Walker (In the Company of Snipers Book 21)

by Irish Winters

  And thank heavens, he’d dressed in simple gray and silver tones today. Not red. Not black. Yet Persia’s heart still pounded when she stepped where Izza had just stood and accepted the Queen’s hand. It was warm and soft and… She. Persia Coltrane. A nobody. Was touching the Queen of England!

  Her eyes were royal blue, made more stunning by her silvery-white hair and the lovely teal business suit she wore. As she’d done with Izza, the Queen grasped Persia’s hand with both of hers. “It is so nice to meet you. What a lovely name, Persia.”

  There were no words. Literally. Persia couldn’t remember a thing to say.

  “Your family must be from the Middle East, yet your surname is Coltrane. That’s not very Middle Eastern, is it?”

  “My m-m-mom,” Persia stuttered as her brain came back online. “Dad’s from the South, but Mom was born in Iran. You might have heard of her. Doctor Ahmadi.”

  The Queen’s pretty blue eyes widened. “Ester Ahmadi? She’s your mother? What a lovely coincidence.”

  Persia blinked. “You know Mom?”

  “I most certainly do. Who do you think sent the armed guard that facilitated her safe escape during that atrocious war? Mustard gas, for pity’s sake. That was supposed to have ended with the war that ended all wars. Not like that worked either, but really. Gassing one’s enemies is unfair and inhumane.”

  “I… I didn’t know you rescued her. Wow. She never said. Yes. Mom and Dad live in Mississippi now. My dad’s Dupree Coltrane, but wow, I wish she were here now. I’m sure she’d love to talk with you.” I’m going to have such a long talk with that mother of mine. Tonight. After dinner. If it’s not too late.

  “I’d love to meet her again. She is such a strong woman. Well, then. Yes. You’ll do nicely. Plan to be here by six this evening, and Alex…” She released Persia’s hand and turned to him. “Do bring Kelsey and that adorable daughter of yours. I brought Lexie something, Kelsey, too.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Kelsey has been looking forward to chatting with you again.”

  Again? This morning kept getting stranger and stranger. Alex and Kelsey Stewart hobnobbed with British royalty? My Mom knows the Queen of England? Who knew?!

  “Well, let’s get this foolishness at the UN over with, shall we?” With a smile, the Queen proceeded down the hall with Alex at her side, while her ten bodyguards, not counting Izza and Persia, followed.

  Alex looked as if he’d done this before, as if the Queen were just another good friend. He was nothing like the curt taskmaster he’d been in the office the last few days. He almost looked good. The Queen and he chatted at the elevator. Then, while two guards stepped inside once the doors opened, he tipped his head back and laughed at whatever she’d said. Who was he?

  “Sure didn’t see this coming,” Izza murmured out of the side of her mouth. “The Boss and the Queen? Sounds like one of those risqué romance novels Ember reads.”

  Persia shook her head, not able to reply. What Alex and the Queen had going on between them had nothing to do with romance. He was more like one of her faithful knights, sworn to fealty and prepared to die for her. Like Hotrod would do for someone he cared about.

  Damned if that notion didn’t drop like a rock in Persia’s heart. The Queen had a knight like Alex, but who did Persia have? Nobody.

  Chapter Eleven

  Walker would’ve slept better if he hadn’t stared at the stars all night. Would’ve also helped if he could’ve gotten Persia out of his mind, once and for all. But he couldn’t, and he hadn’t. Instead, he was on his hands and knees in the master stateroom, going through bottom drawers in the long combination dresser/desk, with an LED flashlight stuck between his teeth. Exploring. Investigating. Searching for the elusive explanation as to how Commander Goff’s yacht had been berthed in Florida, instead of sunny California.

  He’d shut the engine down east of Grenada, where he intended to refuel come morning. A bill of sale, that was all Walker was looking for. But he had yet to find any official records pertaining to the yacht. Not registration papers or receipts for payment of that registration. Anything with the new owner’s name on it would do. A restaurant receipt. A hotel reservation. Even a captain’s log or address book. A fuel receipt, for pity’s sake!

  Tired, Walker rolled off his knees to his butt, needing a clearer head than the exhausted one currently sitting on his shoulders. “Where would I keep records and receipts if I were on vacation?” he mused aloud.

