Walker (In the Company of Snipers Book 21)

by Irish Winters

  Somehow, him acknowledging her ability and accomplishment, helped. Whether he knew it or not, Hotrod had just given her part of what she’d needed to get back on her feet. Affirmation. Recognition. He believed in her capacity to get the hard jobs done. She squeezed her eyes tight, wishing she could slow the tears. Wishing she’d kept her big mouth shut. “Never mind. Never should’ve—”

  “Told me? Oh, yes, Persia Coltrane. You did exactly the right thing telling me. You’ve never told anyone else, have you?”

  She shook her head, ashamed that she’d given herself away to a man she barely knew. What would he think of her now? Yet he kept those incredibly gentle, warm hands smoothing over her back and up her neck into her hair, holding her close. Just being there.

  “Let me ask one question,” he murmured against her teary cheek. “Did you kill a human baby or an animal baby?”

  “A lamb. A tiny, helpless, baby lamb,” she whined. “I killed it and I smeared its blood on my face, just so… so…”

  “So you could convince Zapata you were good enough to join his gang. I get that. But the lamb ended up in a stew or something later that day, right? Its sacrifice didn’t go to waste.”

  “No, but… Yes, but… he didn’t deserve to die like that,” whined out of her.

  “But, to be clear, you never hurt the human baby boy in your nightmare. Right?”

  She was shaking like a leaf then. “Right. He wanted me to, but I… I killed the lamb instead.”

  “Instead of a baby? He wanted you to kill a baby, and you told him no?”

  Persia could barely think by then. All her sins. Laid bare. Every single one. Her cowardice. Her lies. “I told him that I’d gladly kill a baby later, and I’d dance on its ruined body with him.” Like two sick miscreants, I promised I’d dance with the Devil Incarnate on an innocent child’s heart.

  “Ah, sugar…” Hotrod whispered against her temple. “You’ve been running from this nightmare a long time, haven’t you?”

  “Yesssss,” she admitted. Running and falling and falling apart. And running again.

  “What would you do differently if you could go back into Zapata’s lair? Would you save that lamb or would you save all the little ones he had trapped there? Would you sacrifice Tomas Juarez to rescue a lamb that was destined for the table anyway?”

  Hotrod made it sound easy. Save the boy? Save the lamb? “Tomas. I’d save Tomas again. Every time.”

  Hotrod’s chest heaved with a great sigh. Carefully, he cupped her chin, tilting her head until she had no choice but to look into his eyes. His teary eyes.

  Persia sucked in a sob. She’d made him cry. “I’m sorry,” she breathed, as she traced the wet trail of tears on his cheek, then wiped it away.

  “Don’t cry for me,” he said as he kissed her fingers. “Life doesn’t give us many options sometimes. War’s never easy. Which is why the lamb in your dream morphs into a human child. Either way, you knew you’d have to hurt an innocent in order to complete your mission and end Zapata. Yet you also knew you could never hurt anyone or anything unless you absolutely had to. You should already be some little girl’s or boy’s mom. That’s who you are deep inside.”

  He sounded so sure.

  “You’re wrong. I’ve killed men in self-defense and they deserved to die. A lot of men, Hotrod.”

  “And that’s why you’re so good at what you do. You’re capable of making snap decisions and carrying them through, even when they seem impossibly difficult.”

  “I would’ve killed Zapata if Julio hadn’t.” God knew she’d wanted to end Domingo since she’d first set eyes on him.

  Hotrod smothered her into his arms, his hands interlocked across her back again. “And I would’ve killed him for you if I’d been there,” he breathed. “Women’s bodies and souls were designed to bring new lives into the world. To nurture and care for babies. Men were made to protect those women, their sons and daughters. Might not be politically correct, but Mother Nature doesn’t seem to care about PC politics. At our most primitive level, the human brain’s primary mission is to ensure the survival of the species. Call it racial, prejudicial, or narrow-minded, it is what it is. Women and men will never be interchangeable. Yes, women make damned good soldiers, and yes, they have every right to be all they can be. Hell, some women I know” —he squeezed her tightly— “put a lot of guys I’ve worked with to shame. They’re braver. They work harder. They’re smarter, and I’m damned proud to work with every last one of them. But that doesn’t make them men. It just makes them stronger women. Like you.”

