Walker (In the Company of Snipers Book 21)

by Irish Winters

  Hurriedly, he rinsed the shark meat in the stainless-steel sink, then drained the rinse water. Refilling the sink, he left one fillet covered with cold water. He meant to grill it for lunch with the last of the tomatoes he’d picked up during their shopping trip to the latest village. Deftly, he wrapped the other fillet in the white, waxed butcher paper he’d found behind the galley door, then placed it in the freezer side of the full-sized refrigerator/freezer combo.

  There was something about all the white packages in the freezer that made a man proud. Maybe it was the caveman embedded in every red-blooded male’s DNA to provide for the future. Walker didn’t know.

  When he strolled topside, Rover was once again hanging over the rail, while Brimley pointed to the frisky pod of dolphins breaking through the rippling waves portside. “I’m going swimming. You with me, Rover, old boy?”

  Rover barked because, well, that was what Rover did best. Whatever Brim said, he was quick to agree, always boisterously.

  “Wait up,” Walker called as he dug one of the yacht’s two inflatable dinghies out of the upper aft deck’s storage chest. “Let’s give Rover a place to land in case he gets tired of puppy-paddling.”

  But by then, Brimley’s toes were wrapped over the edge of the swimmer’s deck, he’d leaned forward, and he was ready to dive in, clothes and all.

  “You might want to change into swim trunks,” Walker warned. “Those jeans’ll turn mighty heavy when wet.”

  “Nah. I got nothing but lint in my pockets. Come on, Doggo,” Brimley urged Rover. “Let’s cool off before lunch. One. Two. Three!”

  SPLASH! Both dog and man leaped overboard, the best way to end a successful fishing contest.

  Walker hit the self-inflate tab on the eight-by-five dinghy, then dropped it overboard while it filled itself to the manufacturers’ approved level. Tying the dinghy’s drop-line to the railing, he tied another loose rope to the opposite rail, just in case someone needed a hand-up. One could never take enough safety precautions when swimming in the wild Atlantic. Shit happened, and Walker wasn’t sure of Brimley’s health or his swimming skills. Why take chances?

  With one hand, Walker stripped his shirt over his head and tossed it to one of the recliners. He traded his khakis for swim trunks. Climbing onto the rail, he planted both feet and balanced there with his eyes closed, his face in the sun, and the ocean wind in his nose.

  At the moment, Persia Smiles bobbed lazily between the northwestern end of the Azorean islands of Ilha do Pico and the southeastern edge of Ilha do Faial. Talk about fair seas and blue skies. Felt like paradise. Just what Walker needed, a different kind of peace and quiet. A better kind of calm.

  It was good to be alive. So. So. Good. He relaxed. He could breathe. Most likely because he was the skipper of a fine craft, and he knew more about sailing, the yacht, the sea, and fishing than his companion. But also, because he wasn’t alone anymore, and Brimley had been right. Having someone to talk with, someone who understood where you came from, was a relief. Didn’t hurt that he and Brimley were both combat vets, even though they’d fought separate wars at different times. Warrior-speak was the same language the world over, and one war was as bad as every other. Which was just plain sad.

  Tucking his arms over his head, Walker jack-knifed into the bluest waters on the planet. Just like that, he was back where he belonged, cutting through seawater like that shark had and scattering schools of sunny orange and vividly bright blue fish as he went. The sea would forever be his first home of choice.

  Opening his eyes beneath the waves, he studied the seascape. To his right, a few large tunas mingled with remoras and smaller silvery fish. The dark shape of a turtle lumbered in the murky distance. To his left, the massive white keel of the yacht bobbed calmly in the waves. She might sell for under two-hundred K, but honestly, what more did a man need than a star to steer by and a seaworthy ship to see the world in?

  Only the one thing I may never have again. Freedom.

  There was that. But rather than dwell on the negative shadows stalking his life, Walker propelled himself topside, grabbed another lung full of air, then dived back down to inspect the Meridian’s hull. Smooth and sleek, she was an excellent craft. Both props were clean of barnacles. All blades were in good shape. No nicks. No chips. No paint missing anywhere.

