there with his family.” The man looked uncomfortable. He finally answered. “He is usually there with one or more ladies of ill-repute.”

  Eden had to stop herself from rolling her eyes at the way Torres tried to spare her sensibilities. Truly, she didn’t think any man had ever worried about her more than this guy. It might be cute, but it was getting on her nerves.

  “Got it. I understand. So how long do we have? How long will these women keep Maduro occupied before he comes up for air?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe until Monday?”

  The door slammed open and they both turned to look. Marco was breathing heavily. “Wait a moment,” Torres said, turning back to Eden. “Maduro will definitely be back to attend mass on Sunday with his wife.”

  Shit.

  “What time?”

  “The eleven o’clock service. He likes to sleep in.”

  It was now early Friday afternoon and people were pouring into the street to get ready for Carnival. It was a crapshoot if Maduro would be commanding his men on Saturday night, or Sunday morning, but those goddamn SEALs better be on the ball.

  “Senor Torres, I need you to come with me,” she said. “You need to give some information to some people who can help us.”

  “First, I need Marco to give me his report.”

  Eden listened. It was bad. Really bad.

  “How in the hell are we going to get Carlson off the damn phone?” Leo asked.

  Asher looked over his shoulder at the man. Subterfuge was not one of Leo’s strong points—he went in with both guns blazing every fricking time. Asher loved having his friend watch his back, but when they needed to talk their way out of a fight, Leo was not the guy you wanted at your side.

  “With finesse, and Asher can do it. He’s almost as good as Kane,” Cullen assured Leo.

  “I resent that. Kane’s so busy running background checks on everybody, he’s forgotten the fine art of diplomacy and subtlety.”

  “If you have enough information, you don’t have to wait around for folks to fess up, you already know everything,” Kane smirked as he and Cullen stood over Rafa, Asher, and Leo as they looked at the schematics of the bank.

  “How’s that ‘knowing everything’ working for you in your life with A.J.?” Cullen asked.

  “Shut up,” Kane said without heat.

  Asher held up his hand to gather some control. “Let’s make another call. I’ll wing it, and see if I can get Heinrich Becker, Leland Hines, or Eden York to take over the call and send Carlson on some fool’s errand.”

  Leo snorted. “Good luck with that, Mr. Diplomat.”

  They’re bringing my headache back.

  He looked across the room to where Raiden, Nic, Ezio, and Max were huddled together. He knew that they were figuring out transportation that didn’t include a food truck, as well as the best routes to the hospital, hacienda, and airport. He caught Raiden’s eye. Soon, Raiden had two ice packs in his hands and was providing them to Asher and Leo.

  When Leo looked like he was going to protest, Raiden told him to suck it up. Asher just took his with grateful dignity and placed it against his throbbing head.

  “What can I do?” Rafa asked. Asher wasn’t surprised; the kid had been chomping at the bit to get back in the action for the last forty-five minutes. Couldn’t blame him since it was his family on the line.

  “Make the call,” Asher said. “Let’s see if your aunt is feeling better. Maybe we can get her to talk this time.”

  Asher wasn’t hopeful, but he wasn’t going to tell that to the kid. He watched as Rafa punched in the number. Carlson immediately answered the phone.

  “Is this Thorne?” He did not sound happy.

  Asher smiled. Glad to see I made a good impression. He didn’t say anything, allowing the kid to speak.

  “Can I talk to my aunt?”

  “Who’s this?” Again, Carlson was a surly bastard. Who pissed in his Cheerios? Did he have to be a prick to a teenager who was worried about his aunt?

  “That’s Rafael Azua, he’s Suzanne Azua’s nephew. He wants to know if she’s okay. Is she?” Asher bit out the question.

  “Look, we don’t have time for that. She’s going to make it. We need to coordinate—”

  “This is Eden. Your aunt is resting. This is Rafa, right?”

  “Yes, Señora. She’s really going to be all right?” There was a tremble in his voice.

  “I promise you, she will be fine. I would worry if she were burning up with fever, but she’s not.”

  Instead of answering her, the kid’s head shot up and he looked at Asher with wide eyes. What the hell is that about? The kid should be happy his aunt is fine. What’s going on here?

  Asher decided to step in. “Eden, we have a few ideas on how we’re going to get into the bank without alerting Maduro’s men.”

  “What are your plans?” Carlson demanded to know.

  “They’re fluid right now. Currently, we’re trying to get a take on the number of people that Maduro has surrounding the bank.”

  “I have that number,” Eden said. “Or I should say, Angelo Torres does. He is the lead guard here at the bank.” Asher really liked her delivery. She was cool as a cucumber. Now if he could just find a way to talk to her without Carlson around.

  Rafa covered the mouthpiece of the satellite phone and gave Asher a determined look. “There is something wrong. Señora York used the code word.”

  “What?”

  “She used my aunt’s emergency code word. She said burning. Our family was supposed to use that word if any of us ever got into trouble. Like a robber came into the house or something.”

  Ah. Must be why he looked so upset. But was he right? Asher thought through Eden’s sentence. There was really no reason for her to have said burning up with fever. But if the kid was right, then she knew things were hinky on her end, and Halleluiah for that! Now, to somehow use it to their advantage.

  Maybe….

  “How much juice on the phone you’re using?” Asher quickly asked.

  “I’m at forty-two percent,” Carlson answered.

  “Do you have a charger?”

  “No,” the man reluctantly admitted.

  “We’re going to need some back-up phon
es to communicate from. I’m going to give you this number, and someone needs to go and see which phones have the capability to dial out to this number. Then bring all of those phones into wherever you are.”

  “I’ll also check desks to see if any of the bank employees left behind chargers,” Eden volunteered. “It’ll take more than a minute though.”

  “This is important. Take as long as you need,” Asher responded. Please God, say that there’s a family code word, and she understood what I was saying. He needed to talk to her away from Carlson.

  “Okay, I’m going to go see what I can find,” Eden said.

  “Yeah, yeah, do whatever,” Carlson bellowed. “Meanwhile, this guy can fill me in on what kind of plan him and his team have come up with.”

  “No. First, Torres is going to tell me what he found out about the number of men who are surrounding the bank,” Ash answered.

  A new voice spoke up. “There are five jeeps with long-range mounted machine guns. From what my man could see, there are at least three men with RPGs. Our reinforced gate couldn’t withstand two grenade shots at the same spot. But I don’t think the secret police would want to risk that. It would mean that within minutes, the entire city would know that the secret police were mounting an all-out assault on the bank. Maduro would have to come up with quite the story to explain away why he approved that.”

  Shit. RPGs, long-range machine guns. We are so fucked.

  Asher looked over at Leo and Kane—they looked as grim as he felt.

  “What the hell are you going to do about this?” Carlson demanded.

  “Excuse me, what was the other gentleman’s name? Was that Senor Torres?” Asher asked calmly.

  “Yes, I am Angelo Torres. I manage the guards here at night. I have worked at Banco de la Gente for the last seventeen years,” he said proudly. “Señorita York has explained things to me, but I still do not understand how you Americans are going to help us.”

  “That makes two of us,” Carlson spat out. “Thorne, you heard the man, there’s an army out there. What in the hell are you planning?”