Walker (In the Company of Snipers Book 21)

by Irish Winters

  What a messed-up world. He nearly choked on the thick bile creeping up the back of his throat. He hadn’t yet found a clue that led to the person behind the scenes. Damn it. He couldn’t show Brimley what he’d found, didn’t dare take the guy into his confidence. Not about this. Yet Walker couldn’t delay returning to the galley, either. Brimley was already suspicious, but holy hell! Why couldn’t one day pass without turning to shit? Made him think of Kenny’s sardonic philosophy, that no good deed ever went unpunished. Wasn’t that the truth?

  In the end, Walker repacked the wallet, then hid it under the mattress in the master suite where he slept. It’d be safe and out of sight there. After he swapped his swim trunks for khakis and a clean shirt, he slipped into his boat shoes and headed for the galley. Before he could make any decisions, he needed to know precisely what he’d found and who he was really dealing with. There had to be a name in that tablet or on those flash drives. There just had to be.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Did anything ever, ever make Alex Stewart happy? At least momentarily pleasant? Guess not. But just once, couldn’t he be pleased that the operation to USP, Lee, hadn’t ended with innocent lives lost? How hard could it be to pull that bullshit stick out of his ass?

  Persia rolled her right shoulder to force the cramp out of her neck. It had gotten tighter with every passing minute. What more did Alex want? Her blood on a rock? She and Zack had already surrendered their firearms to the local sheriff. They’d given statements that should’ve matched the Marshals’ statements.

  Yet there Alex stood alongside Zack, in a terse conference with Warden Everest over at the burned-out red sedan, while she cooled her heels inside the TEAM helicopter. Waiting for what she didn’t know. Yet when Alex had told her to climb aboard, she’d obeyed. Whatever they were discussing, it had better be good, and it had better not be about her. Alex, Zack, and Everest had been squared-off for a good fifteen minutes now. From where she sat, it looked as if the guys were going after each other. Which totally fit Alex’s MO, but Zack and the warden? Persia had no idea what sparked this testosterone-filled confrontation.

  Oh, you did not just glare at me! Did you? Damn you, Alex!

  “Well, bless my heart,” Persia muttered, stabbing a middle finger salute over her right brow, sending him precisely what she thought of him. The ass!

  Yes, it was a passive-aggressive response, but she doubted he’d catch it. Or understand it if he did. She sucked in a deep, cleansing breath before she lost what was left of her cool, calm, and obedient demeanor. The last thing she needed was to scramble out of this chopper and tell him what he could do with his uppity, do-as-you’re-told, I’m-the-male-here attitude. Luckily, he and Zack had just turned from the warden. They were marching her way.

  Persia swallowed her snark. Alex’s scowl couldn’t have been clearer, nor his steps any quicker. Rapping a curt index finger in the air, he signaled his pilot to get ready for takeoff, then climbed aboard with Zack at his heels. Both men belted into the jump seats behind the pilot and across from Persia before they donned their ear protection.

  Pissed at being treated like a novice when she was anything but, Persia glared right back at Alex. Sliding a pair of silencer earbuds into her ear canals to protect her hearing, and to make sure she connected with the helo’s dynamic communication system—and her boss!—she crossed her arms over her chest, prepared for whatever nasty thing came out of his mouth next. How did Kelsey stand living with him? Yet they were having a baby. Their second child! Ugh. The thought of them procreating...

  Persia banished the visual of her boss under the covers with any woman on earth from her mind. She couldn’t imagine him ever being that kind of sweet or romantic. Annoyed that she might’ve jumped ship too soon, that she would’ve been better off staying with either the Bureau or the Agency, her foot set to tapping. Still waiting.

  At last, Alex looked up from whatever had captured his interest on his phone and spared her one of those guy chin stabs. “Marshal Goodwin says you saved his life, that you hit all your marks. Good work.”

  So not what she’d expected to hear. “Excuse me?”

  “Yeah, but now, Warden Everest wants you on his payroll in a bad way,” Zack growled, as his brows clashed like two streaks of dark lightning across his forehead. He crossed his arms over his chest in the classic sign of ‘the-subject-is-closed.’ But it wasn’t. “Said he’s prepared to offer you whatever it takes, that you deserve a hiring bonus. Says you’re the best he’s ever seen, that you shouldn’t be working for a contractor. Dumbass is probably calling his senator right now to make it happen.”

