Walker (In the Company of Snipers Book 21)

by Irish Winters

  Back on his knees, Walker didn’t have time to reply. The request from the Azorean shore patrol’s bullhorn wasn’t friendly. They’d soon be all over this yacht. His fingers fumbled the bolts. Hurry!

  Chapter Twenty

  “Boss wants you in his office yesterday,” Beau muttered darkly from his TEAM agent desk in the work bay, not from the customer service desk where he’d been working alongside Ember.

  “What’s going on?” Persia asked. “Did Ember get tired of you or are you headed out on another operation?”

  “Just moving out and making room for Mother. Guess she’s finally coming back. Took her long enough.”

  Persia had to ask, “I’m sorry, who? Your mother?”

  “No, Mo-ther,” he enunciated clearly. Like that told Persia anything. “You know, Mother. Sasha Kennedy. The real genius techie behind this TEAM.”

  “I heard that,” Ember called out from her usual location.

  A wave of red crept up Beau’s darkly tanned neck and spread over his cheeks, turning them candy-apple red. “Damn it, woman,” he called out in her direction. “You know you’re the best there is. Don’t go making me have to choose between you and Mother.” To Persia he muttered, “Because I’ve never even met the woman, but everyone here says she’s a genius and—”

  “I’m waiting,” Ember taunted loudly. A lot of tapping was also coming from behind her customer service counter.

  Persia smiled at the banter between this easily riled-up guy and the bombshell blonde he’d been working with since Persia’s first day on the job.

  “Damn it. You!” he bellowed over his desk. “You’re better than Mother any day of the week! Is that what you want to hear? I’m in love with you! Just you!”

  “Easy, Beau. You do know you’re professing love to my wife, right?” Rory Dennison, Ember’s hubby, chimed in. His desk was to the immediate left of Beau’s.

  “Yeah, big guy,” Zack teased from the cubicle behind Beau’s. “You don’t want to make Rory mad. Last guy who did that is still looking for his teeth.”

  “And his left eye.” Izza couldn’t resist adding from the other side of Ember’s counter.

  “Excuse me?” That question came from Doc Fitz who was now standing at the open elevator door. “You’re in love with who, sweetheart?”

  Beau’s bushy brows slammed over his equally dark eyes, turning them black. The veins in his neck bulged, as did the single vein that ran across his forehead when he was about to lose his temper. Which he did regularly. It didn’t take much to push this guy’s buttons, and apparently, everyone in the office knew it. Even his wife.

  He exploded to his feet. “Shit! I don’t even know Mother, damn it! I’ve never met her. She was gone for months before I ever…” His gaze landed on McKenna’s pretty face.

  As usual, she smiled in that I-could-just-eat-you-alive way she had.

  Ember giggled.

  Rory grunted like a pig.

  Zack just stood there. Crossed both arms over his chest, and grinned. Why hadn’t he made senior agent yet? He had all the makings of a great leader, yet there he sat in the work bay with the junior agents, as if he were their equal instead of, well, Alex’s.

  Persia’s gaze strayed back to Doc Fitz, still standing at the now closed elevator and watching her out-of-control husband. There was a perfect example of opposites attracting. Persia had never seen McKenna upset or her feelings hurt. But Beau? He could flip a switch from smiling to nasty at the drop of a hat.

  As if to prove the point, he sucked in a breath and growled, “Why’d you have to hear that, huh? What do you want?”

  “You,” McKenna replied evenly, her hand outstretched and her fingers fluttering for him to hurry and join her. “I need a ride into the District, remember? I have an early meeting with FBI Special Agent Duff on the forensic evidence we’re working. But if you’re too busy—”

  Beau all but jumped over his desk to get to her side. “No! ’Course I remember. Let’s go.”

  The moment he was at her side, he gave her a quick peck on her cheek and the starch went out of his shoulders.

  “Excuse me?” Ember had come around her counter by then, both hands on her hips. “Where do you think you’re going, Junior Agent?”

