Walker (In the Company of Snipers Book 21)

by Irish Winters

  He took quick stock of the room. Standard hospital issue. Nothing special and no one in sight. Until the door hissed quietly open and—

  “Son of a bitch! Trevor Duncan!” He reached a hand to his Army buddy. The man who’d taught him to fly Blackhawks, and who’d personally covered his ass during Walker’s brief stint as a Nightstalker pilot.

  “You ass!” Trevor growled, even as he took hold of Walker’s hand and squeezed the hell out of his fingers.

  Brought sissy tears to Walker’s eyes, but that hard, tough handshake hurt so good. “Why are you here? How’d you…? Where’s…? Shit, don’t just stand there. Say something!”

  Trevor dropped the toughest-man-in-the-room routine and let Walker’s hand go. “Been tracking your stupid ass for weeks now.”

  “You rescued us? That was you? Where are Persia and Izza?”

  Both Trevor’s palms came up as if to placate him. “Slow down. Take it easy. I’m not who rescued you. That was another guy. He’ll be in later. Guess he’s got trouble with some ornery senator in Washington, DC. He’s been on his phone all day. But listen… Someone’s waiting to see you.”

  “Bring her in,” Walker said. Please. Bring Persia in, right damned now.

  “Her?” Trevor teased as he leaned out into the hall and waved at someone to join them.

  In walked Smoke Montoya, the dark-haired SEAL from Texas, and a fuckin’ legend.

  “Hey,” growled the man who had single-handedly ended more ISIL and Taliban terrorists than any other spec ops operator. Then walked away from America for some reason Walker had never known.

  “Smoke…?” Man, he was all choked up. “Why…? How…?”

  Rolling one shoulder, Smoke stalked to the bed like he was ready to fight. “Because you’re my brother, that’s why,” he said as he took hold of Walker’s forearm, wrist to elbow. Some kind of wicked SEAL magic passed from him to Walker. Choked a man up to be remembered by the hero America had forgotten.

  “And SEALs stick together,” another rugged voice muttered from the doorway.

  Julio Juarez! “What are you doing here?” Walker croaked. Seeing these men—these brothers—was killing him. Stupid damned tears welled in his eyes, making him blink like a sissy.

  “I’ve been looking for you since you left me stranded off the coast of Brazil,” Julio answered quietly. Once Smoke dropped Walker’s arm, Julio took possession, interlocking his wrist with Walker’s, like Smoke had just done. “I may not be a SEAL like you, amigo, but I will always be your brother. Meg says to tell you it’s time to stop running and come home. That you have more friends than you realize. That you’re going to be our son’s godfather.” He tugged something out of his rear pocket and slapped it onto Walker’s chest.

  Holy hell, a one-way airline ticket to Dallas-Fort Worth, Texas.

  “Dominic? That was that little guy’s name, right?” His brain was still plenty fuzzy, but Walker was sure that’s what Persia had told him the night they’d met.

  Julio nodded. The man was another legend. Born in Mexico, he’d traveled north as a teenager to work the strawberry fields of California, then studied hard, finished high school early and entered a local community college. A year later, he joined the Navy to pay America back for his new-found freedom. Not only joined, but Julio had told his recruiter he planned to be a SEAL. That got him a SEAL mentor, who properly trained him to pass the rigorous BUDS PST, the physical screening test. He’d just been accepted for Hell week when Hell had literally come calling in the guise of Satan’s most evil spawn: Domingo Zapata. The sociopath kidnapped Julio’s family, which forced Julio to ring out and begin the arduous challenge of getting his wife and tiny son back. It took him five torturous years. But that was another story.

  “He’s home with Meg. What shall I tell her?”

  “Tell her I’ll try—”

  Julio cocked his head. “You will try? You? A SEAL? One of America’s best, you will only try?”

  Walker got the point. Try was not in any SEAL’s vocabulary. He slapped Julio’s hand, hard. “I’ll be there, damn it. Tell that wife of yours, yes. I’ll be there, and I’m proud to be Dominic’s godfather. You did marry her, didn’t you?”

  Julio shrugged. “Of course. As soon as I could. She and Dominic are mi familia.”

