Walker (In the Company of Snipers Book 21)

by Irish Winters

  And here we go…

  He took position to the right of the windowpane, with Persia at the left, nearest the front door. Peering out, it looked like a small army had arrived. No tank, but three armored vehicles, all black and lacking high-power armament. But deadly just the same.

  “Persia?” Izza called from the rear door. “Report.” She looked as steady as Persia, but Hans was plenty rattled, breathing hard and twitchy as hell. He held his rifle like a novice who was afraid of the weapon. Not good.

  “Looks like BSB is knocking on our door, Iz. I count twelve men in flak jackets, all carrying tactical rifles and loaded for bear,” Persia replied evenly. Man, her fingers weren’t even trembling. “And you?”

  BSB, aka the Dutch Brigade Speciale Beveiligingsopdrachten; in English, the Security Assignments Brigade. Consisting of military police and various commandos, BSB was known for its ruthlessness when conducting special operations. This group must be their arrest team.

  “Dozen, near as I can see through this damned peephole. Might be more. Hans, what do you think?”

  “More,” he breathed. “The BSB is similar to your American SWAT. Only better. This must be their advance team. But their uniforms are strange...”

  Walker didn’t have time to worry about their get-ups. “If this place is as secure as you say, Coltrane, what do we have to worry about?” he asked under his breath, needing all the deets, not just the whitewashed, good-enough-for-Hans, version.

  “Because every good plan turns to crap the second shit hits the fan,” she told him out of the corner of her mouth. “If things go south, get your ass in that safe room. Take Hans with you. Lock the door and wait these bastards out.”

  He lowered his voice. “And let you die? Get over yourself, sugar. Be serious. What are you really thinking? That they’ll hit this place with a Hellfire missile?”

  She swiped a hand over her lips. “I hope not, but this place is seven-years-old, and The Hague has blueprints on file for every building in the city. I’m thinking if they know how well this house is built, they’ve already planned how to get inside. We’ve got no diplomatic immunity if they do. They’ll kill us, no questions asked. Hans for sure. And don’t call me sugar.”

  “But you’ve already called for an assist. Someone is coming, right, sugar?”

  Her nostrils flared. “Izza did, but they’re not here yet, are they? Stop calling me sugar.”

  “But sugar, that fifteen minute ETA was—”

  “Not for us,” Persia breathed, as another attack of killer bees hit the front door and window, again without causing any real damage. “And stop calling me sugar, Goddamn it!”

  Walker couldn’t resist. He puckered up, blew her a tiny air kiss, and winked. Just to piss her off. What was she going to do? Court-martial him?

  She slanted one helluva an evil-eye at him. Which only made him smile wider. Until the house shrieked, shook and vibrated. Then—

  “Scheisse!” Hans hissed. “They’re taking the entire building!”

  “They’re what?” Walker bellowed as things inside cupboards shifted and everything loose on countertops crashed to the floor.

  “Plan B! Engage!” Persia ordered as she jerked the front door open, grabbed another box of ammo, and stepped outside.

  Walker followed, hard on her six. Several rounds zipped past his head the moment he cleared the doorway. So fast, that he stepped back just to let the bullets fly by. Sure enough. The ICC had brought in a giant crane, its massive claws clutched over the roof of the house. Bet Stewart hadn’t thought of that.

  Persia dropped one knee on the top step, already firing steadily, an open box of ammo at her side. With an inordinate touch of manly pride, Walker noticed she knew how to run her gun. The ultimate sign of a professional. Never took her eyes off her targets, as, one by one, four men fell to her well-placed shots. She reloaded, again without looking away or fumbling for ammo. In seconds, she’d dropped two more BSB guys.

  But he doubted these men were BSB. Hans was right. None wore official BSB badges or any other identifying insignia. Instead, every last head out there was shaved, adorned with swastikas and tats. The bastards all carried AKs. The ICC hadn’t sent them.

  “Cover me,” he told Persia as he ran into the fray, then slid to his knees on the front walk. He’d caught the assassins by surprise. Also put him in the middle, where the far-right group couldn’t shoot him without taking out their far-left guys. Walker took advantage of that few seconds delay and took out the crane operator with one well-placed shot. Who would’ve ever thought to rip a house off its foundation to get at a wanted criminal? Guess the Dutch, that’s who.

