Walker (In the Company of Snipers Book 21)

by Irish Winters

  At this point, he figured some know-it-all must’ve recognized him on the dock in São Miguel the day he’d run into Brimley. Of all the stupid luck. No doubt, the jerk had followed Walker back to the yacht, then tattled to the local authorities to ‘hurry, come nab the dangerous American killer.’ He’d thought his beard, ballcap, and dark glasses would’ve kept him safe. They’d worked before. Not like he’d ever see that ballcap or those Ray-Bans again. Worse, the local chief of police had made him shave. What a mess.

  What Walker hoped would’ve been a simple, routine visit by the authorities on the high seas, had turned into a brouhaha that hadn’t needed to end as brutally as it had. But when one of those loud-mouthed Azorean police officers kicked Rover, well, Brimley had taken offense. As he should have. One thing had led to another. Someone threw a punch. Brimley went flying over the railing. The next thing Walker knew, it was lights out, and he was picking himself up from a concrete floor in a cell in Somewhere-Other-Than-America.

  It’d been a long time since he’d been ambushed. But while he’d knocked two of those bully cops on their asses and sent one flying overboard, another had come up behind him and clubbed him. He remembered the sound of his skull cracking, but after that—nothing. Until he’d come to behind bars. By then someone had treated the raw cut on his forehead, but the knot on the back of his head was still touchy as hell, and he’d learned quickly not to make any fast moves. Dizziness had become a constant, annoying companion.

  After an intense grilling session under bright, hot lights, during which Walker quickly admitted that, yes, he was the Navy SEAL who’d escaped USA custody, the Azorean officials had quickly washed their hands of him. Within twenty-four hours, they’d transferred custody to a five-man squad of armed, stone-faced guys, each the height, width, and breadth of Goliath. Made him feel like David when he’d stepped out of his cell and had to look up at them. What he would have given for a slingshot. A few smooth stones would’ve been nice, too.

  They’d never cracked so much as a lip twitch. It was actually funny, the way they’d treated him as if he were lethally dangerous. Which he was—when he wasn’t hampered by a screaming migraine, metal cuffs, and weighted shackles. Nice touch, them. Weighted restraints made his feet and legs feel heavier than they were. Or maybe they weren’t weighted at all, and his feet really were that heavy. Because his head certainly felt like it was somewhere up in the clouds. Man, a handful of Motrin would sure come in handy.

  The speed with which they’d moved him out of that cozy island jail had concerned Walker at first. He’d thought he was on his way to a firing squad, or worse, given to ISIL. Instead, they’d marched him to a long black limo parked at the curb, which took him to the local airport. Only when he’d seen the bright blue KLM logo on the bird’s tail he was being steered toward, did he realize how bad things were. He was being shipped off to the Netherlands, home of the infamous International Criminal Court in The Hague. The intergovernmental organization that had, over and over again, attempted to apprehend, jail, and prosecute US military members, citing alleged war crimes allegedly committed in Afghanistan.

  Which, in some cases, may have been accurate. Men cracked in battle, and untreated PTSD was a raging nightmare during any firefight. Not that those reasons absolved anyone, but they did provide understanding. And then, there were also those guys who’d enlisted just because they enjoyed the killing. Walker had always been on the lookout for those types. He didn’t need psychopaths on his team, and he’d refused to work with the only one he’d ever come across.

  At its core, the ICC was biased against Americans. In the few cases they’d apprehended US soldiers, those innocent men’s names, faces, and alleged crimes had been splashed across European media outlets, and the suspects were considered guilty before their cases were even heard. Which, now that Walker thought about it, wasn’t much different than what the US Navy had done to him. Feed the media frenzy first; then conduct a rigged trial. Way to go, Navy.

  So here he was, behind bars again, this time in the bowels of a hostile foreign detention unit, where anything could happen. He would soon be facing the same court that had indicted the likes of Libyan President Muammar Gaddafi and Sudanese President Omar al-Bashir. Not like either of those ‘gentlemen’ had accepted the ICC’s judgments or arrest warrants. But still.

