Page 25 of Her Chosen Protector

“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.”