  Obviously, not in the master stateroom. Not in the guest stateroom either, though both had enough high gloss cabinetry and closets for ten guests’ clothing, shoes, whatever else guests usually boarded with, as well as enough room for a folder or file or… something. Most yacht owners kept captain’s logs to document maintenance, repairs, or bills of sale. That there was no paper trail anywhere was disconcerting. Normal people left paper evidence wherever they went. Credit card receipts. Maps. But not this guy, whoever he was.

  This stately accommodation included a bed right out of the best bed and breakfast, a lavish ensuite bathroom with, not one, but two private vanities. Plenty of storage, although Walker now knew most of the closets and drawers were empty.

  It was obvious this yacht had been built for two, everything doubled, from the recliners on the upper aft deck to the umbrellas stationed beside those recliners, to this queen bed. A long mirror lined one entire wall in the head. The shower was another masterpiece all together, with two split showerheads, one on either side of the tiled-bench facing the sliding, double-glass doors.

  Yet, there was no sign a woman had ever been aboard. There were no blouses, swimsuits, slacks, or dresses hanging in the closets or folded in the drawers. No flipflops, boat shoes, or heels. No sexy nightgowns, panties, or bras in any drawers. No make-up, perfumes, or other feminine items in the head.

  Walker hadn’t found a single file that might identify the yacht’s owner. Which might simply mean that the owner had left California, and was on his way to somewhere else. Maybe he’d decided to sail around the world. New owners did stupid stuff like that. They thought they knew it all, when, many times, they didn’t know a damned thing about the yacht they’d just bought. And this was the age where newer generations didn’t rely on paper receipts. But there should still be some sort of written evidence of preparations for that voyage. Of purchases for extra foodstuffs. Additional tanks of fuel. Something!

  With that lame what-if scenario in his head, Walker pushed up and left the master stateroom behind. The sun had been up for hours, and it was too damned bright. Pulling his Ray-Bans up from his shirt pocket, he protected his tired eyes.

  The uniform of the day was exactly what he’d worn yesterday, and the day before that. Wrinkled khaki cargo shorts, the kind that came with extra pockets. A dull, gray, short-sleeve shirt. Nothing flashy. Nothing bright. No hat. He’d lost his ball cap somewhere in South America, and he wasn’t about to wear anything he’d found on the yacht. He wasn’t desperate, and guys just didn’t do stuff like that.

  His swim trunks were draped over one of the recliners on the aft deck where he’d tried to sleep last night, along with a towel. Right now, he needed coffee, maybe a breakfast of eggs and bacon from the galley. His brain ought to work better then.

  Even if it didn’t, he had time. He planned on docking somewhere along the coast of Guyana, then French Guinea in West Africa. Today’s weather was perfect, and he’d been blessed with following seas. If these conditions held, before he headed to Africa, he planned to fill his tanks at a little fishing village out of Recife, Brazil, in a week or so. He had friends there. Not that he’d look them up, not on this trip. It was too soon to reconnect with people from his past. Better to cross the Atlantic, and stay ahead of the game. From Recife? Full steam across the Atlantic to the coast of Western Africa.

  Someday, he’d like to visit Ascension Island, that tiny speck stuck in the middle of the Atlantic between South America and Africa, just south of the equator. Discovered by the
Portuguese in the fifteen-hundreds, it was a barren, inhospitable wayside. Yet it was also rich with history. In the early nineteenth century, the Brits had garrisoned the island. Then, during World War II, they’d allowed the United States to build and man Wideawake Airbase there. It had been a strategic location during the Falklands War of 1982 as well. Walker could refuel there. Might even find a local shop to buy a few decent clothes. A cap.

  He had enough cash to finance his current lifestyle, or lack thereof, hidden deep in the waterproof lining of his gear bag. If he needed more, he’d have no problem getting it. Out of sheer dumb luck, the inheritance he’d received when his grandfather passed years ago was safely out of NCIS’s reach. He’d been smart enough to open an offshore account before he’d gone to Guatemala. Ironically, the same morning he’d returned from South America, NCIS had stormed his house and taken him into custody. They’d marched him into the street in shackles and cuffs. Like an already condemned criminal, instead of an innocent man under investigation.