  Being lumped in with the likes of the ruthless dictator who’d sheltered those responsible for bombing Pan-Am flight 103 over Lockerbie, Scotland, in 1988, and killing two hundred seventy innocent passengers, was disconcerting. Especially since Walker hadn’t yet been read his rights and didn’t know precisely what charges he faced. Didn’t know if the ICC provided public defenders, either, not like some weak-kneed lawyer in a three-piece suit would care about an American warrior. Most American’s didn’t. Why should the rest of the world?

  But it’d be good to know if he were being charged for war crimes. Most SEALs were. Or if the ICC was simply detaining him, pending his extradition back to the States. That was the scenario Walker hoped for, though he wasn’t sure why. Leavenworth was no picnic. It’d be a hard sentence to serve, but at least he’d be in America. The land that he loved.

  Because Walker did love the country he’d bled for—the land of the free. He still upheld the concept behind that often misused ‘We the People…’ closer to his heart than did most Americans. Because he had killed for his country, and in the process, he could’ve died, too.

  Everything he’d done came back to the decision he’d made the day he’d enlisted, when he’d promised: I, Walker Judge, do solemnly swear I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; and that I will obey the orders of the President of the United States and the orders of the officers appointed over me, according to regulations and the Uniform Code of Military Justice. So help me, God.

  The crisp slap of dress shoes on concrete interrupted the trip back in time. Interestingly, the cells across from him were both empty, and he couldn’t tell if the cell next to his was occupied. Concrete walls made good neighbors. When those footsteps ended at his cell, he looked into the face of a tired-looking middle-aged man who might be his lawyer. The guy said something to the guard, who nodded, then unlocked the cell door. Walker stayed put, his cuffed hands between his knees and his shackled feet in those ridiculous clown shoes.

  “Sir,” the man said from the doorway. The round spectacles perched at the end of his nose needed a good cleaning, and he kept flicking his tongue over his lips like a nervous, pale, gray-haired frog.

  “Yes?” Walker replied, keeping his voice steady, so he didn’t scare the guy more than he obviously was.

  “I am Hans Koning. I am what you Americans call a public defender. I will represent you at your trial.”

  “I’d say it’s nice to meet you, but we both know that’s not true.” Regardless, Walker extended his arms, intending to shake hands. Real men didn’t kick against the pricks. If Hans was his lawyer, he meant to be as compliant, forthright, and helpful as possible. Going caveman on pencil pushers never solved anything. Certainly hadn’t worked on Lieutenant Cameron Kroft, Walker’s JAG appointed attorney.

  The man’s heels clicked together as he bowed, then straightened, instead of accepting Walker’s offer of civility. Okay then. He dropped both hands back to his knees.

  “We have just received word from your government,” Hans said in perfect, quiet English. Flick, flick went his tongue.

  “Finally,” Walker breathed. They might not like him, but someone from the States was coming for him. Small consolation, but he was relieved nonetheless. The Navy had no doubt sent a couple Masters-at-arms to escort him home, where they’d march his ass to Leavenworth. It wasn’t the best scenario given the evidence he’d found on the yacht, but he had contacts in the States. One of his guys would eventually find where the Azoreans had docked Persia Smiles. Maybe they could also locate the ev
idence and the bastards behind those kidnapped women and girls. “When will they be here?”

  “Who?” Hans cocked his head, the light from the florescent tube overhead reflecting off his glasses, giving him a deer in the headlights look. “Excuse me? No. You misunderstand. Yes, we have received word from the United States, but no one is coming for you.” He pulled a piece of paper from an inside suit pocket and held it for Walker.

  Still seated, he stretched forward and took the single sheet, then quickly read the Navy’s response. DISAVOWED had been stamped across the paper in deep, dark, blood-red stencil font. Like an insult. He should’ve known. The USN had betrayed him yet again. They meant him to rot in this foreign jail, face a firing squad, or hanging. It all depended on what crime he was charged with.

  Without letting his disappointment show, Walker handed the paper back. “Thank you, sir. I appreciate you taking the time to meet with me. Can you tell me why I’m being held? On what charges?”

  “Yes, oh, yes. You are charged with the murders you committed in Jordan. War crimes, sir. Surely you did not think you could get away with that?”