  The dreaded junior agent ploy. Ember could be such a brat. The one and only eclectic dresser in an office of casual black, today she’d shown up in what looked like a Catholic school girl’s uniform. Complete with a short-sleeved white blouse with Peter Pan collar, pearl buttons that complemented her full bustline, a short, red and black pleated plaid skirt, and, of all things, saddle shoes with bright-yellow, rolled ankle socks.

  “You’re going to walk out on me? Just like that?”

  Persia wasn’t sure who Ember was taunting, Beau or her husband. Rory hadn’t taken his eyes off his wife, and the glitter in his dark eyes spelled L. U. S. T. in bright flashing neon blue.

  McKenna had already called the elevator.

  “I, ah—well, err, yeah.” Beau looked so damned confused, as if he really had to choose between Ember and McKenna. One look down at his wife, and he turned that frown into a grin aimed straight at Ember. “You don’t need me. You’re the best, remember? I’m outta here.” Then to McKenna, he declared, “Let’s go, babe.”

  And off he went with his wife tucked under his arm. The elevator doors had no more than closed when everyone burst out laughing.

  “You guys are so mean to him,” Persia exclaimed. “What’d he ever do to you?”

  “Aw, it’s good for him,” Rory replied, his gaze still on his sassy wife. “Trust me, this is nothing. When he first showed up, Beau was a pain in everyone’s ass, but now—”

  “We’re pains in his,” Izza said saucily from Ember’s side.

  “Oh, look.” Ember pointed at the elevator.

  Persia looked, but didn’t see anything. Until Zack shook his head, still grinning like a Cheshire Cat, and muttered, “Those two.”

  Then she looked harder. Oh. The elevator had gone up, not down. To the vault? Not to underground parking? But why…? Never mind. Stupid question.

  Persia grinned then, too. But what would it be like to look at a man like McKenna had looked at Beau? To love a man so much that your countenance shone with devotion?

  “Coltrane! My office! Now!”

  “Yes, sir!” she bellowed back at Alex. Then winced so hard her teeth hurt. Damn it. She’d done it again. “I mean…” Oh, hell, who cared what she meant? She was in trouble now. Again. Whatever!

  Out of breath, and with everyone in the office most likely laughing at how Alex pushed her buttons, Persia hustled into his office and closed the door. There was no need for everyone else to hear what he said next.

  “You growled?” she asked, then slammed her big mouth shut. Did I really just say that? I am so dead.

  “Sit,” he ordered, stabbing his chin at the chair beside his desk. Not the one in front of it, which always made her feel inferior for some reason she didn’t want to explore or understand. She wasn’t intimidated by this guy. Much. Until she called him sir… That was a hard habit to break.

  “I’ve got a job for you,” he muttered, shuffling over the few papers on his immaculate desk.

  Wow. Papers on this obsessive-compulsive guy’s desk. That was odd all by itself.

  Persia ran her palms over her thighs to calm her nerves. She’d dressed for spring weather this morning. Light gray linen pencil-skirt with a pink, cotton, short-sleeved blouse, white pearls at her throat, and low pink heels, to avoid more back pain than she already had. Namely, Alex.

  “Are you familiar with The Hague Invasion Act?” he asked, still not meeting her eyes.

  “Yessss,” she hissed, inadvertently drawing out that reply instead of compounding her error by calling him sir.

  “Tell me what you know.”

  She swallowed to compose herself, licked her dry lips, then replied evenly. “The Hague Invasion Act is also kn
own as the Service-Members’ Protection Act, and was signed into law in 2002, by then President George W. Bush. The law authorizes the United States to use military force to free any of our citizens or service members from foreign incarceration or hanging by the International Criminal Court, the ICC, in The Hague, Netherlands, for alleged war crimes.”

  She took a deep breath and continued. “While its main intent is to protect our military members from indiscriminate trials and persecution, it can and will end all military assistance to any allies who refuse to agree not to extradite American citizens to The Hague. In effect, it ensures our troops are guaranteed immunity from prosecution for alleged war crimes. This law also prohibits the ICC officials from conducting investigations on American soil. For your information, the ICC was established by the Rome Statute treaty in 1998, which gave that court authority to try any individual in the world who had been accused of genocide, war crimes, crimes of aggression, crimes against humanity, or basically any crime that had no statute of limitation. Currently, I believe there are one hundred thirty-eight signatories to the treaty. Anything else?”

