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Beer in hand, Jazz leaned back against the stickywooden counter and surveyed his men and a bunch of othermilitary outfits having their version of civilized fun. Whocared that half the guys here had dried blood on theirclothes? Or that some had weapons out in the open?
After a week toting submachine guns and C-4 around in ahot jungle in Southeast Asia, his team had netted twenty-twokills without a single casualty. Twenty-two lives gone andthree government hostages freed. They had disappearedback into the darkness when the expected "aid" had arrivedto clean up. Such was the nature of covert operations. All thefighting and none of the glory. Now, as they relaxed in thislittle bar, it wasn't easy putting back the thin veneer of humanity.Most of the boys didn't even bother. Who cared in anoisy, flashy bar this side of civilization?
Jazz crossed his legs and took a long swig from his bottle.He was tired, but this was as good a place as any to hang outuntil their ride arrived. He and his team had just finished abloody battle with a gang of drug lords who were holdingsome local officials hostage. The drug lords, however, wererevered as rebels by the locals, and the government didn'twant to be the ones to get their own.
So let's send in those crazy Americans, thought Jazz cyn-ically as he took another swig. Those stupid commandoswould go in where no other governing body would. OperationKum Quat. The little golden fruits. He had no idea whyit was called that until he saw the "lords." He shook his headand finished his beer, setting the bottle on the bar counter. Afresh ice-cold one appeared immediately, and he twisted thecap open.
He shook his head again, trying to clear the image of thetwo little boys with fat cigars in their mouths, carrying smallUzis like pros. They had been sitting on some sort of doublethrone, passing judgment on the captives when Jazz and hismen surrounded their hideout.
Unfuckingbelievable, Cucumber had whispered into hisradio mouthpiece. Jazz couldn't have agreed more. Herethey were—eight SEALs, trained to operate in the deadliestof situations—and they had to deal with two kids who didn'tlook older than ten or eleven. Except they weren't two ordinarykids. One of them had pointed his weapon casually atthe first prisoner, and before anyone could move, the captivewas dead.
That was when Jazz put aside the thought that those werekids. Their operation was to extract the hostages, and one ofthem had just been eliminated. No time. The command hadcome over his helmet intercom and the battle began . . .
Jazz finished his second beer, looking around again tocheck on his men. Cucumber and Mink were relaxing by thepiano. Crazy guys had their Hollywood sunglasses on. Theyhad gone to D.C. to do some unkoshered favor for Hawk andhis cousin Steve McMillan, and Steve's girlfriend had giventhem to the boys later. They even got a pair for him. Hawkwas talking to some chick in the corner. Of course, no surprisethere; he was a chick magnet.
As if he knew he was being watched, Hawk turned hishead to meet his eyes, a silent question between cocommanders.Jazz shrugged. Everything was A-OK. Hawk shruggedback and returned his attention to the female.
His other men were sitting quietly conversing by the door. Two of them had volunteered not to drink tonight—their jobwas to sit by the entrance and to be alert for anything. Theywere in a strange land, after all, and not everyone wasfriendly to Westerners here, only to the almighty AmericanDollar.
There were other soldiers around, mostly Americans, andthey had given Jazz and his men little attention since they'dstrolled in separate small groups into the bar. Their missionwas completed, they had no need to draw attention to themselves,except as regular military personnel out having agood time . . . with blood on their clothes.
Jazz downed his beer. Another one slid down the counter.He didn't even glance at the bartender as he caught the beerbottle with one hand. What he needed was a good buzz. Hewanted to wipe out the jungle scene in his head. Maybe theywould have a few days of down time before the next job.Just . . . him and his dog, if possible.
"Yo, Jazz, we need some tunes!" Cucumber yelled out.
"Yeah, come over here and give us some of your blues,man!" Mink encouraged, waving his beer bottle in the air.
Jazz grinned. The two men looked ridiculous in their sunglassesas they executed a series of Blues Brothers moves.These were his brothers-in-arms, celebrating the fact thatthey were still alive. He uncrossed his leg and sauntered tothe corner of the dark bar. The guy at the piano stood up,waving him the rights to the seat. Obviously, Cucumber andMink had told him that Jazz was the entertainment tonight.
Jazz sat down and looked at the yellowed keys of the piano,automatically testing some chords. Someone at thebar liked music, obviously. The piano had been recentlytuned.
He took another long swallow of beer and smacked hislips. A big smile surfaced as he glanced at the expectantfaces of the men standing around the piano. Boys would beboys. And military boys, fresh from combat, the smell ofjungle still in their hair and clothes, in need of a shave and ahot shower, always needed entertainment.
He cracked his fingers exaggeratedly and waggled his eyebrows."Blues, eh?" he asked. "My specialty, as you know."
Cucumber leaned a big arm on Mink's shoulder and pretendedto play a harmonica ...
The Protector. Copyright © by Gennita Low. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.
Excerpted from Protector by Gennita Low
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