Walker (In the Company of Snipers Book 21)

by Irish Winters

  “But shit happens,” she told herself, then, “Get over it,” she told Alex, though he wasn’t there. Taking a deep cleansing breath, she left her boss’s ornery imaginary image behind, locked her apartment, and marched to her car with her head held high. She’d brought bastards the world over, down. She could certainly handle one former Marine.

  Her mission in NYC a month ago had gone without a hitch, mostly because Alex had utterly paved the way for her and Izza. How could anything have gone wrong? He knew the Queen of England, for pity’s sake, and she hadn’t really needed two TEAM bodyguards.

  She’d had her own, ones Persia knew would’ve never allowed her or Izza, much less anyone else, to get close to their Queen. Yet Alex had given his only female operators that specific easy-as-hell assignment. Okay, so none of the other assignments he’d doled out to his male agents had been any more difficult, but Persia got the impression Alex didn’t quite trust her. He’d set her up, that was all he’d done. Made her feel useful when he hadn’t really needed her at all. The dirtbag.

  Well, today was the day she changed that. “God help me if I sir him,” she told her rearview mirror. “That’d be just my luck, so don’t do it.”

  Too bad that determination to be all Alex expected her to be, didn’t last once she hit the office. Ember and Beau were there. No one else. Persia greeted them with a casual, “Hey guys. Where is everyone? I was supposed to meet Alex this morning.”

  Ember didn’t take her eyes off her monitor when she answered, “Mark’s in Florida. Something came up, and Alex will be with Sec Def all day. David’s out of the office TFN.”

  TFN was TEAM talk for until further notice, which meant Senior Agent David Tao was probably on his way back to Cambodia, and The TEAM safe house for sex-trafficked children that he operated there.

  “And Zack had to run home.”

  “LiLi forgot her permission slip for her field trip to Gettysburg,” Beau added, his gaze also on his monitor. “He’ll be right back if you want to hang around.”

  Persia leaned over their customer service counter, wishing she could see what was on their screens that was so important they couldn’t break away even to make eye contact. But all TEAM monitors wore security screens to prevent the wrong person from accessing confidential information. Which, at that moment, was her.

  “Okay, so…” She let those worthless words hang as she scanned the empty work bay that could hold forty agents, if and when they were all there at the same time. Not today. It looked like everyone else was out of the office on real work. Didn’t that figure?

  “Do you two need help?” she asked brightly, still determined to give this damned job and her equally damned boss her all.

  Slowly, as if it were too hard to talk at the same time that he watched his screen, Beau shook his head. “Sure… don’t. We’ll call… if we need you.”

  Luckily, Adam Torrey burst through the fire doors then. But like a heat-seeking missile, he walked past Persia and zeroed in on Ember’s counter. “You found it yet?”

  She shook her head. “It’s not where you thought, but I’ve got a lead. Singapore, I think.”

  “There’s more than one and we’re both tracking them,” Beau added, his dark brows narrowed into a perfect V that made him look primitively angry all the time. “Can you give us anything more? A specific amount would be nice.”

  Adam rested his forearms on the counter. Persia had never seen him look so threatening. Blond and tan, he always cut a strikingly masculine profile, like most of the guys in this office. But today, he looked leaner and meaner, as if he were wound tight and was about to snap. His short-sleeved black polo revealed muscled arms lined with veins that pulsated with some internal angst. He radiated enough hostility to power Alexandria, maybe all of Virginia.

  Persia tried again. “Anything I can do to help?”

  He looked at her then, his eyes sharp and his face hard. “Sure. Pull up a chair. We’re tracking a couple offshore accounts. Least we’re trying to.”

  “Without knowing dollar amounts, bank account numbers, IP addresses, or fucking passwords,” Beau intoned gloomily.

  “Or the precise name on those bank accounts…” Ember murmured, her usual excitement dulled by her attention on her screen. “That last one took me all the way to Beijing, then Cuba, before it bounced me back to Key West. Lost it there.”

  “Which makes us think we’re looking for an offshore bank somewhere in the Caymans. Maybe,” Beau muttered darkly. Rolling his shoulder, he ran a quick hand through his thick, gorgeous, chocolate brown hair. “We just don’t know anything for certain, damn it.”