  “One hundred thirty-nine,” he muttered, still shuffling through those few papers.

  She rolled her eyes at the insignificant mistake he’d insisted on pointing out.

  “And it allows our military to contract for that protection when necessary.”

  Which meant she was going to the Netherlands. “If I may ask, Alex…” She refused to call him Boss. “What are you looking for?”

  Another growl. “My contact. Damned thing popped out when I blinked. How the hell am I supposed to find it when I can’t see it?”

  Jumping to her feet, Persia scanned his tidy desk and easily located the missing lens. “I didn’t know you wore contacts,” she said, pointing her index finger to the tiny rounded, blue disk that, fortunately, wasn’t near any of those papers, but perched on the framed portrait of his family. Right below Kelsey’s smiling face. Wasn’t that a peculiar coincidence?

  “Infection,” he grumbled, opening his pencil drawer and pulling out a small tube of contact cleaner. Or something. It must double as cleaner and moisturizer, she thought, as quickly as he spritzed a few drops of liquid between his index finger and thumb, then tilted back, blinked at the ceiling, and placed that puppy right back on his left eyeball. “Lexie came home with pink eye and I caught it.”

  Ewww. Persia couldn’t watch the harsh way he handled that puffy red eyeball. Ouch. Her eyes hurt in sympathy. She could never wear contacts. Couldn’t stand to touch her eyeballs like that. Just no.

  “Who has the ICC incarcerated this time, and what’s he or she accused of?”

  Several ICC member countries had recently targeted US troops in Afghanistan, by name, claiming they’d committed genocide, when they’d bombed certain terrorist cells. Which was just plain hogwash, as her father would say. American troops were only in the Islamic Republic of Afghanistan at that current president’s request. He’d wanted assistance routing the latest swarm of infidels invading his country. The USA had complied. He’d asked for help, and that was what he’d received. If he’d wanted to play politics, he’d chosen poorly. Because the current United States president stood by his military. Every single time.

  End of story, as far as Persia was concerned.

  “Former SEAL, Lieutenant Walker Judge,” Alex answered, still blinking, but still keeping on. “Just got word today that he’s in the ICC’s detention unit. What do you know about him?”

  A tiny voice whispered in a darkest corner of Persia’s mind. Walker Judge… Hmmm.

  “Not much, other than what I’ve seen on the news, only you can’t trust anything coming from our media these days, so I’m still not sure what I know. A former Navy SEAL, Judge was tried and convicted a year ago, I believe. I was in South America at that time, so I’m not up to speed on all the details surrounding his crime or his trial. If I remember right, there was questionable doubt as to the validity of the prosecution’s evidence.” She wanted to ask. ‘Right?’ but didn’t dare.

  Alex simply nodded.

  Persia searched her mind for what else she knew on the subject, but honestly, that didn’t amount to much. “The buzz over at The Agency focused on the man Judge was accused of murdering, USN Commander Wallace Goff. Another agent in my office, a former SEAL, worked under Goff’s command.” Man, who had that special agent been? Think, Persia. Think! “His name will come to me later, and I’ll let you know who it was when it does. Anyway, I recall him saying Wallace Goff was a flaming jackass. He blamed Goff for his SEAL team’s increased attrition rate. He hated Goff’s guts, and said he was known for getting good men killed while he got his face in the Military Times.”

  “Goff also wore a Trident.”

  Okaaaaay, so he’d survived Hell Week and he was a SEAL, that was good to know. Big deal. How did that fit into this discussion about Walker? “Are you saying that Judge murdered his CO because of Goff’s leadership style?” Commanders had been fragged for less.

  Instead of answering, Alex said, “Goff never saw battle. Not once.”

  Persia cocked her head, trying to understand where he was going with this train of thought. But really, a SEAL who’d never seen battle? Not just any SEAL, but a commanding officer? How did that work? Was it even possible to achieve that high rank without filling the ‘armed conflict’ square during his pre-CO career?

