Walker (In the Company of Snipers Book 21)

by Irish Winters

  “You never told me this was a used boat.”

  I haven’t told you much of anything. But for sure, this puzzle box hadn’t been hidden here to keep miscellaneous receipts safe. “I’m still looking for the user manual.” And the registration. The real owner’s name would be nice.

  “Well, you still got that fancy blade on you, don’tcha? Why not pop this gizmo and see what you got?”

  Palming his brother’s knife, Walker prepared to do the deed. But before he did, he shifted his body between Brimley and Rover. Next, he offered a quick prayer, this time to the God of all gods. Please don’t let this be a booby trap.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Fundamentally, Persia knew boring operations were the best. This drive to western Virginia should’ve been a relief after all she’d done for the Agency. It would give her more time to decompress, but would handling a routine op put her back in Alex’s good graces?

  “You’re sure antsy,” Zack murmured. “What’s up?”

  Still dressed all in black, from his work boots to his leather jacket, he was an easy traveling partner. They’d split the driving, with him behind the wheel following the US Marshal’s armored transport west. On the return trip, she’d drive. They’d stop for lunch then.

  “I can’t get comfortable,” Persia admitted. Truth was she was more afraid she’d fall asleep. The steady hum of tires on the road and the gentle sway of the vehicle was working its magic. Especially since she hadn’t slept much last night. Guess she needed more rum in her coke, or less coke in her rum. Which actually made sense.

  “You want the wheel?”

  That was tempting, but, “Nah. I’m good.”

  This unincorporated part of Lee County, Virginia, was mostly rural and fairly barren. Wide-open fields with lush green, woodsy backdrops stretched along both sides of the two-lane highway. It reminded her of home, where her parents still lived. Quiet. A lot less traffic. And it smelled better than the city.

  The penitentiary had been built in the middle of Nowhere, Virginia, to enhance the state’s most western county’s dirt-poor economy. In other words, if they weren’t farming, most able-bodied folks worked at the prison.

  “So, tell me about yourself,” Zack said as he tapped the earpiece snugged deep inside his left ear. “Where’d you go to school?”

  Persia wore a matching earpiece, but so far, there’d been nothing from Ember or Beau, and thank heavens, not a terse word from Alex.

  “DeSoto Central, Southaven, Mississippi. Home of the Jaguars. Then the University of Memphis, Tennessee. Go Tigers. It’s less than an hour from home. That way, I went back any time I wanted.”

  “Sounds like you were… what? A cheerleader?”

  Pressing the silver butterfly switch on her door panel, Persia activated the window to let some air in. Instantly, the vehicle filled with the rich loamy scent of freshly plowed fields, someone’s cut grass, and wildflowers. “Good guess, but I have more brains than that. But I did play basketball in high school and during my first year at Memphis. That was fun.”

  “Ah, a full-ride scholarship then,” he surmised correctly.

  “Of course.” She turned in her seat to really look at Zack. He was as easy to talk with as Mark. But those guns… His biceps stretched that leather jacket to the max. This guy worked out.

  “You’re close to your folks?” he asked.

  “Sure, aren’t you?”

  “Hell, yeah. They’ll be in town over Labor Day. I’ll bring them by and introduce them if you’re around.”

  That was a good three months away. She grunted. “Where else would I be?”

  “We never know with this job, do we?” he murmured as the van ahead slowed. Orange barricades lined the shoulders of the road, then construction cones. A flagman at the right side cautioned them to slow down. “Doesn’t it figure, roadwork ahead.”

  “So… Where are you from?”

  He shot her a quick grin. “America.”

  “Me, too. But you know what I meant. What ethnicity? Your skin color is quite lovely.”

  That made Zack laugh. “Me? Lovely? Don’t go spreading that around. Mom’s full-blooded Irish, but Dad’s from Jamaica.”

  “Hmmm. That explains it.”

  “Explains what? That except for my big nose, we could pass for brother and sister?”

  “You don’t have a big nose. But yeah, we have similar traits, only you seem to really enjoy life. You’re always easygoing and…” She lifted both shoulders. “You smile all the time. You seem happy every day. Are you?”

  He shot her a toothy grin. “Life’s too short to be miserable, you ought to know that by now. Why not be happy while you’re here?”

