The Protector Read Online Free PDF Page A

“business,” and hated what Interpol was doing, refusing everyone’s help. Her language was specific. “Fuck off,” the young girl had screamed. “ Bookoo fuck off!”
    Vivi shifted in her seat, looking at the men. They would be coming over soon and she’d click the remote to signal the agents. She’d picked out the most likely to move over to the corner first; they were often already drunk and rowdy, waving their cash like kings. When they handed over their cash to her, she’d give the second signal.
    Her eyes narrowed at the sight of a loner sitting in the corner. It was the grunt she’d talked to the other day…Hawk, that was what the men in his group had called him. What the hell was he doing here now? He was quietly drinking his beer, but his eyes were watchful.
    She didn’t think he was there to just drink beer. There was something dangerous about him. Same with his buddy, Jazz. She had been told he had paid Jazz a visit that morning, and was easily given access to his friend. That was interesting by itself. No one had ever gotten access so quickly before; obviously someone with a lot of power had called in ahead of time.
    Even more interesting was the email she’d received this afternoon. It was from her operations chief, T., and after decrypting it, she had sat and pondered her instructions. It had to do, of all things, with the two men she’d met—Mr. Jazz and Mr. Hawk. Bookoo, bookoo interesting, as the local lingo went. She started at her own use of the corrupted form of beaucoup. God, she’d avoided using that for decades, and now it had slipped back into her vocabulary like some thief.
    Her frown deepened as she continued studying Hawk at his table. Her orders were clear but it would have been nice to have an explanation. Who the hell was countermanding over and above her contract? Sure, Jazz hadn’t deserved to be taken in. He’d told her he was just escorting Rose to the back and leaving, but—she shrugged—words meant nothing. The Interpol agents said they caught him unbuttoning her blouse. Besides, it wasn’t her job to prove his innocence. Where was his commander or operations chief?
    Instead, somehow, she was now responsible for that dumb GI who wouldn’t listen to her warning. She didn’t have time to go through all the paperwork to get him out. Who was he, anyway? The email told her to leave her fax line open, so she should have some answers soon.
    She watched three party-hearty males in uniform staggering over to the corner. Right now, it was time to focus on her job. Once they handed over their cash in exchange for services, she had the evidence necessary to call in the operatives outside. After that—she gave Hawk a last peek—she would handle that one.
    It didn’t take long before he wandered over. She gave him good marks for waiting until after Interpol had taken away the new detainees.
    “Grandmamasan.”
    She feigned surprise as she looked up from the cash box. “Oho, you! Golden eye. What the soldiers say? Whazz-up?” She cackled in amusement as she imitated the American slang, then coughed feebly as she peered up at the tall soldier.
    The man really had remarkably pretty eyes. They glittered back with amusement. “You funny, Grandmamasan,” he commented and squatted down in front of her without her asking. She stared straight into his eyes, knowing the semidarkness protected her. “I’m still waiting for my friend to be released.”
    “GI number ten,” she reminded him, suppressing a cheeky grin.
    “Yes, GI number ten. I was wondering, since you’ve done this with Interpol so many times, how the operation works. First, you get the bar owner to agree to all this operation, then when the men pay you and go back there, Interpol comes in and does their part. Like clockwork. Everything very practiced. What do you do after this happens, Grandmamasan?”
    She paused a few seconds, half tempted to tell him the truth. “Why you want to know?” she countered in her