  Overall, Persia Smiles looked fairly new and untouched. It’d be nice to locate her registration and confirm his suspicion that the yacht was only a couple years old. If that. There simply wasn’t enough wear and tear to indicate she’d seen much use. Hell, her cedar decking wasn’t sun-faded or water-stained. Even the recliners’ cushions were still crisp and seemingly unused.

  But enough worrying and wondering. Like a streamlined barracuda, Walker flattened his arms to his sides and arrowed back into the land of sunlight, where Brim was helping Rover into the dinghy. The dog had the widest smile on his wet, furry face. So did Brimley. He’d tossed his jeans into a soggy ball beside Rover.

  Rolling over, Walker settled into a steady set of backstrokes that took him far into the ocean. This was all he needed. Blue sky overhead, deep blue sea beneath, and the taste of saltwater in his mouth.

  About a mile from the yacht, he jack-knifed underwater and came up with his arms spread wide, ready to fly. The butterfly stroke turned him into a natural seal, with the crown of his head leading the way, dipping just below the waves to break the surface tension. His entire body streamlined close to the surface. His hips perfectly synchronized with the rest of his body. He was one with the sea.

  Never mind that his arms weren’t fins or that they stretched forward, then down and out, then backward, movements a seal didn’t have to make. Never mind that his hands cupped the waves away, while the powerful downbeats of his feet propelled him forward. The butterfly was the most exhausting stroke for most swimmers. Yet with every forward thrust, he relished the natural undulation of his body in water. For these few private, intimate minutes, he was one with Mother Nature. And she was bitchin’.

  Back again at the swim deck, he drew both hands over his head, rotated on his side, then planted his feet on Persia Smiles’ ass. Automatically, both legs straightened, thrusting him away from the yacht as he moved into an easygoing breaststroke. By then, his chest muscles were feeling the burn. Going the same distance, he finished his drill with a lazy swim back to the yacht. Damn, he was sore, but he felt good.

  Breathing deep and easy, he closed his eyes and imagined what it would be like with Persia swimming at his side. Her hair wet and pulled back from her face. Her skin like silk, smooth and warm. Her eyes, big and dark, full of promise. Her lips red and swollen, because by then, she would’ve been well-kissed. She might even be sore in all the right places.

  His chest heaved with a satisfied sigh at his impossible dream.

  It was time to get back on board, back to reality. Persia wasn’t here, and he was a fool to have left her like he had. Good reasons or not, he’d hurt her, and Walker would spend the rest of his days wishing he’d done right by her. But life on the run was no life, and he wouldn’t have done that to her.

  Back among the living, Walker closed his eyes and bobbed along with Brim. Rover was still shaking seawater out of his ears and all over the dinghy, barking at seagulls that dived too close. He’d had his swim, yet his loyal black eyes tracked Brimley. Thank heavens, Brim had left his boxers on.

  Walker leaned his head back into the water until it covered his ears. Stretching his feet, he stared at the blue, blue sky until he was absolutely prone, parallel with the universe above and listening to the sounds of the sea below. This would be heaven with the right woman bobbing beside him. Holding his hand. Playing with him.

  Regret sucked.

  His stomach let out a noisy growl. Walker had only eaten a bagel and fresh fruit for breakfast, peaches Brimley had bought at a produce stand in the last village they’d docked at for fuel. Peaches that would forever remind Walker of the lady he’d left behin
d.

  Shit. Everything reminded him of Persia.

  He’d never been the sort of guy to keep a girl in every port. Hadn’t seemed fair or smart to treat women like that, which was why he suffered for his sin of that one-night-stand now. Persia hadn’t been just any woman, and what they’d shared hadn’t been just sex. Walker couldn’t explain it, and he wasn’t about to discuss his feelings with Brimley. But that tender Florida interlude had reached into the darkest parts of Walker’s soul. She’d shone a light there that had warmed and touched him. Still did. The pain of knowing he’d hurt her gutted him all over again. Men were pigs, and he was the worst.

  He’d read enough crap about love at first sight and other nonsense, yet this once in a lifetime encounter had surely felt like that. Simple sex had never mattered so much before. Never made Walker think twice about leaving, or once about staying. It’d been no different than eating, something a guy had to do. The animalistic, biological need to ease the build-up of semen and the angst that came with it. To fuck.