  Better question, what leadership style could any CO have had if he’d never fought alongside his men? But again, Persia opted for silence instead of opening her mouth and proving how little she knew about military mindsets. She was, after all, one of the few civilians working for Alex. Doc Fitz didn’t count because she ran the onsite TEAM clinic. Didn’t need to be former military for that. And Beckam’s wife, Camilla, was currently on extended family leave. No one was sure if she’d ever come back after the birth of their first child, so Persia didn’t include her, either.

  Alex ran a careful fingertip under his sore, puffy eye. “Goff was a typical officer. Educated. Book smart. Overpaid and over-appreciated. Sponsored and groomed and some Admiral’s pretty boy. Yet untried where it counted. Inexperienced when it mattered. The man didn’t have a clue what it meant to stand and fight. To lose the man fighting beside you. To bleed or cry or curse or die. Always a REMF. Never a warrior.”

  Alex had just made Persia’s problem with him crystal clear. It wasn’t that he disliked her or was dissatisfied with her job performance. He just didn’t respect officers. The way he’d said REMF, proved it. REMF stood for Rear Echelon Motherf-er, a crude term for guys who’d stayed in the rear, as opposed to those who’d fought on front lines. In some cases, it also stood for coward, yellow-belly, and chicken-shit, especially among the men who’d done all the bleeding and dying. ‘Sir-ing’ had Alex put him in the same category as the officers he despised. There had to be a story behind his strong emotional response, but Persia had no intention of asking about it today.

  “What are you telling me, Boss?” Okay, he’d earned that one.

  “I want you in The Hague, at the ICC, before sunset tomorrow. Bring Judge home. No one is to know. If you run into reporters, shoot the sons of bitches.”

  She nearly laughed out loud. “Yeah, I don’t think that’s legal. How do you want me to travel, and who am I traveling with?” Zack would be nice. Or Beau. He needed a good stiff mission after playing computer geek, didn’t he?

  “Might not be legal, but The Hague Invasion Act allows you to use any means necessary to free our SEAL. You’re on an express flight from Reagan National into JFK at 1500 hours today. There you’ll connect with a flight into Amsterdam. Grab a train from there to The Hague. That gives you five hours to get ready. Pack light. Izza Maher’s going with you. I briefed her earlier. She knows what else you’ll need, and who you’ll talk to once you arrive. Whatever happens, do not take no for an answer and don’t come back without Judge.”

  Persia nodded, just once to acknowledge her
implied ‘yes, sir!’ Finally. A real mission. But first… “I’m sure you’ve already vetted this through President—”

  No one but the President dealt with ICC matters concerning US service members. Before she went anywhere, Persia needed official permission, preferably date-stamped and signed in crisp, blue ink with President Adams’ John Hancock on it.

  Alex snapped his fingers. “Adams is very much involved. I asked. He approved us bringing Judge home. Check with Ember on your way out. She’ll have the file on Judge and all the paperwork you’ll need. Anything else?”

  “No, Boss,” Persia easily replied as she lifted to her feet. Addressing him was going to be easier now that she knew what made him tick.

  “Be safe,” he ordered, as if she had to be reminded.

  “Always. See you the day after tomorrow.” Or sooner, she thought, as she shut his door behind her. Escorting an alleged war criminal back to the States was an easy job. This wouldn’t take long.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Walker stared at the bright orange, too small, and flimsy as hell tennis shoes on his feet. No socks. Just cheap footwear with no support. No cushion. Hopefully, they hadn’t been used before. Or if they had, at least they’d been washed, sanitized, maybe disinfected. But he doubted it.

  They did match his jumpsuit nicely, though. Nearly matched the color of his swollen left eye, too. Only it was more black, blue, and yellow than orange. Although the broken blood vessels in the sclera did lend a definite crazy red-eyed, Frankenstein-ish vibe. As did the neat row of butterfly bandages taped over that same tender eyeball. Trick or treat, anyone?

  He didn’t remember who’d doctored him or which dumbass had thrown the first punch back on Persia Smiles. But there’d be hell to pay when he caught up with the jerk. At the moment, Walker didn’t know where Brimley was, if he was okay, injured, or dead. He didn’t know anything about Rover. Hadn’t yet been able to get a straight answer out of the burly guard with the assault rifle standing outside his cell.