  “How would Everest even know who shot who?” Persia asked, not sure she truly understood what was happening. “He wasn’t there. He was hiding back in their van.”

  “No, but he and Goodwin are tight, and Goodwin contacted Everest as soon as you guys had everything under control,” Alex said as he flicked the speck of mud that had dared tarnish the sleeve of his tailored suit jacket into outer space.

  For a former Marine, this guy sure didn’t look the part. His agents dressed business casual most days, but Alex was always dressed for success. Color-coordinated, today in a dark charcoal linen suit, crisp white shirt, blue tie with a perfect Windsor knot at his throat. Always clean-shaven, his dark hair was perfectly trimmed and his nails were clean. But he was built like a brick shithouse, square and angular with wide shoulders that made him look more like a day laborer in a fancy suit, instead of the savvy businessman Persia knew he was. Blue as icicles in the dead of an Arctic winter, his eyes could turn into glacier-sharp knives in a heartbeat.

  Zack’s palm came up into her face. “Nothing to worry about. Boss told Everest not only no, but hell no.”

  “Well, gee, thanks, Boss.” Persia let her sarcasm stab straight to the heart of her problem. For added emphasis, and just because he’d made her mad, she gave Alex her classic eyebrow finger salute. “I get a job offer—me, just me—but you turn it down before I even hear about it? What the hell?”

  Those ice-blue lasers ratcheted up to killer high-beams. “You want off The TEAM? Fine with me, just say the word.”

  “I didn’t say that,” she replied tartly. Man, he was always so abrasive. “But the decision wasn’t yours to make, was it?” She leaned into the space between the seats, forcing the issue.

  Alex tipped forward, more than meeting her halfway. “Anything that diminishes my TEAM is my call,” he breathed, his tone chilled with a hint of spearmint she wished she hadn’t noticed. On a good day, Alex was GQ material. But today? He was just another egotistical handler who thought he knew better than she did.

  Persia cocked her head. “What am I? Your property? Nothing more than government issue? GI Jane?”

  Darned if Zack didn’t grin at her word choice. “To all us former Marines, hell yeah. You oughta know that by now, girlfriend. Us guys don’t ever let a good thing slip away. Go on, Boss. Tell her the rest.”

  Persia felt like she was in a tennis match with Alex, only the ball was a grenade, and it was now in his court. Which would it be? An open stance forehand slam in her face or a killer lob that blew her out of her shoes? With Alex, probably a TKO, if he played tennis the same heavy-handed way he ran his TEAM.

  “Hmmpf,” he snorted. “Everest is an idiot. He offered you a fifty-K bonus, and he’ll be calling you later today, because he sure as hell wouldn’t accept my answer. But he can’t top the benefits I offer or the raise I’m giving you.”

  Okay… That was new. “What raise?”

  TEAM benefits were already unbelievably generous. Full coverage health plan. A life insurance policy to die for, no pun intended. Plus an employer-matched investment plan, on top of one heck of a lucrative retirement plan.

  There went Zack’s face again, cracking into another wide-open smile. “You’re staying with us, Persia. No one takes better care of his agents than your boss.”

  My boss, huh? Again she asked, “What rai
se?”

  Alex leaned back into his seat, closed his eyes, and replied, “The one I give every agent who measures up.”

  “Measures up to what?”

  “My TEAM, my standards. You pass. Welcome aboard.”

  Persia hadn’t seen the end of this tennis match coming so quickly. No killer lob. No hard-driven volley. Just a gentle drop shot with enough backspin that it whizzed over the net and landed like a feather in her court. She’d missed his intent, hadn’t kept up with him at all. Damn. Alex was an excellent strategist.

  “Well, err, okay,” was all she could come up with. “Thanks.”

  Zack just kept grinning.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Walker didn’t share what he’d found with Brimley during lunch or dinner. Didn’t see any reason to say anything. As far as Brimley knew, he was just some former SEAL out to see the world. No harm; no foul. It wasn’t until the sun set into the west, and after Walker secured the yacht for the night, that he settled down in the master suite to investigate what he now knew was criminal activity.