  “You’re one lucky son of a bitch,” Walker said, thinking of Persia and how lucky he was to have her in his life. It’d sure be nice if she stayed…

  “Damned fuckin’ straight.” Lieutenant Junior Grade Ryder Dahl declared. Once Walker’s exec, he filled the doorway. Could’ve blocked the sun. Big. Black. And one damned loyal friend, Ryder was smiling like a son of a bitch. “Got some assholes out here who’ve been waiting all day for you to wake up, princess.”

  “Ryder!” Words failed.

  “Yeah, Boss, of course it’s me. Where else would I be but on your six? Just had to find your dumbass to follow it.”

  Walker would’ve laughed if Ensigns Steel Arrington, Nguyen Le, and Dallas Perkins hadn’t jostled their wide shoulders and skinny asses through the door. Ensigns, what’s a CO to do with them? Then… Shit. Red-headed, First Class Urban Sweeny, followed by Petty Officer Third Class Amerigo. Things were getting crowded in this tiny, standing-room-only place. His guys. They were all here.

  “You sailors on shore leave or something?” Walker asked, struggling to get his damned emotions in check and his voice back under control.

  “Nah.” Amerigo Torres shrugged. “We quit, Boss. Figured it was high time we followed our leader into Hell again. Where are we going this time?”

  “Yeah, Boss. Since you couldn’t seem to stay clear of the law,” Ensign Dallas Perkins, aka Tex, drawled. “We decided to come help.”

  “You quit the Navy?” Walker had to understand what he thought he’d just heard.

  “No, Boss, we didn’t quit the Navy,” Ryder said in his deep, clear-as-Michael-Clarke-Duncan voice. “The fuckin’ Navy quit us the day they convicted our Chief and sent him to Leavenworth. So yeah. We’re here for you and—”

  “Figured you needed one of these to get your lazy ass moving.” Steel Arrington produced a dripping wet PBR, as in Pabst Blue Ribbon beer, from the plastic bag under his arm.

  Shit. That did it. Walker was too exhausted to keep the tears from trickling out of the corners of his eyes. But then it got worse. In walked Brimley Scott with his street sweeper mustache and those same round spectacles. He hadn’t changed a bit. “Rover’s waiting outside. Hospital rules, so I can’t stay long, LT. Just want you to know not to worry. I got everything handled.”

  “Brim,” Walker ground out, his arm stretched to his friend. “You’re here.”

  “Where else would I be?” the old guy growled as he came to Walker’s side and pulled him into a bear hug.

  Walker was a mess by then, hanging onto his friend as if Brim were a lifesaver. Afraid to let go. So damned shocked and thankful and—broken. He’d been running so long, but this crusty old veteran had trusted him from the get-go.

  “There, there, son,” Brim murmured as gently as a father might.

  “How… how’s Rover?”

  “He’s good. They ripped you off that boat of yours so fast, I never had time to tell you a proper goodbye. Want you to know that me and Rover been taking real good care of your girl. She’s docked safe and sound in Portugal. Dry-docked her, so no one’ll see her, and no one can get at her. She’s safe, LT. Like you.”

  Walker shook his head, fighting like hell to get in control before he let Brim go. It’d been a long damned time since he’d been safe. Brim’s words almost made the concept seem real.

  This reunion could only have been better if—

  “Walker Judge?” another familiar voice asked through the crowd. “Is this his room?”

  “Come on in, sir,” Trevor answered. “He’s over here, still laying around and—”

  Walker eased out of Brim’s hairy arms. “Quinn?” he croaked, so da
mned wrung out by this overwhelming show of support from the caliber of men crowded in his hospital room. He could barely speak.

  “Hell, yes, it’s me,” Captain Quinn Dooley muttered. Dressed smartly in his official whites, with his cover tucked under one arm, he cut a proud figure. One by one, Walker’s friends stepped aside and let the Naval officer elbow his way forward. Finally at Walker’s bedside, Quinn told the room, “At ease.”

  Not like most of them hadn’t already been at ease. Only the three ensigns, Steel Arrington, Nguyen Li, and Dallas Perkins, had snapped to when they’d seen him.

  “What are you doing here?” Walker asked the man he’d once risked his life for.

  “I’ve come to repay a debt that is long overdue,” Dooley replied somberly. Damned if his eyes weren’t sparkling a little too much. That didn’t help.