  She had nothing to say, so Persia kept quiet, content to listen to his heartbeat and the vibration of his voice.

  “You ever play with fireworks when you were a kid?”

  “No,” she whispered, “but Dad does. Every Fourth of July. Mom loves our Independence Day celebrations.”

  “See? That’s another one of those guy things. Boys take risks while girls usually just watch. But if you take a couple of those spinning butterfly flares, wrap them in duct tape, then light the fuse, what do you get?”

  “A bomb.”

  “Exactly. And do you know how many little girls end up in the emergency room every year because they held onto that Independence Day bomb a second too long? None. Well, okay, maybe one or two, but the point is, boys play rougher than girls. They take more chances, more risks, and they do a ton of stupid shit before they grow brains. But girls—”

  “Watch dumb boys,” Persia murmured, finally smiling again.

  “Exactly! Girls are born with brains. Boys aren’t. It takes years for their gray matter to develop. Sometimes, it never does. Bottom line, males were made to complement females. Take your parents, for instance. What on earth did an Iranian scientist ever see in a Mississippi cotton farmer?”

  Thinking of Mom and Dad made her smile wider. “Mom always said it was love at first sight.”

  “Does she drive the tractor, or does he?”

  “He does, but I can, too.”

  Hotrod breathed into her hair. “I have no doubt you can, sugar. But your dad must think working the fields is his job, not your mom’s, that’s all I’m saying. Go easy on yourself. You did what you had to do, what most men couldn’t have done, and you did it because you’re female. You fooled one of the worst murderers in Brazil. Don’t spread yourself too thin. Talk to me. Let me—”

  Izza rapped on the closed door. “Hey, guys. Wake up! Hans is back. We’ve got trouble.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Walker rolled off one side of Persia’s bed while she rolled off the other. Still weak but not going to admit it, he staggered back to his room, tore open the closet, and selected the first pair of jeans hanging there. Measuring it against his body for size, he guesstimated it was close enough. After grabbing one of the clean t-shirts hanging next to the jeans, he crossed the room, yanked a dresser drawer open, and took out a pair of socks and boxers. He dressed hurriedly, still needing a weapon or two.

  He’d just located a decent pair of boots—this safe house literally had everything in his size—when Izza slammed his door open and tossed him a rifle. “You’ll need this.”

  Walker caught it easily. Checking the weight, he slid the breech open, made sure the weapon was loaded. Bolt-action, .308-caliber rifle with a full magazine. Sweet. “How many rounds does this mag hold?”

  “Ten. More ammo and mags are on the dining room table. Pistols, if you don’t like a rifle. Take your pick.”

  “What are we looking at?”

  “Ask Hans,” she barked, already out in the hall on her way to somewhere else. She’d dressed for battle. Cammie pants, black wife-beater, and her hair tied back ruthlessly in a ponytail.

  Persia stopped at his door, tucking a black shirt into her black jeans. “Are you sure you’re up for this?” She looked like Izza’s twin. Same outfit. Same hairstyle. Same hard glint in her eye.

  “Never felt better. Tell me about this house.”


  “Walk with me,” she ordered, that ponytail swinging as she led the way. “I’m only going to say it once.”

  Walker fell in line. It was hard to know who was in charge, Izza or Persia. She’d changed back into a domineering fighting woman, but Izza had, too. Out in the front room, Hans stood over the table loaded with enough weaponry to make a SEAL smile. He’d changed into jeans and a plain white t-shirt since Walker last saw him. A loaded ammo belt draped his shoulder. He carried another custom rifle in his hand, as unlikely a warrior as ever could be.

  But that table was a SEAL’s wet dream come true. Not only were there more rifles lined on it, but also a half dozen SIG Sauer P226 pistols. Designed for extreme military use, it had long ago set the standard for combat pistols the world over. Single, double, and thigh holsters lay stretched alongside the pistols. Then an array of six and eight-inch blades, complete with sheaths and holsters. Large ammo cans and wooden crates were stacked beside the table. And Christ, a tank killer, as in an over the shoulder M72 LAW, one-shot, 66-millimeter, lay at the far end. Izza had been busy.

