“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 for.
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.