  Her lashes dropped, and she wished she hadn’t started down a road that would most likely lead back to Alex. He and Zack seemed more like old friends than boss and employee.

  Zack’s big hand dropped over hers on the console. “You’re not Joan of Arc, Persia.”

  “What does she have to do with anything?”

  “And you’re not Jesus Christ.”

  Okay, that made her laugh. “You’ve got that right.” Because if I were, I would’ve snuffed the Zapata brothers the minute they opened their killer-baby eyes the day they were born. Or hatched. Or spawned or whatever.

  Zack’s fingers squeezed over the tops of hers. “I’ve seen just as much shit as you have, but the secret’s in how you choose to handle it. Let it go, or it’ll fester inside until it drives you nuts. Trust me. Back when I first encountered the Black Dragon Syndicate—”

  “You did what?”

  His head bobbed as he kept his eyes on the road. “That’s where my little girl Song came from. She was one of those Chinese orphans.” His fingers squeezed harder. “That’s also when I met Mei.”

  “Your wife?” Why didn’t Persia know his backstory?

  His head bobbed, but his Adam’s apple seemed stuck in his throat “Yeah. Back then” —he swallowed hard— “Mei hated everyone, including me. We didn’t know it then, but LiLi’s father had her kidnapped, smuggled her into France. Mei got it into her head that LiLi’s disappearance had to do with the influx of illegal Chinese orphans. All she wanted was her daughter back, and everyone else was in her way. She had a lot of nerve back then, even butted heads with Alex. It took us a while to learn how to work together.”

  “What did you do?”

  His lips pinched together. “We went undercover, acted like a married couple out to adopt a kid, and desperate enough to take one illegally. Had to.” His belly expanded with a long, slow breath. “All those little girls… Took one helluva chance. Thought Alex was going to fire my ass for sure.”

  “He wouldn’t.”

  “Oh, yeah, he would have. I screwed the pooch big time. Made a lot of trouble for him. But the boss is also a sucker for little kids. In the end, I thought he and Kels might adopt one of those girls. I think they were looking into it, but the one they’d fallen in love with had parents who were looking for her and wanted her back, and…” He shrugged. “Things don’t always go the way we want, do they?”

  Wasn’t that the truth. “How many kids?” Persia needed to know.

  “How many Chinese baby girls, you mean? Hundreds,” he whispered, then coughed and said, “We save big kids and little kids one at a time, Persia. We don’t work miracles. That’s not our job. We just do the best we can every day. Haven’t you always done that?”

  She nodded, staring out the front window, finally understanding that Joan of Arc reference. Joan had actually saved the world back when she’d lived. She’d been a French heroine, which had made her England’s enemy. When the English captured her, they’d tried her on trumped-up charges, then burned her at the stake at the tender age of nineteen. She’d been a teenager.

  Somehow, all that Persia had accomplished in her years seemed so much less. She was no one’s hero, and she’d done things no one knew about, things she wasn’t proud of. Things s
he’d never tell. Which was why she slept with a nightlight—when she slept.

  Her lungs filled with the fresh air blowing through the window. “I’ve always done my best,” she said resolutely. “I’m no slacker.”

  “Never said you were. So, how much do you drink every night? Do you always carry a flask?”

  The vertebrae in her neck damned near snapped like a whip when her eyes flashed back to him. Zack kept his focus on the road, as if he hadn’t asked the mother of all questions. But he knew. Damn him, he knew.

  “As much as I need to,” she confessed with a titch of attitude. Yet she knew better. Sometimes, that bottle she took to bed wasn’t enough. And lately, she worried she was sinking into no man’s land, where unemployed, unemployable alcoholics roamed the streets, looking for a bed or a bottle—or both.

  Zack’s big chin dimpled when his lips pinched. “Been there. Done that.

  “You’re…?” This conversation had gotten way too intimate. “You’re an alcoholic?”

  “Nah, but I’ve drunk myself stupid enough. Before Mei and the kids came along, I lived to party. Not proud of it, but after what I’d survived, I figured I deserved a break, so I took one. A long, damned hard one. Do me a favor?”

  The breath she’d been holding eased out of her. “Sure. What?”

