Walker (In the Company of Snipers Book 21)

by Irish Winters

  Sure, he truly wished he’d been the one who’d ended Goff. The man had deserved to die, a thousand times over, for all the ways he’d demeaned and abused his men. Problem was, Walker wasn’t the guy who’d killed him. Neither did he know who’d had the balls to go after Goff and break his neck. Or who’d been smart enough to leave no fingerprints or other forensic evidence behind. Not that he’d seen the actual body, but he’d seen the morgue photos the San Diego Medical Examiner had presented at Walker’s trial. Walker knew it to be true. Goff was dead. He couldn’t hurt anyone anymore.

  Or could he?

  The oddest sensation slithered up Walker’s spine and curled around his neck like an invisible, slimy noose. His lungs stopped working because his heart had suddenly gone gangbusters loud. Was Goff deceased or not, damn it? Walker had seen the medical examiner’s photographic evidence. He had! That was Commander Goff’s ugly gray face in the morgue shot. Walker was certain. Wasn’t he?

  Yet doubt niggled, like a drug under a twitchy addict’s skin. Why hadn’t the Nymph’s new owner updated the registration? Was California DMV simply behind updating their records, or was more going on here than met the eye? For sure, NCIS, the Naval Criminal Investigation Service, had failed to defend Walker, had, in fact, crucified him in the press during his court-martial. Hell, instead of defending him, they’d produced a neighbor and two sailors who’d willingly put their lying hands on the Bible and sworn they’d seen him at the scene of the crime.

  But those two sailors and Goff’s supposed neighbor had outright lied. Walker hadn’t been anywhere near Goff’s house the night of the murder, that much was absolute fact. He’d actually just returned to San Diego from seven days personal leave, which the Navy prosecutor should have known from the get-go. Yet, that lawyer had twisted the argument, denying any record of leave existed. Then, going one slanderous step further, he’d stated—for the record—that even if Walker had been on leave or out of the country, he could’ve easily returned and killed Goff. He’d had plenty of time. As a SEAL, he certainly had the skills. Why look for anyone else when the SEAL they had in prison was the obvious perpetrator?

  Yet some Navy asshat had definitely tampered with his official Navy records. It was as if that leave request had never been granted, as if his written request hadn’t been submitted. Since his Commanding Officer, CDR Wallace Goff, was dead, and since Walker had refused to explain where he’d been or why, he’d ended with nothing to substantiate his claim. Not even a receipt while he’d been undercover, albeit on personal business, in Guatemala. That would’ve betrayed a good friend’s confidence and trust, something he’d never do.

  Walker had simply set out on that unplanned trip to do a dirty job for his friend. He’d never revealed to anyone where he was going, what he’d done while in South America, or who he’d done it for. That man’s little girl didn’t need to become fodder for this country’s vile, rapacious media. They would’ve turned her into a spectacle the minute they knew. A three-year-old kid, for hell’s sake. So, they’d never, ever find out. Even if Walker had to spend the rest of his days in Leavenworth, he’d gladly bear the burden, rather than turn sweet little Emily Dooley over to media sharks for their predictable circus. Just for the fame and glory of hyping a story, true or not. Assholes, every last one of them.

  Walker never understood what the nation’s press corps had become. Not one of them were honest brokers anymore, neither were they held accountable when proof of their lies, slander, and contrived ‘facts’ surfaced. No, the bastards just spun their lies faster, turned on the next unwitting victim in sight, and started another feeding frenzy.

  He would know. They’d pretty much trashed his twenty-year USN career and pristine reputation during his trial. They’d lied and invented salacious versions of a crime that had never happened, at least not the way they’d said. America’s press was no longer about freedom of speech. They somehow twisted inalienable rights into weapons they readily wielded, to verbally assassinate anyone who spoke out against them, or got in their way. Hardworking people like him. Innocents like Emily. Hell, anyone they wanted to smear for the sake of sensationalism, they did it. Daily. Hourly! Hell, minute by minute!

  So, yes. He’d take the hit for that sweet little blonde girl and her family. The Dooleys deserved his utmost respect, and they had it in spades. The press? They deserved to be held accountable. But that was another fight, and Walker had enough on his plate for now. Like what was really going on? Who was behind this nightmare? And why was Goff’s yacht in Florida, when it should’ve been docked in San Diego?