  Jordan? That was new. “Who exactly did I murder?”

  Hans blinked as if he couldn’t believe Walker was that stupid. “Why Prince Jamalud Khalid and his entire family. Do not act as if you do not know. I have seen the proof. There are many pictures of you walking into the wedding tent with the bomb that day. I have watched as you set it on the wedding table. The prosecutor has a very solid case. He has witnesses. Lying will only create more trouble for you.”

  “I killed a family in Jordan?” Interesting. Walker had never set foot in that country. Had always wanted to, but Jordan hadn’t been part of his orders. “May I at least see the photos and proof? You do have evidence, don’t you?”

  Hans’ head bobbed. By now, he was wringing his hands, twisting the gold band on his ring finger around and around. “Yes, you may see it. All of it. Tomorrow morning. But I must ask you, sir. I must know in order to prepare a proper defense. Why did you do such a heinous thing? You bombed a simple family wedding. You killed over a hundred people. There were children there. Babies. Grandfathers and grandmothers. How did their deaths serve your needs?”

  Wow. Over a hundred innocent people. If this were an actual event, it must’ve happened while he’d been on an operation. Walker had honestly never heard about it. “When did this supposedly happen?”

  “Last year. January.”

  That explained it. The same month Walker had been on those three weeks’ leave to Guatemala. “The exact date?”

  “January 30th.”

  The day before he’d come home from Guatemala. He’d spent that first night in America with Quinn Dooley and his grateful family in Norfolk, Virginia, then flown to San Diego the next day. Only to be arrested and incarcerated in the Navy brig in Miramar, San Diego, before the sun came up. Had the official record of that confinement been expunged like his Navcompt 3065 request for leave had? “Sounds like you’re already convinced I’m guilty. Are you?”

  The man ran a nervous hand over his thinning hair. “No, b-b-but…” Hans should never play poker. His expressions were dead giveaways. The current one clearly said, ‘You’re a liar and not worth my time.’

  Walker went for slow and easy. “But what, Hans? You want me to talk to you, well, I need you to talk with me, too. If we’re going to work together, we need to be honest with each other.”

  Hans looked like he needed to sit down before he fell down. “B-b-but...”

  Walker cocked his head, trying to get a read on this guy. Hans was too edgy. Something was off. That prickly sensation of being watched tickled the short hairs on the nape of his neck, until they’d turned into tiny, hyper-active radar dishes. Of course he was being watched. He was in prison. Yet this feeling was more like a premonition. A sniper’s internal sense of something coming for him. But how could things get any worse?

  At last, Hans looked Walker dead in the eye. “Because it is your Admiral Pickering who provided the video evidence. He is a very powerful man in your government, yes?”

  Walker never flinched. Didn’t bat an eye. But his instincts snapped to attention at the revelation. Pickering, huh? So that was how far up the chain this betrayal went, all the way to a four-star commissioned naval flag officer. Shit, an O-10, the highest appointment a man could reach in the US Navy, for Christ’s sake.

  At last, Poseidon’s stars were beginning to line up in Walker’s black-as-ink sky. Wanna bet Admiral Edgar Pickering was also the bastard behind Goff’s white-gloved rise to power?

  “Are… are you okay, Lieutenant Judge?” Hans asked, fidgeting with his glasses. But the eyes behind those smudged lenses were bright with concern for a change. Almost interested.

  “Actually, I am,” Walker replied evenly, intent more than ever on proving to his lawyer that whatever so-called evidence Pickering had provided was fake, photoshopped, or straight-up CGI. If Walker believed in anything, it was that truth always prevailed. Eventually.

  Admiral Pickering might’ve thought he’d covered all his bases, but he hadn’t met Navy SEAL LT Walker Judge yet. But he would.

  He sure as hell would.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  After she boarded KLM’s Airbus bound for the Netherlands, Persia planned to spend the seven-hour flight between JFK International and Schiphol Airport, Amsterdam, researching the escaped convict, former USN SEAL Lieutenant Walker Judge. She hadn’t yet perused the intel Ember had provided, not with the tight schedule she and Izza had been on. Between their quick hop from Reagan National to JFK, then the agonizingly long line through security, followed by a breathless sprint across the terminal to catch their flight, she’d barely had time to grab the bottled water she’d tucked into her bag.