  While it’d been a damned long time since he’d engaged in that activity with any of the barflies that hung around San Diego’s notorious SEAL hangouts, his time with Persia had left him wanting. Usually, he’d be physically satisfied for days after a hot, steamy encounter, maybe weeks or months if he’d deployed right afterward.

  But this time… It wasn’t just good sex he and Persia had enjoyed. She’d fixed breakfast in the middle of the night. After their shower, man, her fingers running over his bare skin, rubbing lotion over his tired, salt-water battered body, had separated her from every other female in his past life. The empathy she’d shown him during their brief encounter had left him lacking and hungry. But not for food. Not just for sex, either.

  He needed her sweet light again, the one she’d shone on him. That light in the darkness that had lurked within him these past months.

  Persia might act tough. She was, after all, a former FBI agent and CIA officer, now some kind of covert operator working for What’s His Name. Alex Stewart, was it? Walker hadn’t cared enough to commit the guy’s name to memory. Mostly because he couldn’t keep his mind off Persia for more than a couple minutes at a time. Wasn’t he the dumbest ass ever? Kiss a woman. Bed that woman. Then up and leave her, without having the balls to tell her a proper goodbye.

  And then? Still want that woman more than he seemed to want his next breath. Since when had life become the mess it was now? Since when had he ever stuck his neck out as often as he had this past miserable year? And for what? For who?

  For love…

  Yeah, right. Quinn Dooley, maybe. He’s been a friend as long as I can remember. But Persia? That couldn’t be love. Too soon. Too fast.

  Yet even as he swallowed that seemingly reasonable excuse, Walker ran a quick hand over his head, still thinking about Persia and the last time she’d smiled. He’d been on top of her then. She’d just come all over him, yet he’d failed at his own release. She’d known he was having performance issues, but her release had left her glowing. And knowing he’d put that pretty smile on her face had to be enough. Because Walker’s life was full of more goodbyes than he cared to remember, now one that hurt the most. A brown-eyed beauty named Persia Coltrane.

  But she would survive; she was tough. Yet she wasn’t as tough as she’d wanted him to believe. Walker was sure he’d detected a shaky vulnerability to the hard edges she’d always led with. When she’d mentioned the Zapata brothers, he’d been more alarmed that she already knew about him and who he was.

  But now that he’d had time to think, Walker worried what she’d suffered working alongside a depraved pig like Domingo Zapata. What had she said, that she’d infiltrated his lair, that desecrated patch of deep, dark woods north of Ouro Preto, Minas Gerais, from which no tender, living soul had ever returned?

  That info-byte alone set Persia apart from most male operators Walker had worked with. But her infiltration into Brazil had to have happened more than two years ago. Hotrod knew that for sure. Domingo’s crime spree in America had been intercepted during the infamous Portland, Oregon, debacle. In Montana, if Walker remembered correctly. Hell, he even knew the former SEAL brothers who’d brought the rat bastard down and sent him to the federal Arctic prison. Chase, Kruze, and Pagan Sinclair. The Sin Boys. Also Sullivan’s men.

  Not like their alliance with Sullivan was common knowledge. It wasn’t. Walker just happened to know the Sinclairs from his Navy time. The man they’d ended up working for, Senator McQueen Sullivan, had also worked a miracle by hooking Walker up with the Army’s Night Stalkers out of Fort Campbell, Kentucky. The Senator from Texas was a straight-up, gun-slinging, shit-kicking cowboy. He wasn’t afraid to get his hands dirty, and he knew people in all the right, low places.

  But infiltrating Zapata’s lair had to have been a dirty, risky business, depending on what Persia had witnessed or done to maintain her cover. For sure, she’d said there’d been kids involved. Too many kids. She’d hated when they were hurt, which meant Domingo did the hurting. Yet Persia had held fast long enough to provide solid intel back to her CIA handler, which eventually, brought Domingo down.