  From there, he could hear Brim’s gruff voice as he talked with Rover in the room below. Walker locked himself in, then spread everything across the desk. At his left, he set the paper tablets and flash drives. The receipts went into a stack at his right. Most were fuel related, and all were date-stamped over the past year. Yet none were signed. The same last four digits of an x’d out credit card number were the only things they had in common.

  Yet they told a story of every fuel stop it docked at along the Mexican Coast. And when. Several months ago, it had refueled outside San Diego, California, then again at Cabo San Lucas. Since then: Manzanillo, Acapulco, Salina Cruz, and—Monterrico, Guatemala. The same city where Quinn Dooley’s mother and father-in-law lived. Where that simple family picnic on the beach had gone horribly wrong.

  Hurriedly, Walker pulled up a map of Guatemala on the computer to check distance and location. Holy shit. Whoever had bought Goff’s yacht had refueled within thirty miles of Renzo’s beach hideaway. Had to be the son of a bitch running these sex-traffickers. The fat cat from Cuba, whom Walker was still convinced was an American, probably the same person who’d bought Goff’s yacht after he’d died.

  A dizzying wave of déjà vu slapped Walker upside his head. Stiffening his legs, he shoved back into the chair, the dominoes falling. Goff’s yacht in Monterrico, Guatemala, where Emily’s grandparents still lived. Goff’s pricey house in Ocean Beach, CA. Some guy who lived in Cuba. Some guy who’d been delayed because of a business transaction gone wrong. Say… for instance… a desperate father who’d sent a trained SEAL with expert sniping skills, among others, into Guatemala to find his daughter...

  Plunk. The last domino—what Walker’s inner sniper had been trying to tell him for months—fell. Everything pointed to a dead man. Goff.

  But those morgue shots... Could it be true?

  Yes.

  An uneasy chill shivered up Walker’s spine, tap, tap, tapping at each vertebra with its long, twisted icicle finger. Not only could it be true. It was true. It had to be true. Goff had to have been behind all this human suffering before his death. So who was the son of a bitch running the show now? Whose credit card was that? Why Monterrico again? Was Renzo back in business? Lastly, who’d owned Coronado’s Sea Nymph before Walker had turned her into Persia Smiles?

  He lined up the black-and-white photos alongside their color versions. Both versions were of the same girls and women, but taken at different times. The B&Ws were grainy, as if shot from a distance. In them, the victims were still carefree, some taken with friends, some taken inside grocery stores or malls. The color versions were close-ups, after they’d been kidnapped. There was nothing carefree about frightened, crying females.

  Walker flipped the spiral-bound tablet open to the first tabbed entry. Shit. Dates of surveillance and time of day each picture was taken. Location: schools. Location: homes. Location: girlfriends’ or boyfriends’ addresses. This pervert had known who each of these women and girls were, and where they lived, before he’d lured them away from their families.

  The second tab revealed estimated delivery dates for each ‘asset.’ Names of buyers behind each ‘order’. Details of precisely what they wanted, from age to hair color to nationality to status of virginity and...

  No! Trembling with rage, Walker could barely go on. Yet he had to. He rolled his shoulder to keep his temper at bay. But the urge to avenge every last one of the hapless females in this disgusting inventory, burned hot and low in his gut. These women and girls were someone’s children, sisters, mothers!

  It took seconds to line up each matching set of photos with its originating order. Simple. Each order matched the three-digit tattoos on the poor women’s and kids’ feet. Whoever this bastard was, he was behind Emily’s kidnapping. He was one of Renzo’s bosses. What a deplorable supply chain these bastards had going.

  In the end, it all came back to three-year-old Emily, and the one man Walker knew he could trust. Well, maybe two, counting Senator Sullivan. Make that four. Charlie Brown and Julio Juarez were honest brokers, too. But they were both Sullivan’s assets, and Walker couldn’t ask more from Senator Sullivan. He’d already risked his career and reputation plenty.