  Walker’s brain pinged from simple questions to crazier, more ridiculous ideas until Common Sense screamed, “Time out!”

  Which made… sense.

  For the moment, hw was a free man, and he had possession of Goff’s yacht. A full tank. All the beer, wine, and food he needed were in the galley below. He knew how to fish, and he could survive on his own. Time was on his side.

  Okay then. He settled down and changed the yacht’s current DMV registration record from active to salvage like he’d planned. Then he changed the current owner from Wallace Goff to Ruby Hatfield. Don’t ask where that name came from. Walker honestly had no idea. The only thing he knew was that it was past time to right the wrongs done against him. He meant to do that without outing Emily, her family, or what she’d lived through.

  Feeling lucky, he took a chance and docked the Coronado’s Sea Nymph at one of San Juan’s busiest wharves. Donning his Ray-Bans with reflective lenses, Walker retrieved several large bills from his bag, ran to the nearest office supply store, and bought a couple sets of large, black, stick-on stencils. Only when he was back on board and had steered the Nymph south toward Venezuela, did he lose the sensation of being watched.

  The criminal everyone thought Walker Judge was, for the moment, remained unseen and untouchable. Goff’s yacht was off official records. Standing in the cockpit with his hand on the wheel, Walker took a long deep breath of freedom, even as he left the land he loved far behind. This was one of the downfalls to leaving. The other was an incredible, sultry woman named Persia.

  Both now belonged to the past. Walker locked his heart yet one more time. Now was the time for clear, salt air in his nose, and getting his head on straight. He had to find out who was behind his multiple accusations.

  To be safe, he kept the ship-to-shore radio on all that day. At sunset, before he lost what was left of the already fading daylight, he slowed the engine to idle and removed a coiled bundle of sturdy nylon rope from the cockpit supply locker. He had something to do that couldn’t wait one more day.

  At the prow of the Nymph, he tied a loop in one end of the rope, secured the other end to the polished starboard wooden railing, then adjusted the distance between loop and railing to the correct height. With the same agility that had earned him his SEAL handle in the Teams, he climbed over the railing to satisfy the gods of good fortune, sea, and wind.

  Slipping one foot into the knotted loop for support, he dangled from the Nymph’s prow, and scraped off the yacht’s registration. But changing a ship’s ID and name was serious business to superstitious sailors, and Walker was damned superstitious these days. Before the night was over, there’d be no more Coronado’s Sea Nymph on the high seas.

  “Hey, Poseidon. Hey, Neptune,” he murmured to the ancient gods while he worked. “I humbly beg your favors and blessings upon this sea-worthy vessel as I rename her. I vow I will do no harm with this yacht, nor cause another sailor grief. Praise and thanks be to both of you for keeping her safe for me. From this day forward, let her be known as” —the new name came easily to him— “Persia Smiles.”

  And just like that, the superstitious chant changed to heartfelt prayer. “Let her be stronger than she thinks she is, Father. Let her always seek safe waters. Let her fly on eagle’s wings. May the wind be always at her back. When sudden storms threaten her course, send your light to guide her home. Keep Persia safe, Father, please�
��for me.”

  He stuck the last of the scraped off, sticky vinyl into his rear pocket, then tugged the brand-new stencils from inside his t-shirt, where he’d put them to keep them dry. Carefully he removed the paper backing, then aligned the new letters and numbers.

  The same job port side went easier. Quicker. By the time Walker was back up on the narrow forward deck, it was dark. The yacht’s nighttime running lights had automatically come on. Hurriedly, he untied the rope and stowed it back in the cockpit storage locker. There was more work to be done.

  Removing one of several LED lanterns from that same locker, he headed below deck to Commander Goff’s well-stocked liquor cabinet. There, Walker requisitioned two bottles, one red wine and one champagne with an impressive gold label. Hmmm, Louis Roederer ‘Cristal’ Brut. Sounded decadently expensive. It would do.

  On the swim deck at the rear of the yacht, he uncorked the pricey red first, and raised the bottle to the mighty gods of wind. Every sailor worth his salt knew them by name. “I call upon you, Boreas of the North, Zephyrus of the West, Eurus of the East, and Notus of the South. Hear me now. From this night forward, Coronado’s Sea Nymph shall exist no more.”