  Walker coughed. “You, sir, don’t owe me any—”

  “Wrong, sailor. I owe you everything,” Dooley corrected sternly. He tugged a handful of pink and blue strings and beads out of his pants pocket and handed them to Walker. “Emily asked me to give this to you. She made it, and you’d better damned well wear it. That little girl loves you, Judge. Don’t know why, but—” Dooley choked, because he knew precisely why Emily loved Walker. And why Walker would forever adore his little girl.

  He blinked hard as he accepted the sweet gift, a bracelet made with pink and blue elastic strings and bright red hearts. He slid it over his left hand, the one without an IV line, and onto his wrist. By then he could hardly speak. Didn’t dare.

  Quinn grasped Walker’s right hand. Like a brother, pulse to pulse, his fingers tight around Walker’s wrist. “You saved her, buddy. You saved my daughter, and you saved me and my wife, too. Now, I’m here to save you.”

  Walker honestly didn’t see how that could ever happen, not with all the bogus charges stacked against him. It was like betting against the house in Reno. The cards were already counted, stacked, the crooked die cast, and he was going down.

  “And the next time you’re on my ship, you’d better damned well introduce yourself,” Quinn growled.

  Walker nearly smiled. He’d been on Quinn’s aircraft carrier during that covert op into Brazil to assist Meg Duncan, then Julio. He would’ve grinned at the scolding, but one of his guys, he honestly hadn’t seen which, reached past Dooley and slugged Walker’s injured arm.

  “Shit! That’s where I was shot, you ass! It still hurts like a mother—”

  Every single one of those blowhards laughed. They laughed! Even Quinn!

  And Walker laughed with them. Because, well, that’s what tough bastards did. They pulled each other back from all kinds of dangerous edges, even when that edge was just a crying jag.

  Captain Quinn Dooley leaned over and told him, “Get used to it, LT. We’re not going anywhere. We’ll leave now to give you time to rest and heal and get your head back in the game. But mark my words, we’ll be back. You’re not in this fight alone anymore. Get that through your thick SEAL skull, will you?”

  Walker could only nod and blink, then blink again.

  Until his XO bellowed, “Commander on deck!”

  Every last one of his men snapped to attention. Even Smoke and Dooley. And Brim!

  Now who? Walker sank back into his pillow, exhausted but so damned thankful for brothers-in-arms.

  Turned out the commander on deck was a tall, deadly serious, badassed civilian, not an officer at all. Dark haired. Craggy face. Wicked blue eyes. This guy was decked in tactical armor, and he wore it like he owned every last one of their souls. The men in his way flattened against the walls to make room for him. On his six, the only woman in Walker’s dreams peered around the guy’s thick biceps.

  Persia winked. “Lieutenant Walker Judge, may I introduce my boss and the man who owns the one and only TEAM, Mr. Alex Stewart. Alex, this is the SEAL I’ve told you about.”

  Stewart rolled his eyes. Grunted. Why Walker wanted to salute him, he didn’t know. It just seemed the proper thing to do to the man who’d commanded this many warriors just by showing up.

  “Knock it off,” Alex hissed at the men still at attention. “I’m not a son of a bitchin’ officer. Relax. Then get the hell out. Judge and I need to talk.”

  Just like that, the room emptied. Even Captain Dooley, a Navy officer, who should’ve been shown more respect, walked out without a word. The room was quiet for all of two seconds, until Steel Arrington dodged back inside and set that frosty PBR on Walker’s nightstand with a wink and a cheeky, “Later, Boss.”

  Tired to his soul, Walker faced Stewart. Persia stood at this fierce man’s side like an obedient handmaiden, and that pissed Walker off. He fluttered his fingers for her to come to him. Damned if a smile didn’t brighten her face. Persia came straight to his side, took his hand, and together they faced her boss.

  “You made all this happen,” Walker said to the guy. “I don’t know who you are, but… thank you.”

  “I’m your boss, is who I am.” Stewart stuck his chin at Walker, like one of those arrogant guys who thought they knew more than everyone else. Maybe he did.

  “My boss?” Walker could feel Persia beaming down on him, like a warm morning sunrise.

  “You heard me,” Stewart growled. “Take it or leave it, I don’t give a shit either way. But Agent Coltrane is one of my best, and when she tells me I’d be smart to hire you…” —he spared a quick glare under his eyebrows at Persia— “I’m smart enough do what I’m told. Are you?”