  Izza bellowing and cursing from inside told him the rear exit had been breached. Sweating now and out of breath, he pushed to his feet and ran back to the house. Clean shot, straight through the front door and through the house. He nailed the guard struggling with Izza, then the guy aiming at Hans.

  Surprised when that thug fell dead, Hans sent Walker a thankful nod. Izza was back in fighting mode. She shoved Hans out of her way and blocked the doorway with her body, firing like a madwoman. Which made her a target.

  No way.

  Walker charged into the house, determined to hold fast until that promised TEAM assist showed. Where the hell were they?

  With both front and rear egress points breached and no assurance Stewart’s TEAM would arrive in time to save anyone, Walker did the smart thing. The right thing. The only thing.

  Ripping his t-shirt over his head, he wound one sleeve over the end of his rifle and backtracked to the front door. He had a bargain to make.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  “No!” Izza screamed from the rear exit. “Damn you, Walker. Stop!”

  Persia glanced over her shoulder in time to catch sight of him clearing the front door, a damned white flag stuck on the end of his rifle. “Back inside!” she bellowed. “I didn’t come all this way to lose you now!”

  “I won’t let you die,” he answered calmly. “Tell your boss—”

  BLAM! A round caught his left shoulder, twisting the upper right half of his body forward. A red puff of blood and tissue sprayed the wall behind him. He clutched her wrist and fell to one knee. That damned white flag kept waving like the surrender it was.

  “You sons of bitches!” Persia yelled, firing one round after the other into the assassins headed her way. Going to kill every last one if it was the last thing she did.

  Hotrod should’ve known better! Damn him! These guys weren’t from the ICC. They were common thugs. They wouldn’t take him alive. Every last one of them was after the bounty on his head. Jesus, what a way to go. Hunted like a dog. Bleeding like a stuck pig.

  Not on my watch!

  “Get inside, Persia,” he pleaded. “Please. For me. This is the only way you guys are going to live. Don’t you see?”

  “No!” she snapped, never more sure than now that this was where she was supposed to be. At his side when he needed her most, with her sharp eyes picking off one damned varmint after another and covering his ass.

  Another spray of firepower exploded the siding over her head. Slivers and chunks of wood rained down. With one desperate shove, he forced her backward and pushed her inside. Where she’d be safe, but he would not. The ass!

  “Don’t do this!” she ordered, even as she fell on her rear.

  Hotrod slammed the door in her face.

  Persia scrambled to her feet, rifle still in hand. Looking through that small square of bulletproof glass in the door, she stared into the stormy blue eyes on the other side. He knew he’d be killed. But he looked pissed, yet brokenhearted at the same time. A river of red streamed down his neck, over his shoulder and chest. The stupid ass’s hard head had just taken a hit. He’d been grazed. He meant to die for her. Like hell!

  “Let me out!” She jerked at the door handle. Then harder. It didn’t budge. Hotrod held the other side of that knob.

  “Damn yo
u! Let me out!” she cried, frantic she’d have to stand here and watch while they riddled his body with shot after shot. As if on cue, another round splattered across the front of the house, etching the window panes, still not breaking through. Somehow missing him.

  Hotrod never broke eye contact. Never blinked. Just stared at her, as if he were soaking up this last moment. As if this was the end and he knew it. He was going to stand there and die to save her.

  Persia froze. For a millionth of a damned second.

  “No! Damn you, no! You can’t do this!” she bellowed, pulling with all her weight and energy to open that door. “I can help! I’m no weakling! You can’t do this! Let me out!”

  Tears brimmed with every unsuccessful tug. She braced her feet. Cursed brave men in general. Tried to overpower his hold again. And again! “I’m not giving up on you, damn it. Don’t you dare give up on me!”

  Yet there Hotrod stood, on the other side of forever. As patient as fuck! Tenderness gleamed like tears in his eyes. He was doing it again, walking away and leaving her. Only this time, there’d be no coming back.