  You’d think under the umbrella of the United States Constitution, that everyone was innocent before trial and judgment. Not so. The minute he stepped foot in the brig, Walker never stood a chance. Someone in Navy ranks had condemned him before he’d gone to trial, maybe even before he’d returned from Guatemala. And like the bastard that person was, they’d fed the sensation-seeking press nothing but lies, then backed every lie with false witnesses.

  Walker shook the shitty memories off. Somehow, he’d find a way to prove his innocence to the whole damned world.

  Deep breath. Let it go.

  Ascension Island was not in the plan. Walker wanted to cross the Atlantic sooner than later. Although, now that he had time to think, there was an airport on Ascension Island. He could catch a plane to Johannesburg. But that meant going ashore and through customs, where a man with no passport would be detained and…

  “Stick to the plan,” he hissed. “Be smart. Keep your eyes open. You can do this.”

  As always, it felt good to have faith in himself. Lonely. But good.

  Chapter Twelve

  Dinner with the Queen was refreshingly enjoyable. She’d brought elegant gifts of Irish crystal heart ornaments for her female guests. Lexie Rose Stewart sat on her lap at the moment, chattering like little girls did when they had someone’s undivided attention. Man, that little one was Kelsey Stewart all over again. Delicate frame, expressive eyes, and a dainty pert nose dotted with the tiniest chocolate sprinkle freckles. Shiny dark curls spiraled down her back, but those mischievous melted chocolate-kiss eyes sparkled more than the crystal settings adorning the elegant table.

  The men and boys were dressed in business suits, and the women in dinner dresses. Little Lexie wore a lovely red velvet dress over black tights, shiny shoes, and a big smile.

  Taciturn Hunter Christian and his pretty wife Meredith, sat at the Queen’s left, with their two sons. Courtney sat beside his father. Little Robert sat next to his mother.

  Kelsey and Alex sat at the Queen’s immediate right, with Lexie’s empty chair next to Kelsey. Persia and Izza were next to Hunter’s family, while Eric and Shea Reynolds sat across from them, next to the Stewarts. Unfortunately, Eric’s two-year-old triplet girls, Summer, Sage, and Lyrik, were home with a stomach virus, with Eric’s mother watching over them.

  The Queen had gifted each child a plush Winnie-the-Pooh, courtesy of A. A. Milne’s vivid imagination. After Lexie had curtsied and told Her Majesty, “Thank you, ma’am,” like a very good girl, she’d marched straight to the wooden rocking horse set out of the way, near the bay windows. To Persia’s amusement, Lexie had argued strongly with Alex when it came time to dismount. “But, Daddy, I wanna ride the pony. Why else is it here if not for us kids to ride it?”

  To which he’d firmly said, “After dinner, sweetheart. Let’s sit down. It’s time to eat. Now.”

  Lexie had pouted when he’d physically lifted her out of the tiny leather saddle and placed her on the booster seat next to Kelsey. Persia could’ve laughed out loud.

  Only when the Queen asked if Lexie could, “Please, come and sit with me,” did that little girl’s smile return. Like a rock star.

  Kelsey’s lashes fell then, and Persia was sure she chuckled under her breath, at the power struggle between one hard-assed father and his stubborn daughter. Seemed like that apple hadn’t fallen far from the Stewart tree.

  Alex was a doting father, that much was clear. And Kelsey adored Lexie and him. The second he returned to his place, he rested his arm along the back of her chair and pressed a sigh and a kiss to her temple.

  “Stop laughing at me,” he growled, ever so softly, his attention again focused on the Queen.

  “That little girl’s as pigheaded as you,” Kelsey whispered back.

  “Yeah, well…”

  Eric chuckled at their interaction. “Relax, Boss. You could’ve had triplets. Three times the fun.”

  “And we would’ve loved them!” Kelsey replied, her eyes bright as she elbowed her husband’s ribs. “Admit it, Alex. You’d love three more little girls just like Lexie running around the house. Or three sons would be cool, too. You need three Mini-Alexes following you everywhere you go. You could teach them carpentry.”

  He rolled his eyes. “One of these days…”

  Which caught Shea’s attention. Leaning over her place setting, she asked Kelsey, “Are you two pregnant?”

  “No,” Alex answered, a bit too quickly.