  Walker helped himself to an over-shoulder double holster, two P226’s, and as many mags as he could stuff in his pocket. Strapping on a thigh holster, he added a six-inch blade, instantly regretting that he’d lost Kenny’s. Another pistol got tucked into his waistband behind his back.

  “People,” Persia snapped as she stepped to the edge of the table. “This building was built to withstand everything but a 120-millimeter round. Two points of egress” —she pointed to the front and the back doors of the structure— “with steel doors like the ones you’ll find on gun safes. Piano hinges. Reinforced door jambs. Digital locks. Security doorknobs. Only windows in this home are upfront, top of the door and to its side. Glass is bulletproof, tested to withstand any magnitude earthquake or any caliber munition. Roof is buttressed twelve-gauge steel. Outside walls were designed to look like every other house in this neighborhood, but inside, everything you see is fireproof. Fire suppression will engage instantly in the unlikely case a fire does start. At that point, the online system will notify TEAM HQ, and a team will be dispatched to assist. No one is getting in this safe house without one helluva fight.”

  “This house has an online security system?” He couldn’t believe that. “Who’s watching us?”

  “Most likely junior agents Ember Dennison or Beau Villanueva back at HQ. Other questions?”

  “What’s beneath us?”

  “Six feet of reinforced concrete. Down the hall is our last line of defense.”

  “Which is?”

  “The safe room.”

  That surprised him. Stewart was damned thorough.

  Persia turned smartly to Izza. “You want to add anything?”

  “Just that I’m still waiting for confirmation on the intel Hans provided. Until then, we’ll assume he’s right, that a squad of armed mercenaries is headed our way. ETA in fifteen. Load up, folks. Persia, you and Walker hold our frontline. Hans, you and I’ll cover the rear until reinforcements arrive. No one gets inside. Shoot to kill. Hans? Is that clear?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said as he stepped to her side, cleared his throat, and turned to Walker. “I have gone over all the evidence the International Criminal Court has against you, and I find the timeline lacking in sufficient details and corroboration. It’s as if someone has deliberately misled the ICC. There are distinct similarities between your physical description and that of the bomber, but now that I’ve met you in person, I see that you are taller, heavier across here” —he dragged his fingers over his chest— “than the man who killed those people in Jordan. Plus, your eyes are blue; his were distinctly brown.”

  “I could’ve been wearing contacts,” Walker explained what any prosecutor would no doubt declare.

  Hans nodded. “Yes. You could’ve been wearing contacts that day, but there are other dissimilarities that prove you were not there. When this is over, I will show you what I mean. But now—” Hans glanced over his shoulder at the front door. “Because you fled ICC custody, President Von Schtolz has declared you to be a fugitive of international justice. Every country has been alerted, as well as every bounty hunter. You are to be taken dead or alive—”

  “Over my f-ing dead body,” Izza huffed, jamming the bolt on her rifle forward with the cockiness of a pissed-off bantam rooster. She’d wrapped the weapon’s strap around her fist, her jaw set, and her brown eyes gone mostly black. “Von Schtolz sends anyone, they’ll have to come through me.”

  “And me,” Hans said quietly. “I stand with you now, Lieutenant Judge. We are all accomplices.”

  “Then we’ll all hang together,” Izza declared.

  Walker was beginning to recognize her signature head swagger. This woman was as ferocious as Persia. They could’ve passed for blood sisters. But in no way was he putting their lives in more danger. “Listen. Guys. I’m honored you all trust me enough to fight for me, but—”

  “Shut it,” Persia snapped, her pretty browns flashing lovely amber fire.

  She had the nerve to flip him off with a covert middle finger salute to her furrowed brow. God, he loved her!

  “Now’s not the time to look a gift horse in the mouth. One fights, we all fight. Got it?”

  “But—”

  “Butts and assholes,” Izza quipped. “You ain’t gonna win this one, Hotrod, so shut the fuck up and do what you’re told.”