  Beau and Adam were two of the hottest males on this TEAM. But the way Beau’s hair settled back into a shiny mass that nearly tumbled into his eyes the second he leaned forward, made Persia’s mind wander to Hotrod and his tempestuous, ocean-blue eyes. The scrape of his scruff on her tender chin and lips. The guy was as ordinary as guys came. Yet even there, in an office where Persia wasn’t needed, maybe wasn’t even wanted, she knew Walker had wanted her.

  Then he’d left. But…

  No. Just no! She swallowed hard, forcing herself to… Let it go! He’d made his choice, damn him, and she was making hers now, too. Enough was enough!

  She drummed her fingertips to the countertop in case anyone noticed her momentary lapse. “Tell Alex I’ll be home, if or when, he needs me,” she informed Ember and Beau—or whoever was listening—with as much sarcasm as she could muster. She needed to work for a living, damn it. Not just show up and collect a paycheck.

  As if he’d been waiting for his cue, Junior Agent Zack Lennox shoved the fire doors open with a boisterous, over the top, “Good morning, people!”

  Gah. Just what Persia didn’t need, another drool-worthy, muscle-bound male in her life. Didn’t matter who they were, they all reminded her of Hotrod. The ass.

  Zack was one of those chipper, early-riser types, always raring to go and forever on top of the world. Today, he wore the standard TEAM black on black, with the addition of a short-waisted leather bomber jacket. Open over his broad chest and trimmed with silver zippers up the cuffs, it gave Persia an idea. Line these guys up, and they’d make a perfect Chippendale-style, Bad Boys of The TEAM calendar. Or they could call it Dark and Dangerous, something equally panty-melting. It’d sell like hotcakes, especially if she talked these guys into showing a little skin. Would Zack be willing? Would Mark or Beau? Would their wives let them?

  Her heart skipped a beat at the concept. These guys were all drop-dead handsome, and what woman didn’t want a little eye-candy hanging in her office—or kitchen. All proceeds could go to a local charity. If she worked it right, this could turn into a yearly tradition. Might even go national. Maybe international. Note to self: run this spectacular idea past Izza.

  “Hey,” Zack purred, as he rested those incredible guns on the customer service counter. Despite being happily married and the father of three adorable daughters, his baritone was always a sexy rumble to Persia’s ears. Better yet, he’d made eye contact with her, something Ember and Beau had yet to do. “You ready to go to work?”

  Now that was a stupid question. Crossing her arms over her chest, she shook her head. “No, Zack, I get out of bed and dress up for nothing every day.”

  At that snarky retort, his dark browns sparked, then skated down and back up her body again. Like every other testosterone-packed male in this place, a smile simmered on his lips. She didn’t know what ethnicity he was, but Zack’s coloring matched hers. Yet he gave off more of an island vibe, as if his next stop was beach volleyball against a team of hot babes.

  “I take it you don’t care for TEAMwear.”

  “If you mean the black-on-black ensemble you guys all do so well…” She rolled her eyes. “Frankly, it’s blasé. You people need to lighten up. You’re not always on missions.”

  Which was not the brightest thing she could’ve led with. The work bay was empty. Everyone else was on a
mission.

  Which made Zack grin. “Get your gear, Junior Agent. You’re with me today. We’re escorting Frank Gibson to USP, Lee.” As in the high-security federal prison for male inmates in southwestern Virginia.

  “Doesn’t that fall under US Marshal’s purview?”

  “Yes, ma’am, it does, but they’ve asked for our support, and we’re giving it. Seems Gibson’s buddies are making enough noise to be taken seriously.”

  Persia’s instincts flashed on alert. “They’re dumb enough to think they can highjack Federal Marshals?”

  “That’s the word on the streets. You in?”

  Finally. Real work. “Yes, sir, I am.”

  “Good, then wipe that make-up off your face and change into real work clothes. That dress is a no-go where we’re headed. We’ll leave in ten.”