  Sinking into her seat, she took a deep, cleansing breath, thrilled that Ember had secured first-class tickets for this seven-hour flight. What a day.

  “Man, I hate fast turn arounds,” Izza muttered, “especially when Connor’s out of the country.”

  “You’ve got a good babysitter, don’t you?” Persia asked as she eased her bag under the seat ahead of her. She’d changed into TEAM casual, and now looked very much like Izza’s twin sister. Same black polo with the gold TEAM logo high on her left chest, same long, dark hair pulled back in a ponytail. They even had nearly the same dark brown eyes and olive skin tone.

  Yet they were nothing alike. Izza had motherhood stamped all over her. Everything she said revolved around something her husband Connor, or her kids, Jamie and Jax were doing.

  “Sure. They’re staying with Zack and his girls until I get back. His wife Mei is always good to take any TEAM kids when quick trips come up. Just… You know… I don’t get to hear what happened at school today, and Jamie wanted to get a haircut, and Jax gets blue whenever his daddy’s not home to read him a story before bed, and…” Izza stretched and yawned. “I hate it when Connor’s overseas. It’s not like I can’t handle things by myself, because I’m no wuss, but…” Her shoulders scrunched. “Guess I just miss him.”

  Izza was so much in love with the man she’d married. Automatically, Persia’s mind went to Hotrod. Despite the fact that he was a jerk from the ground up, he would’ve been damned nice to wake up to in the morning. He’d been so tired that night, and she had loved rubbing Aloe Vera gel all over his body. Heck, she’d loved every second, every rub, and every purr spent on him. All over him. The prickle of his recently shaved neck under her palm. The sensual glide of her hands over all those muscles and ridges, dips and bulges. His chest. Man, he had a gorgeous set of well-defined pecs. And that seductive trail down his belly. The man was made of steel in all the best places.

  “What on earth are you thinking, girlfriend?” Izza asked. “You didn’t hear a word I said, did you?”

  Persia blinked like an idiot caught daydreaming. “Yes, err, what?”

  “I asked if there’s someone in particular that you miss? My
hell, you’re blushing! Come on, spill. Who is he? What’s his name, and why haven’t you told me about him before?”

  Persia shook Izza’s astute deduction off, not confessing to anything or anyone. “Who, me? Ha! I wish.” Wished for someone like Hotrod, but not Hotrod. Someone better. Kinder. Someone who would stay… “Trust me, Iz, you’ll be the first to know if that day ever comes.” Which it won’t, because who the hell knows where Hotrod is now? Not me. And who cares? Also not me.

  “Aw, it’ll happen. It’s just not your time yet. But you’ll know when it does.”

  “I will, huh? How did you know Connor was the one for you?” Persia blinked her lashes and widened her eyes like an owl’s, teasing her friend to spill her own secrets.

  Now it was Izza’s turn to blush.

  By then the aircraft was in the air, and it was ‘Amsterdam, here we come!’ The flight attendant stopped by and asked if they wanted drinks before dinner. Persia asked for champagne with the promise she’d keep them coming. Izza ordered a hot fudge sundae. Extra fudge. Hold the nuts. Two cherries, please. They settled back for girl talk then.

  Persia slid into her talk-show-host persona. “Don’t hold back, Agent Maher. Please. Tell your viewing audience all the juicy details. How’d you snag a hunk like Connor? Was it love at first sight? A blind date? And who set you up? But most of all, precisely when did you know he was the one for you?” Because Persia had the sneaky suspicion she’d already met her once in a lifetime. And the jerk had left her behind like a discarded banana peel.

  Again with the coy lift of a shoulder and that bright, sassy smile. “It just happened,” Izza murmured, “one day when we were out on patrol together.”

  “And where was that?” Persia snapped her fingers under Izza’s nose. “Details, Izza. We want the deets. Your adoring fans have a right to know.” It felt so much better badgering Izza about her love life than dodging questions.