  Man, he loved these women. Made him feel like he was back with his guys. Humbled, Walker reached across Hans’ chest and released the safety on the man’s rifle, just in case he didn’t know what that lever was for.

  A shy smile came back to Walker. A head nod. Enough that he now knew Mr. Koning had never held a bolt-action rifle before. Possibly not any other weapon, either.

  Shit. Stewart had better be right about this building. Because there was no way to adequately protect this house if an ICC squad breached it, not with a team of three and a half against what would, no doubt, be experienced soldiers. Yet that was what Walker meant to do.

  He cast a sideways glance at Persia. His dream. His goddess. Now his commander. Pointing to the front and back doors, he declared, “I’ll move ammo to drop spots, front and rear, for quicker access.”

  “Then do it.”

  Immediately, Walker carried half the ammo boxes to the exit, the other half to the front door. As soon as he finished, he asked, “Which way’s the safe room?” He didn’t plan on saving himself, but Hans and the rest of his team would live to see another day. Absolutely.

  Persia stalked into the hall, backed up to the linen closet, and slammed her boot, heel first, against it. Instead of opening outward, the door slid up with the slightest hydraulic hiss, revealing another vault, similar to the front door, complete with a retinal scanner array.

  “Well, bless my heart. Are you telling me we’re going to need this, soldier?” she snapped, her middle finger doing its thing again. Her eyes flashed the sexiest brown flames Walker had ever been blessed with. His blood thickened, and his cock sprang to hot-damned attention. She might think she was a weakling because she’d had a few nightmares. But no way. This woman rocked her authority with poise and enough confidence to inspire even Hans. Who, Walker damned well noticed, was staring at Persia, as if she were a movie star and he was her greatest fan. That crap had to stop.

  “Not if yours are the only retinas that’ll open it,” Walker countered, used to leading, not following.

  “Relax,” Izza soothed. “We’ve got you covered, big guy.”

  Not what he wanted to hear. “Prove it.”

  “Fine,” Persia growled without any hint she’d just shared intimate secrets with him. “I’ll open it, just for you.”

  Whoa, the sarcasm. He loved it.

  “For your information, this door stays unlocked until someone shuts themselves inside and locks it. Is that understood? All you need to worry about is how to hit the big, square, palm-sized button
inside this room. Can you handle that, Lieutenant Judge?”

  And now I’m back in the Navy. Every word out of her mouth carried an implied dare. That last one, Lieutenant Judge, was a glove slapped across his face, challenging him to a duel. Not Hotrod? She was steadily provoking him to question her authority.

  And hot damn, he was falling farther in love with every snarky order out of her hot, wet mouth. He’d worked with female soldiers and jarheads before, but never one as sexy or as sure of herself as Persia, and none who’d been in charge or pushed his buttons like she did. Even the way she stood in the hall with her shoulders squared, her feet spread, and her chin lifted, declared, ’Just try me.’

  The rowdy caveman in him roared to life to do just that. The impulse hit him to step over the imaginary line she’d drawn, to try her. To throw her belligerent ass over his shoulder, smack that ass, then carry her back to his den. Make a fire, then make her his. In every position possible.

  “I asked if you understand me?” And now she was being an ass. A sexy, dominant, drill-sergeant-worthy ass. “Does that suit your particular Navy skillset, LT?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Walker shot back at her. She had never before looked as hot as she did right then. How was he supposed to fight ICC assholes, when he wanted to rip her clothes off and fuck the hell out of her? Make her scream?

  The vibration of heavy equipment rattled the house, ending that daydream. Sounded like a tank had pulled up to the front door. Stewart had better be right about this safe house’s ability to withstand 120-millimeter rounds.

  Walker turned to his assigned duty location, as Persia strode past him, her head held high and the buttstock of her rifle pressed into her shoulder. This woman was ready to fight, and he could barely tear his eyes off her.

  Until a shot splattered the front window, and a hail of gunfire erupted at both the front and back of the house. Sounded like an entire hive of killer bees had been set loose. Yet nothing breached the structure or came through the window. Tiny impressions, like rock chips on a windshield, were the only damage to the glass.