  Ten minutes? Persia almost opened her mouth to argue she could never be ready in that short amount of time, but by hell. This time, she would.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Walker, Brimley, and Rover were on a lazy tour of the Azores, tying up wherever and whenever the need struck. After dashing down a nearby alley back on São Miguel, Brimley’d returned with a small roller suitcase, an armful of canvasses, a tote bag of dog food, bowls, and other important dog stuff. He’d been excited, if all his grumping and groaning could be construed as such. Yet Walker knew a hard man when he saw one, and hard men tended to disguise their feelings.

  This morning, Brimley and Rover exited the guest stateroom below deck, with Brim dressed in a colorful red-flowered Hawaiian shirt that draped over his threadbare denims and dusty loafers, the sides broken in and broken down. Rover still wore his faded black collar. No tags. But plenty of happy barks.

  Since the yacht came equipped with brand new, top of the line, commercial deep-sea fishing poles, including Shimano reels with one hundred thirty-pound lines, it seemed the perfect way to start the day. Fishing from the upper aft deck, aka the lounge, it wasn’t long before they’d each snagged a few small tuna, mostly Blue Fish.

  Everything was going smooth and easy until... Zipppppppp! Brimley’s line raced off his reel and the tip of that sturdy pole curled into the water. Jumping to his feet, he pulled it out of the rod cradle before it got away. “I got me a fighter. Hang on, Rover. Don’t let this beast get away from us!”

  “Way to go, Brim. You land it, I’ll clean it,” Walker said as he stowed his pole alongside the rail and grabbed one of the two brand new gaffs. He’d already tightened his line and secured the hook inside the reel. They’d already caught enough fish to last a couple days. Whatever Brimley was hauling up now would be lunch.

  Rover barked encouragingly, most likely because he’d eaten his fill of roasted tilapia the night before, and he wanted more. The goofy dog’s paws were on the first rung up from the deck, and he was looking at the water where nothing had yet surfaced. Still wagging his tail and wiggling his backside, his tongue was a long, wet, red carpet. He was excited, because his buddy was excited.

  “Hot damn. Think I mighta caught me a marlin,” Brim muttered as, at last, a flash of silver broke the surface. “Wouldn’t that be something?” he asked as he glanced at his dog. “I could get it stuffed. Maybe hang it on our wall.” For some reason that soured his mood. “If we had a wall.”

  But Walker had seen the dorsal fin on that flash of silver. This fish wasn’t going up on anyone’s wall. “You ever do any trophy fishing?” he asked as he clapped a hand to Brim’s shoulder and watched the pole dip again below the sea.

  “Nah,” the older man growled, tipping back on his heels, urging the monster fighting on the other end of his rod forward, reeling in a few more inches of line to make it so. “Don’t even have windows.”

  “You’ve got no windows?” Walker couldn’t imagine anything worse.

  “So what?” Brimley jerked his pole to the side, the muscles in his tanned forearms tight and bulging. “’S all I can afford, damn it. I’m on Social Security, kid, not disability.”

  Which meant Brimley was living from paycheck to paycheck, hence the threadbare clothes, etc. Social Security didn’t amount to a hill of beans, except maybe here in the Azores where US dollars stretched further, but where nobody cared about an ex-pat. Disability would’ve put a few more dollars in his pocket, but some vets were too proud to take what they considered was a handout. But that no windows comment...

  Walker had to know. “Do you live in a tent?”

  “Nope,” Brim shot over his shoulder. “Basement apartment. One room. One door. Four walls. Don’t need anything more, do we, Dog?”

  Of course, Rover enthusiastically agreed with everything his best buddy said.

  Walker kept his hand where it had landed on Brim’s hefty, warm shoulder. For as old as he was, the man was no lightweight, yet he wasn’t fat, either. Every muscle strained against the fish on the end of his line. Walker wished, for Brimley’s sake, it had been a trophy marlin. That would’ve been cool.

  But in the end, Brimley pulled a thirty-pound dogfish, complete with row-upon-row of razor-sharp teeth and plenty of fight, alongside the yacht. Walker stuck the yacht’s gaff into the beast’s gills and jerked it aboard. Sharks may not be trophies, but they put up one helluva fight, and Walker meant to celebrate the battle Brim had just won.

  “Shit. That’s all I got for working my ass off? A stupid shark?” Brim dropped the pole and sank onto the nearest recliner. “Rover. No. Get back from that bugger before the damned thing snaps your nose off.”