  Tires screeched. Thunder rumbled and—

  UMMPH! She watched as a different heavy vehicle cleared the curb and slammed to a halt. Then another. Her heart sank. Someone’s cavalry had arrived. Either that was a fresh batch of assassins and this was the end or—

  The battle sounds changed from AKs screaming to the steadier, heavier growl of—custom made rifles? Yesssss! Those were TEAM weapons and TEAM vehicles! Damn them! They were late, but The TEAM was here!

  Hotrod glanced over his shoulder, taking in the latest threat, as if he’d heard the change in artillery cadence, too. His split-second distraction worked for Persia. Pissed as hell, she jerked that door inward, enough to knock his arrogant ass off-balance.

  “Damn you,” she cried as she pulled this stupid, stupid man inside. “You’d better not die!”

  “For you, sugar, anything,” he wheezed.

  Then she wished she hadn’t screamed. Hotrod stumbled forward. His eyes rolled back in his head. With a grunt, he collapsed into her, a dead, bleeding weight.

  “Thank God!” Izza exclaimed from somewhere behind her. “They came, Hans. The TEAM is here. We’re saved!”

  Persia sank to the floor with Walker, her rifle still at her side. “He’s been hit, Izza! He’s dying!”

  Cradling him, she ran a quick hand over his sweaty head. Her fingers came away drenched with red. One round had definitely grazed his skull, but the other was a through and through, high on his left shoulder. Red rivers poured from both wounds. “Don’t leave me, Hotrod. Walker, please. Don’t you dare leave me again…”

  “Crap! Stupid damned SEALs,” Izza hissed as she dropped to her knees alongside them. “He saves my life, then throws his away? Dumb shit! I’ll kick his ass if he dies!”

  It was times like this that Persia adored Izza. With her blowout kit already spread on Hotrod’s belly, she worked quickly and expertly. Fiercely, as if she were at war with yet another enemy. Izza applied a hearty dose of QuikClot to stop the flow pouring out of his head wound, closed it with a bulky, sticky pad, then went to work on that through and through.

  “Here,” she snapped as she handed Persia a small plastic bag of cotton plugs. “You know what to do with these. I’ll take the exit.”

  “I’ve got the entry,” Persia replied, her heart pounding at how much this was going to hurt him. Yet it had to be done. The plugs were compressed cotton. Designed to expand when saturated, they’d slow the blood loss until medics arrived. One after another, she pushed several plugs into the bleeding hole just under his collarbone. It was battlefield first-aid at its best.

  Hotrod groaned and tensed every time her fingertip penetrated his muscle. But he never opened his eyes. A bullet to the head, even a near miss, a graze, still impacted a man’s skull with enough kinetic energy to crack bones and cause concussions. He hadn’t yet recovered from his first concussion. He needed real medics and a Life Flight helicopter, damn it!

  “Harder,” Izza growled even as she leaned down to peer at the exit wound she’d treated. “Men are so stupid.”

  “He sacrificed himself for us,” Persia murmured.

  “I know. I saw that damned white flag. Still a dumbass move.” The harder Izza worked, the more she cussed. “Fuckin’ hero move. Not smart, Hotrod.”

  “You’ve done this before.”

  “Too many times.” For as tiny as she was, this fierce Hispanic woman didn’t know the meaning of quit.

  “Connor?”

  Izza shook her head. “No. He was gut shot. Whole different dumbass. Whole different problem.”

  “When?”

  Izza growled, pushed hard on Hotrod’s shoulder while she compressed the last plug into his back. “During that same Utah op. We got into a little trouble with our Mexican friends. Had to fight for our lives. No biggie.”

  “Was that when he killed those guys in that hangar? The time he rescued you? You call that no biggie?”

  Izza shrugged. “Yeah. I saved him first, then he saved me last. So what? That’s the way it works, Persia. If you love a man, you’ll die for him, cuz if he’s the one for you, he’ll die for you without thinking twice. This guy just proved that in spades, huh?”

  Persia swallowed hard. “You could say that.”

  She couldn’t look away from Hotrod’s rugged face. He’d grown pale. Even his scruff seemed lighter. As if he were fading away before she’d had time to tell him how she felt.