  Instead, Walker elected to contact the captain of the USS amphibious assault ship, the Iwo Jima. Wasp-class. Aircraft carrier. Currently on maneuvers off the coast of Brazil. Its CO Captain Quinn Dooley. It didn’t take long to locate the secure chatroom Dooley had set up during Walker’s previous foray into Guatemala. Thankfully, the site was operational. Dooley’s last entry was still there.

  Walker sent a quick: I’m aboard Coronado’s Sea Nymph. Nothing too informative about that.

  Instantly, Dooley came back with: Wondered where she went.

  Ah, so he already knew the Nymph was no longer docked in San Diego. Good.

  Walker replied: She’s been through the Canal. All the way to Cuba.

  She stop in Guatemala? came back quickly.

  You bet. Gotta love those beaches outside Monterrico! Walker deliberately kept this communication obtuse. No sense showing his hand.

  It took a few seconds before Dooley answered. During that time, Walker envisioned his friend suppressing the same mountain of rage that he had. Just the thought that Goff might’ve been behind Emily’s kidnapping, that he’d sold a child as pure and sweet as that little girl to the highest bidder—

  Dooley came back with two skull-and cross-bones emojis. Walker took that to mean he wanted Goff to die all over again. Walker got to the point. Need a favor. Big time. Not sure you can assist with facial recognition, but I’ve got 21 females in the same sitch. Hope you might know a guy who can tell me who these ladies and girls are.

  Send what you’ve got. I’ll see what I can do.

  Just want these gals home.

  Understood.

  And the bastards behind this POS enterprise in jail or dead.

  What’s going on? How did you come across this information? Where the hell are you, brother?

  Walker swallowed hard at that unexpected endearment. Brother. How he wished. His reply would’ve been spontaneous if Kenny had been doing the asking. No doubt at all. The question was one any concerned friend would ask. Yet Walker hesitated, his fingertips ready to send the answer that could betray him. He trusted Quinn, he truly did, but to send a reply that would out him—

  Never mind. I trust you, Walk. No worries. Send what you’ve got, but watch your six. As soon as I have something, I’ll be in touch.

  Will send everything I can in a couple minutes.

  Copy that.

  Walker signed off, his fingers trembling, making it hard to type the right keys. It was a sorry day when he couldn’t trust a Navy brother.

  He hadn’t yet powered up the flash drives. Didn’t know if he had the stomach for it. What type of files could be so large they required that much storage? They had to wait until morning. Right now
, he needed to send those photos to—

  “Hey! You still awake?” Brim bellowed at Walker’s door. “We got a helluva lot of flashing Christmas lights headed our way.”

  It took Walker mere seconds to secure the evidence back in the wallet, then run a quick program to erase the computer’s hard drive. But the incriminating information inside the wallet could put him in prison, if those Christmas lights belonged to the local authorities. Which meant trouble.

  Stuffing the wallet inside his shirt, he jerked the door open, the lockbox in his other hand.

  Brim’s face was red and sweaty. “Listen, young fella. I don’t know what you pulled out of that contraption, but something tells me it’s gonna cause us a heap of trouble. What’s say we put it back where it was before these hotshots get here?”

  Peering through the porthole, Walker took in the two rapidly advancing police cruisers. In a twist of sheer luck, the prow of the boat now pointed toward the quickly advancing boats. A demand bellowed over their loudspeaker, probably for them to desist and allow the authorities to come aboard.

  “Good thinking,” Walker said as he all but ran aft. Jumping down from the lounge area, he dropped to his knees on the swim deck and lifted the loose plank. Like before, the rusted nails screeched. But time was running out. Swiftly, Walker put the box back where it had been.

  Brim caught his arm, as the plank settled back into place. In his hand: three weather-proof lag bolts and a flex-head ratchet. “Figured them nails need replacing,” he muttered. “Why don’t I head these jokers off at the pass, while you make things pretty back here?”

  “Thanks, Brim. Whatever you do, don’t resist. Let them come aboard. This is probably just a routine safety check. No worries, okay? We haven’t done anything wrong.” At least you haven’t. Me? I’m just wanted for murder.

  Brim replied, his lips pursed beneath that street-sweeper mustache. “Whatever you say, Cap’n, You’re the skipper, I’m just your crew. Sure hope you know that.”