  Rover was dancing all over the deck by then, jumping up on the recliners only to jump back down and bark at the scary intruder. By then, Walker had a foot on the shark’s angular head, holding the terror of the sea fast to the cedar planking while its vicious tail thrashed from side to side.

  “What do you think?” he asked. “Keep it or toss it back? Your call.” After all, it wasn’t a marlin.

  Brim’s face was red and sweaty. He yawned even as he swiped a quick hand over his mustache, then over his damp hair, now matted over his skull like a wet towel. “Hell, keep it, I guess. Shark meat’s as good as cod. You’re still going to clean it, aren’t you?”

  Walker couldn’t miss the hope in his buddy’s tone. “You bet.”

  With that settled, he unsheathed the blade from his hip holster and deftly separated the shark’s head from its wiggling body with one slice. While the body rolled over the enclosed deck, Walker dropped the toothy head into the sea, where smaller predators would soon pick it clean. Mother Nature had some amazing garbage handlers at her disposal.

  Rover was still plenty excited, but out of danger of being bitten then. Walker made quick work of gutting the shark, then skinned its sandpaper-tough hide from the meat. In minutes, two hearty shark fillets glistened in the sun, ready for the spotless grill. He dumped the waste over the side, where seagulls screamed for more, more, more.

  Satisfied at how this impromptu arrangement was working, Walker took a seat opposite Brimley and let Rover nose the carcass. Inviting Brim aboard had been a rash decision at first, but Walker was glad the old guy was there.

  The best thing had happened after Walker’d told him to stow his gear in the guest room. The grumpy old fart hadn’t been able to hide his delight. Nearly brought a tear to Walker’s eye. Because the stateroom had portholes, where a guy could watch the rising sun spread over the whole damned ocean if he wanted. The room also accessed Persia Smiles’ small forward deck. Brim and his dog could sit out there anytime they wanted. That was all Brim needed, by hell. Fresh air and the freedom to live like a man, instead of someone’s poor relative.

  Plus, the guest room came with a full shower, plenty of counter space for Brim’s easel and paints, and a queen-sized bed. The cabinetry was polished cherry, and Walker doubted his basement apartment could compare on its best day.

  “Thought you said you were Navy?”

  That softly phrased question ricocheted Walker back to where he sat on the upper aft deck
. And there it was. The dead giveaway. Dripping wet in his palm. Walker’s brother’s fixed-blade, six-inch knife, complete with USMC Corporal Kenny Judge’s name stamped with pride on the leather-wrapped handle.

  Once more, his lungs filled with bitter regret, remembering the day he’d received word that Kenny had been KIA in Yemen. Walker’d been on the other side of the world then, tracking a known terrorist in Somewhere, South America. Yet the pain of that soul-sucking personal loss stole his breath,as if it had just happened. He was a kid again, and his best bud was gone. There was no sun in the sky, no stars in the heavens. Just that black hole in his heart.

  Kenny had loved the Corps, almost as much as he’d loved the dripping wet blade now resting in Walker’s hand. Which was why Walker had it. Why he prized it above any other KA-BAR, Sheffield, or standard SEAL issue, Ontario MK III. Just because it had once belonged to Kenny, and he’d loved it. And because Kenny was gone.

  “I am Navy. This blade… belonged to a friend.” My best friend, Walker told the knife silently.

  “Sure sorry,” Brimley said, as if he’d heard the real truth buried in those few words.

  Walker gave him that. Swallowed hard. Locked his heart up one more time and refused to share the worst heartache of his life. Yes, losing Mom and Dad to cancer within months of each other had been bad, but losing his brother shortly after was a hundred times worse. Kenny’d been so young, so green. So much a part of his big brother’s dreams and hopes. But so hellbent on saving America. Shit, the pain never went away.

  “You gonna put that shark meat inside before Rover drools on it, or what?”

  With Brimley’s dig, everything shifted back to normal.

  “You bet,” Walker replied as he dried the blade on the towel at his side, then stowed Kenny’s treasured knife into the sheath on his belt. He’d stopped wearing his holster once Brim came aboard, but the knife was never far away. Walker hoisted both fillets off the deck and out of Rover’s reach, then headed below deck to the galley.