  “Just like that? You want me to work for you?” What the hell?

  “I asked you, didn’t I?”

  Talking with Stewart was like playing with a buzz saw. Every comeback carried a potential threat and a lethal glare. He was Walker’s USN drill sergeant all over again.

  “Yes, sir, but” —Walker caught himself. Shit, he was damned near ready to bawl again. What the hell was going on? These emotions were way out of hand— “I mean, Mr. Stewart. How did you…? Why did you…?”

  “How did I know where to find your men? How did I know to locate Brimley Scott and his dog on a yacht stuck between the Azores and Portugal? How do I know you went into Guatemala, without proper clearance or permission, allegedly on personal business, fifteen months ago? How do I know why the captain of the Iwo Jima aircraft carrier is here with you today, instead of off the coast of Brazil, where he’s supposed to be? Is that what you’re asking me, junior agent?”

  Junior agent, huh? Stewart seemed to think he already owned him. He certainly knew a lot. But Guatemala? Quinn Dooley?

  “How do you know all that?” Walker couldn’t help that his voice sounded tighter than usual. Or that his questions had come out raspy and hoarse.

  “Because it’s my business to know. Anything else?”

  “Why are you doing this? You don’t even know me.”

  Stewart’s hard-as-ice eyes softened. “Because that’s what I do, Walker Judge. I take the cases no one else will touch, and my TEAM does the impossible. I’ve been in your shoes once or twice. I know what betrayal feels like. But you’re like me, too stupid to realize how many friends you’ve got. So I decided to show you before you got yourself killed.”

  That, right there, damned near broke Walker’s heart. “But I’m a convicted felon. I’m wanted by the FBI, the Queen of England, and…” And shit, just about every lawman between here and Dodge City, Kansas.

  Stewart waved that off like it was nothing. “So? You’re still breathing, aren’t you?”

  Well, err… “Yes.”

  “Then stop whining.”

  Walker didn’t know what to say to that. “Doesn’t it matter, you hiring a convicted felon?”

  “Hasn’t before.”

  Thankfully, Persia came to Walker’s rescue. “Boss, were you able to get through to Senator Sullivan yet?”

  “Yessss,” Stewart hissed as he crossed his thick arms over his massive chest. “Dumb ass. He’ll get over it.”


  “Okay, stop!” Walker bellowed, fed up with the overload of too many bits and pieces of intel. “You know McQueen Sullivan, too? Christ, who the hell are you?”

  A crooked smirk tweaked the corners of Stewart’s lips. “Already told you. I’m your boss. Not Sullivan. Get some rest. I’ll be back in three hours. Be ready to move then.”

  And he was gone.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  The excitement had worn Walker out, Persia could tell. He was pale and breathing hard, staring into space more than asking coherent questions about what had just happened. She pulled a molded-plastic chair over to his bedside the second Alex left, ready to answer all Walker’s questions. It was time to call him by his real name. Alex certainly had.

  “Hey, Walker. You okay?”

  “So talk,” he told her quietly. “Who’s Stewart, and why’s he really here? What’s he want from me?”

  “I told you about him once before, remember?”

  Walker shook his head. Even his blue eyes were pale.

  “Former Marine. Owns a covert surveillance company called The TEAM, in Alexandria, Virginia. Hates to be called sir.”

  Walker’s fingers fluttered. “That I remembered.”

  “I noticed you only made the mistake once.”

  “Yeah. He’s like me, hates officers. I’d like to know the story behind that.”

  “Well, you work for him now. Maybe someday, he’ll tell you.”

  “Stop stalling, Coltrane. Spill.”

  “Okay. Well, I had no idea until he showed up at the safe house, but Alex has been working your case since he heard you’d been convicted of murder.”

  “But that was over a year ago. Does he follow every Navy trial?”

  “No, but yours called to him. At least, that’s what he said. He’s had Ember Dennison and Beau Villanueva, they’re The TEAM’s technical wizards, following your former CO’s money trail. They’re like your Petty Officer First Class Urban Sweeny, only they handle more than just comm equipment, and… Don’t tell anyone, but I think they’re sharp enough to hack into a lot of federal systems but without getting caught.”