  As if those gods were alive and listening, a breeze lifted Walker’s hair, ruffling through it like fingers of approval from the great beyond. Like a fatherly pat on the head.

  Pouring the wine off the side into the sea, he prayed, “This offering of red wine symbolizes the sacrifice and blood of virgins. I offer it to you mighty warriors, that you may blow away the stench of the old name and clean the wounds this vessel might have caused in her travels, through no fault of her own. I beg you to forgive her past, bless her future and her new name. Bless Persia Smiles with favoring winds and following seas, wherever she sails.”

  As before, the superstitious supplication led to earnest prayer. “Father, from this day forward, this sound and seaworthy vessel shall forever be known as Persia Smiles. Watch over her for me. Send Thy angels to guard her as she begins her new job with… with...” Damn, what was that guy’s name? Oh, yeah. “Alex Stewart, in Somewhere, Virginia. Forever. Amen.”

  With his heart on fire for the woman he’d left behind, Walker knelt, facing the fancy script at the rear of the yacht’s hull, just above the ladder that led to the upper deck.

  One by one, the letters that had spelled out Coronado’s Sea Nymph fell to the deck. As before, he rolled the sticky mess into a ball and stuffed it in his pocket. Then, tenderly, he blessed the stolen yacht with the name of the woman he’d left behind.

  “Please forgive me,” he whispered to her, there in the dark. “I hurt you by running out on you. I know I did. But if we’re meant to be, I know we’ll meet again. If and when we do, please let me make it up to you. Don’t hate me. Until then…” He smoothed his fingers over the vinyl lettering of the name that had come to mean something to him. “Help her to forgive herself, Father. Heal her. Keep her safe. Thanks again. Amen.”

  Walker lifted to his feet, tired yet exhilarated. Back at the front of the yacht, he leaned under the railing, and struck the yacht with that pricey bottle of champagne, declaring loudly and proudly, “I christen thee Persia Smiles!”

  The bottle shattered, and the golden, foaming champagne splashed into the sea, a just and holy offering. It was customary to toast newly christened ships, even if they’d just been renamed. It was a time for celebration, but Walker hadn’t brought a third bottle with him, and he hated drinking alone. Instead, he walked to the cockpit and checked his bearings. Throttling the engine down to zero knots, he secured the stolen craft for the night.

  He’d stopped worrying about the Coast Guard hours ago. Figured they had bigger fish to fry. Drug smugglers. Human-traffickers. Despicable miscreants like that. Besides, he was in international waters now, and the currents were calm.

  Walker headed back to the upper aft deck, grabbed a woven blanket off one of the plush recliners there, made himself comfortable, and settled in for the night. He planned to fully investigate all drawers and cubbyholes of Goff’s yacht come morning. But for tonight, he’d done all he could. For the first time since he’d left Persia behind, he was content. Well, semi-content. He’d accomplished a few things since he’d absconded with Goff’s yacht. A hard day’s work always felt good.

  Staring up at the same stars that daring ancient voyagers had studied while they’d searched what they’d then thought was a flat Earth, Walker crossed his arms behind his head and took a deep breath. Being at sea had always soothed his soul. A man like him couldn’t ask for more than the gentle give and take of waves slapping against the hull of a good ship. He knew better, but out here on the ocean, it was easy to believe he could live like this—forever free.

  It had been a long day. He was emotionally, as well as physically, spent. Yet he cast one last thought to the myriad of benign stars twinkling in the dark night sky. “Forgive me for hurting her, Father. Thanks for keeping her safe.”

  It’d been a long time since he’d prayed as much as he had today. He just hoped he’d prayed enough.

  Chapter Ten

  The Queen of England. The reigning monarch of all Commonwealth realms. An awesome, frighteningly powerful title that, frankly, stole Persia’s breath, as well as robbed her companion agent’s nerves. Izza Maher was close to hyperventilating. Not her usual reaction in times of stress. The battle-hardened Hispanic had a reputation for being tougher than most of the guys on The TEAM, probably meaner, too. But this morning, she’d morphed into a silly fangirl about to meet her all-time teen idol.