  “Alex?” the Queen asked from her place at the end of the table, her arms still around his precocious firstborn’s waist. “Are congratulations in order?”

  My, how quickly that man stiffened to attention when she spoke, and Persia knew before he said one word. The biggest clue was that Kelsey had yet to say anything and her head was still down. No one could see into her eyes. Yup. The Stewarts are pregnant!

  Persia elbowed Izza at her right to listen up.

  “Err…” Alex took a deep breath. He licked his lower lip.

  That man was stalling!

  Then, he seemed to deflate, as if he knew he’d been caught and had no way out of answering. He took another deep breath before he finally said, “Yes, ma’am, we are. But just one,” he told Eric and Shea quickly. “I don’t know how on earth you handled three.”

  Eric beamed. “Simple. I learned early. When Mama ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy. So I do what I’m told. I keep my opinions to myself, and I hop to it when my queen speaks.”

  “As you should,” the Queen added regally.

  Kelsey beamed.

  “Plus, we hired two nannies,” Shea added with a cute shrug. “I work at home, and one baby’s a handful, but three” —her brows lifted— “is a circus. A good circus, but—”

  “But all mothers need extra help, even if there’s just one newborn in the house,” Eric insisted, his big arm around his wife’s slender shoulders again. “That’s what husbands are for. We really are good for something.”

  Persia didn’t know the Reynolds’ story, but they couldn’t seem to sit close enough to each other. They had triplets, yet they still acted like honeymooners. Loving glances. Soft bumps and touches. They were adorable.

  Lexie tipped forward from where she sat on the Queen’s lap. “Mama, what’s pr… preg… preg…?”

  “Pregnant, sweetheart,” Kelsey explained, her brown eyes soft with emotion. “That big word just means Mommy and Daddy are going to have a tiny baby, and you get to be a big sister. Would you like that?”

  Lexie’s brows nearly reached her hairline. “Me? I get to be a sister?”

  Alex winked. “Which means you also get to teach your baby sister or brother how to share toys. Can you do that?”

  “Ah huh.” Lexie’s cute little head was bobbing now. “And I can teach her to walk the dogs with me and how to eat cheerios and not to eat mac-n-cheese like a little pig and—”

  “And how to take naps and not give all our family secrets away?
” Alex asked pointedly.

  Persia nearly giggled when Kelsey elbowed him again. “Did you hear that? She didn’t hear you say baby brother. All she heard was sister. We’re having another girl.”

  When Alex put his index finger to his lips, Persia wasn’t sure which of his girls he was shushing, Kelsey or Lexie.

  Lexie ducked her adorably cute face into her shoulders, quivering with excitement. “Kin we get my new baby sister tonight? Pwease, Daddy?”

  Kelsey grinned up at her man, her eyes bright and glimmering. But he seemed to be purposefully avoiding her.

  Hunter laughed out loud. “Yeah, Boss. Explain that one, why don’tcha? When can Lexie get her baby sister? This I’ve got to hear.”

  Meredith leaned her chin into her palm, as she turned to watch how Alex was going to handle Lexie. How could he resist that precious little girl?

  But it was the gleam in Kelsey’s dark browns that Persia was watching. All of her heart was in those pretty eyes, now glowing up at Alex. Persia suspected Kelsey’s left hand was right then splayed across his thigh, below the linen tablecloth. Her fingertips might even be tapping I-love-yous that she didn’t dare speak out loud. But she didn’t have to say a word. Her love shone like a bright, trusting beacon. Up. At him.

  When at last, he sighed and looked down at her, Alex’s handsome face blossomed with the loveliest, most rugged, manly smile Persia had ever witnessed. Yes, blossomed, and, yes, loveliest. Men might not want to be described that way, especially not badasses like her boss. But true love did that to even the hardest warriors, and that was what Persia saw now. Alex was all warrior, but one who obviously adored his wife above everyone else in the world, except for Lexie and her new baby sister.

  Man, everywhere Persia looked, she saw gorgeous couples in love. Hunter Christian was one tattooed monster of a gentle man. The tattooed snake running out from under the white cuff of his dress shirt ended at the end of his middle finger, most likely with a not very nice expletive. Yet he still gripped Meredith’s much smaller hand between their place settings, as if he couldn’t bear to let her go.