  But she wasn’t ready to whisper the L word yet. Didn’t know if she’d ever be ready. Commitment was one of those final absolutes. A forever. Like death. She’d seen so much heartbreak in her life, that she’d discounted the concept of forever as a myth. Didn’t want to live more heartache than she’d already witnessed.

  Life was so damned tough for some people. There were no promises, even with marriage vows. Julio Juarez was proof of that. He’d gone through hell on earth with his first wife and son, only to lose them in the worst ways possible. Yes, eventually he’d found Meg, and they were living their happily-ever-after. But what were the chances Persia would find that kind of connection? Even with the man who’d just taken a bullet for her? He’d already left her once. Why ask for a repeat?

  Izza’s head came up. “Boss is here. Beau and Adam, too. They’ve taken care of whoever those asshats were. Boss is on his phone. Looks pissed.”

  As usual. “Those guys weren’t BSB. But I’ll bet someone at ICC is behind them being here.”

  “Agreed. I’m just surprised it didn’t happen sooner. Come on. Let’s get your boyfriend here cleaned up and ready to travel before Alex wants a full Sitrep.”

  “He’s not my boyfriend, Izza.”

  “Yeah, right. Try telling that to the guy who sat up with you all last night during the nightmare you had.”

  Oh, shit. The dimmest shred of Hotrod calling her out of a very dark place came back to Persia. In her usual nightmares, she would’ve been running from Zapata. Hotrod knew that now. Did Izza? Had she seen?

  Gingerly, Izza tilted him forward so Persia could get to her feet. By the time they were both standing, Adam had run in from the rear door. Quickly, his eyes scrolled over Persia, Izza, then fell to Hotrod. “Walker got hit? Damn, how bad?”

  “Took two hits,” Persia reported as evenly as she could. “One grazed his head, the other’s a through and through.”

  Adam knelt, a couple bandages in his hand. “Let me have a look. Hold him steady.”

  Persia knelt, then tipped Hotrod into her shoulder while Adam double checked the exit wound, then slapped pressure bandages in place. She cupped the back of Hotrod’s hard head and pressed her cheek to his sweaty hair. How had this happened? Not the wounds in his body, but the holes in her heart? She’d never felt as close to any other man as she did Walker Judge.

  A moan eked out of him when Adam pressed too hard.

  Persia closed her eye
s, feeling every last bit of his pain in that moan. Wishing she could go back in time and do things differently. Yet every decision point in her past, every pivot point, even her seemingly innocent choice of colleges, had brought her to this day and this particular wounded warrior.

  Shuddering, he arched his back.

  “Take it easy,” she whispered. Somehow, his bloody hand found hers. Persia lifted that hand to her heart. “Adam’s here to help. Relax, Hotrod. We’re safe now, and I’ve got you.”

  When she opened her eyes, Alex was standing over her, those icy-blue, razor-sharp blues of his, slicing and dicing through her tough-girl persona. Looking through her. Analyzing. Judging. Always quartering her like he seemed to do with everyone and everything.

  Well, let him look. If he could dish it out, he could take it. “Boss, this is Walker Judge, aka Hotrod,” she told him clearly. “He’s injured, and I’m going with him.”

  Alex’s lips pursed with what had, until now, always seemed like disapproval. Yet he growled, “You’re damned right you are. Step aside. Let me at him.”

  Persia released Hotrod’s hand as Alex took a knee, then lifted him into a fireman’s hold. Without another word, Alex jogged out the front door with him.

  “Ladies…” Adam’s big, square chin jutted toward the front way out. “The authorities are on their way. We can’t be here when they arrive. We have to go now.”

  “I never did like this safe house,” Izza muttered.

  But Persia took one last look down the hall. She’d conquered one of her demons in this house. In that room. It might be the right time to conquer the other….

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  He’d turned into Bill Murray, and this was freakin’ “Groundhog Day.” Once again, waking up alone in bed, feeling like a Bradley tank had run over him, not knowing where he was, but knowing this shit had to stop.

  Something beeped up beyond his head. Walker peeled one eye open. Shit. He was in a hospital this time, and that beeping noise came from the machine tracking his vitals. At least he hadn’t flatlined, and he wasn’t back in that ICC cell.