  “Should I kiss the back of her hand or her knuckles? Her ring?” Izza whispered out of the side of her nervous mouth. “What do you think? Should I bow? Curtsy? Man, I hate looking stupid. I don’t want to look stupid. Help me out here.”

  Persia couldn’t keep from smiling. Just a little, though. Izza didn’t usually reveal nervousness. To tease her now would surely land Persia’s ass on the floor. Not how she wanted to be introduced to Her Majesty. Both had dressed in formal TEAMwear: black pencil skirts, crisp white blouses beneath pressed black blazers, The TEAM’s golden logo high on their left lapels. They waited. And, apparently, Izza worried.

  For the moment, they were still in the hallway outside the Queen’s posh suite at one of New York City’s finest hotels. The two bodyguards at the entrance to that suite had yet to acknowledge Persia’s or Izza’s presence, even after they’d introduced themselves. The men stood there like stern, unflinching statues in business suits, staring straight ahead, and hardly blinking.

  “Repeat after me,” Persia murmured to Izza. “Your Majesty. That’s all you need to say when you’re introduced. She’ll have her own escorts and bodyguards. All we have to do today is stick with these guys, stay out of their way, and coordinate with Alex, Mark, and David. They’re running this show, not us. Do not touch the Queen unless she offers her hand first, and don’t hug her. Smile, but keep your grip light and brief. Bow your head in acknowledgment and step back.”

  “But when should I do all that? Who’s going to introduce us? And when?”

  “That, I don’t know. But someone just as important as Her Majesty will surely make introductions. Maybe one of her grandsons. That’d be cool, huh? Being introduced by a prince.”

  Izza groaned. “I hate not knowing what’s gonna happen next. Why didn’t Alex tell us this crap yesterday?”

  “Relax, girlfriend. You’ve been in tougher spots. You can do this.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  Both golden gilded doors opened outward.

  “Oh, shit,” Izza gasped.

  Damned if Alex didn’t step into the hall first. He nodded once to Persia and Izza, then extended his hand back into the room and…

  She. Walked. Out.

  Persia’s heart stopped beating. It really was her. Her Majesty. The one and only Queen of England.

  “Your Majesty,” Alex said respectfully, his right hand now cupping Her Majesty’s left elbow,
as if he did that every day. He bowed his head slightly. “May I present one of my finest agents, Junior Agent Izza Maher?”

  Izza stumbled forward, but caught her balance before she face-planted, and just in time, she managed a breathy, “Your… Your M-Majesty.”

  The Queen grabbed hold of Izza’s hand with both of hers. “I am so glad to meet a woman sniper! What a hard job you have. Thank you for keeping me safe,” she murmured conspiratorially, her British accent perfectly clipped and so, so… royal.

  She almost sounded like a regular person. Not like that calmed the flock of starlings flapping furiously to be free inside Persia’s ribs.

  “You’re w-w-welcome,” Izza stuttered.

  Yet, the Queen still held onto her hand. “I’m having a private dinner in my suite tonight. Would you two join me?”

  Alex had taken a step back while she spoke with Izza. Persia looked to him for direction, not sure if dining with royalty was something a bodyguard on duty should do.

  He. Just. Winked!

  Not what Persia expected. Then his head bobbed one curt nod of approval, and she started to breathe again. That he’d assigned Izza and her to guard this prestigious visitor still made no sense. But here she was, hyperventilating and fangirling as bad as Izza.

  “S-sure,” Izza answered, her dark brown eyes all but stabbing Persia to help. “I, umm, I mean we... We can do that, can’t we? I mean, we’ve got time.”

  Which allowed Persia to reply graciously, “Yes, ma’am, it would be our pleasure.”

  With that, the Queen’s sweet face broke into a gentle smile, and she released Izza’s hand, which had to be sweating bullets by now. Persia’s certainly were.

  Alex stepped back to the Queen’s side and gestured for her to step forward. “Ma’am, another of my best, Junior Agent Persia Coltrane.”

  He was so sure of himself. So confident. What the heck was he doing here, and how did he know Britain’s royalty? It was no wonder he’d been uptight yesterday in the Sit Room. He had to do this!