  “Invite me over next time you decide to drown the pain. I’ll bring Jake Weylin. He’s been right where you are. We’ll get you through it.”

  Tears sprang to Persia’s eyes so quickly she had to look away. “Thanks. I just might do that.” Might not, too. Inviting friends to a pity-party didn’t seem smart, and she’d already said too much. Zack was no dummy, and he wasn’t asking questions just to be nice.

  Two motorcycles zoomed past, one on each side of the SUV, the loud clamor of their bikes startling Persia back to reality. Both took to the shoulders, kicking up gravel as they passed the federal van in a cloud of dust.

  “What the hell?” Zack stepped on the brakes.

  Persia peered out her open window to see if she could get a good look around the van. Both bikes had come to a screeching halt, nearly running over the team of road workers and orange cones lining the road ahead. Only these road workers were all young, white, and covered with enough black ink to rival Zapata’s disgusting artwork. Just as she turned to tell Zack that she thought something was wrong...

  BOOM! The federal van lurched off its tires.

  Zack jammed the brakes, bringing the TEAM SUV to an abrupt stop. Rapid gunfire popped ahead, as the Marshals’ van’s taillights signaled flashing reverse, get-the-hell-out-of-my-way! Its rear-end fishtailed, its bumper now aimed at TEAM SUV’s grill.

  Still cursing, Zack slammed the vehicle into reverse. Throwing one arm over the seatback, he revved backward off the pavement onto the graveled shoulder.

  Persia tapped her earpiece to alert TEAM HQ, “Taking fire. Request immediate assist. I repeat, we are taking fire. US Marshals are under attack!”

  “Sending back up now,” Beau snapped. “How many, Persia?”

  She told him what she knew. “Only saw seven, but there may be more. All young men, look like gangbangers. Any TEAM agents within distance?”

  “Alex is in the air,” Ember stated loud and clear, her voice steady where Beau’s had been tense. “Sheriff and Medics are in transit.”

  Which meant Alex had already been headed this way. Why? Didn’t he trust her?

  Straight ahead, the red sedan that had been ahead of the Marshals’ vehicle now lay on its side, smoke billowing from its sky-facing windows. The motorcyclists and construction workers now brandished rifles, pistols, and other weapons. All seven bastards advanced on the TEAM SUV, which had landed sideways after that backward drift, and also, put Zack directly in their line of fire.

  Persia scrambled out of the vehicle and into position on the passenger side. She fired a warning shot over the SUV’s hood and over Frank Gibson’s homies’ heads. TEAM protocol demanded it. According to Alex’s rules, these idiots deserved one last chance before she ended them. “Stop, or I’ll shoot!”

  Like a pack of in-sync killers, they’d doffed their orange vests and now advanced in matching black wife-beaters and leathers. The macho chicken-shit swagger and all those tattooed faces reminded Persia of another asshole and his gang in a different country.

  By then, Zack was out of the vehicle and on his feet, facing the killers down. “US Marshals!” he announced, his pistol on target. Which was true. She and he had been deputized for just this scenario. “Drop your weapons! Do it now!”

  When the tough guy on Persia’s far left sneered and jerked his short-stock rifle into his shoulder, Persia crouched and steadied her clenched weapon on the SUV hood. The idiot answered Zack’s demand with a wicked spray of hellfire that spattered the SUV’s grill and spiderwebbed the windshield.

  Persia came up shooting. Zack engaged as fervently. Both their weapons of choice were SIG Sauer P226s, and both made quick work exacting law and order.

  Too bad Gibson’s homies weren’t trained former military or equipped for the fight they’d started. All the ARs in the world couldn’t stand up to the highly-honed reflexes of battle-hardened warriors, or to Persia and Zack’s combined years of muscle memory training.

  For a few seconds, it was all noise, mayhem, quick thinking, shoot-’em-up, and gunsmoke.

  While Frank Gibson’s boys kept walking, Persia’s pistol kept talking. Only when the fourth wannabe-hero bit the dust in a dramatic spin, followed by an, ‘I’m dead’ face-plant, did numbers Five, Six, and Seven drop their weapons and raise their hands.

  Seven cried, “Don’t shoot! Please. Don’t shoot us!”

