Page 11 of Her Chosen Protector

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.