  Walker wondered how long that was. How many hours, days, months? What had she seen? What had she heard? Shit! What had her CIA handler been thinking—or sniffing—when he’d sent Persia into Brazil to do that job? Male and female gender roles aside, infiltrating Domingo was no work for a woman. Walker understood where that ache in his chest came from now. From Persia! From the suffering still bound up inside her. His soul had heard what his ears hadn’t been smart enough to detect. She was still hurting and… He should’ve known!

  What an ass!

  Pissed for having been more worried about himself than for what she’d endured, Walker rolled over in the water and stared at the shimmering blue below. Damn it, he’d missed what she’d been trying to tell him. She’d said she’d wished she could’ve killed Zapata—which he now knew meant she’d been angry or frightened enough to have considered jeopardizing her mission. But why? What specifically had made her desperate?

  Of course, she’d also claimed she loved Julio Juarez, and Walker couldn’t blame her. Julio was one of those rare guys who never thought twice about dying for honor or country. But Orlando and Domingo were godless vampires who’d sucked the life out of their victims and their country.

  Persia’s remorse-filled words rolled over Walker with every lap of what had been, until now, soothing ocean waves. ‘Still messes with my head. Makes it hard to remember why I was really there. You know. Part of me turns into a raging beast thinking about it. I wanted to kill anyone who touched them and save every last child. Only I couldn’t. I didn’t.’

  “Shit,” Walker hissed, needing to call Persia, if only to hear her voice and tell her he was listening now. That he’d finally heard what she’d been trying to tell him,. That he knew the kind of pain she was in. That he was the biggest, dumbest ass on the planet for leaving her like he had, and that he was so damned sorry for not appreciating all she’d lived through. All she’d sacrificed for her country.

  “You had enough?” Brimley’s question jerked Walker out of his regret.

  “Yeah,” he replied gruffly.

  He was done being a thoughtless, selfish bastard. Damn it, he’d missed the brokenness of the beautiful woman who’d been right in front of his nose. He should’ve been focused on her and truly listening. But no. He’d been more concerned with CYA, when he should’ve tugged Persia into his arms and held onto her until she knew for sure he had her back. That he’d never let her go alone into another Zapata-like shithole again.

  You love her.

  He shook that crazy deduction off. Nah. This isn’t love. It’s… it’s comradery. We’re two of a kind. Warriors. That’s all.

  No, it’s not, and yes, you do.

  Jesus! Now he was talking to himself.

  Ten swift strokes took him to the swim deck, where Brimley was climbing aboard. The man was a hai
ry beast, from his skinny legs to his paunch, to his chest and back. His age showed like any Vietnam vet, in the flaccid bat wings under his arms, to the way he limped when he walked. To the stoop in his spine and the gnarled joints in his hands.

  Rover had already scrambled happily aboard, but when Brimley’s big flat foot hit the middle cedar plank, the opposite end lifted as if it were loose.

  Walker wiped the seawater out of his eyes and off his face. “Do that again,” he said, needing to be sure what he’d seen.

  “What? This?” Brimley stomped the offending plank three more times. Again and again, the opposite end tilted just enough to make Walker wonder why only the one plank was loose. “Feels like your boat’s got a loose screw, kiddo. Just like you.”

  Brimley thought that was funny, but Walker knew different. Scrambling aboard, he dropped to his knees to examine the loose plank. It was the only board held in place with flat-topped nails instead of weather-resistant, stainless-steel lag bolts.

  Rover shook, then stuck his furry nose in Walker’s face and licked his nose. Brimley chuckled as he hoisted soggy Rover up onto the upper aft deck, aka the lounge outside the cockpit. “Enough kisses. Now sit, Doggo. Make room for me.”

  Meanwhile, Walker lifted the loose end of that plank up as the rusted nails gave way with a raucous SCREEEECH!

  “Whoa,” Brimley gasped from the recliner where he and Rover sat peering down at Walker. “What the hell’s that?”

  Good question. “I’m not sure.” He’d found a narrow piece of a metal something beneath the eight-by-one-inch cedar plank. On his hands and knees, he leaned closer. Looked like aluminum. No screws fastened it in place, neither was there a handle to lift it. It wasn’t a sheet, nor a patch. More like the bottom of a box that had no reason to be on the swim deck, much less under it.