  Which sounded just plain pathetic. What’d they expect? To simply stroll up to a federal transport, pop the two well-armed officers inside, then head into the sunset with big brother?

  With her weapon still exhaling a steady scent of lovely vaporized gunpowder, Persia stepped away from the TEAM SUV and, with her SIG snapped onto the whiner’s face, bellowed, “Hands up where I can see them!” She would’ve used expletives, but she was still trying to make a good impression on Zack. Maybe score a couple brownie points even while she walked steadily into the body count.

  Zack was already there, his pistols pointed on both Five and Seven, both face-down and squirming in the gravel.

  “I’ve got the one on your right,” she told her Agent-in-Charge.

  “Copy that,” he replied as he roughly cuffed Five and Seven, then stepped back to wait on the Marshals to read their rights.

  The Marshals’ van was now safely off-road yards behind the TEAM SUV. One uniformed officer had stayed with their prisoner, while the other approached, his weapon drawn.

  “Marshal Goodwin, everyone okay?” Persia asked, as she crouched beside the bleeder long enough to cuff him, roll him over onto his belly, and leave him face-down in the road like his bros.

  “Yes, ma’am, but that kid’s Doogie Gibson, Frank’s younger brother,” he told Persia. “Wanna bet four of the others are Andy, Reese, Chip, and Mikey Gibson?”

  Doogie twisted around to stare at Persia. His blue eyes were full of tears and his blond hair dripped sweat. Damn, he was just a kid, maybe sixteen, eighteen, tops. “You bitch. You killed my brothers.”

  “What’d you expect? You play with fire, you’re gonna get burned. Didn’t your mama teach you that?”

  “But Frank’s innocent! He didn’t kill that lying whore and her kids!”

  “Then why is she dead, and why did three witnesses finger your brother?” Marshal Goodwin asked, as he took over the scene.

  While he commenced reading the kid his Miranda rights, Persia straightened and scanned the mayhem these guys had caused, in case there were other active shooters. From where she stood, she could see straight through the Marshals’ van, since most of the windshield was gone. The armed officer inside was still in control of his prisoner. No trouble coming from there, well, except for Fr
ank cursing his head off from inside his barred cage.

  Except for the smoking sedan on its side, no other traffic cluttered this narrow stretch of road. A thick copse of scrawny, half-dead trees lined the far side of the plowed field to the north. No one there. On the south, another newly plowed field stretched for miles in all directions. No cover there, either. The confrontation was over.

  Meanwhile, Zack moved silently from one downed shooter to the next, divesting them of weapons and knives, and checking for life even as he kept watch over his shoulder as well.

  “I’ve already called this in,” Goodwin said. “Help’s coming from the prison. Sheriff and paramedics will be here soon.”

  “Thanks,” Persia replied as she turned to Zack and said, “Alex is on his way.”

  Zack nodded. “I heard. Good thinking. Stay here while I check whoever’s in that sedan.”

  “Copy that,” Persia replied, but she couldn’t reconcile what had just happened. It seemed inconceivable that these kids thought they could ambush federal Marshals. Yes, they’d packed some stout firepower, but this was not TV land, and there was nothing glamorous about having to shoot teenagers, even dumb-assed ones with guns. Because that was what Persia was looking at. Three still alive, uninjured kids. Four down, soon to be sporting toe-tags. And one arrogant son of a bitch, manacled and bellowing from his caged bench seat in the rear of the Marshals’ van. “You bastards killed ’em! You killed my brothers!”

  Well, yeah. Self-defense worked like that. You shoot at me, you can be sure I’ll shoot back. Persia shook her head at the twisted mindset of murderers, rapists, and warlords the world over. Yes, she’d killed these armed and dangerous children. When it came down to them or her TEAM, she’d do it again.

  Zack waved from the red sedan. “One driver. He’s alive and conscious. Just scared.”

  Nothing boring about this day.

  Chapter Seventeen

  True confession time. “I knew it. You’re a damned Navy SEAL!”

  “Was. USN Lieutenant Walker Judge. I commanded SEAL Team 18, and I’m damned proud of it.” Former military members often raised salutes or used active duty rank designations as signs of respect, long after a warrior retired. Walker wasn’t about to correct Brimley.