Walker (In the Company of Snipers Book 21)

by Irish Winters

  Once again, Persia forced her attention back to the clip, where nothing, as yet, looked out of place. But it was akin to watching the Titanic. She knew how this movie would end.

  At last, the marriage procession arrived at the far side of the wedding tent. A quiet, pleasant murmur rippled through the audience when both the bride’s and groom’s parents and grandparents stepped onto the lavish Persian rug. This was an important day in their lives too. Rather, it would have been.

  Next, the smiling bride and handsome groom entered their wedding tent. Her highness, Princess Mari Hajjar, and Prince Jamalud Khalid. Instead of a traditional Muslim wedding, this one was thoroughly modern European. All the men in the wedding party wore tuxedos; the women wore long gowns. The bride’s beaded gown looked to be straight out of Paris.

  Three little girls in long flowing, pink gowns danced around the group, twirling like ballerinas, as they tossed flower petals over their heads. The camera panned quickly to the right, then just as quickly back to the wedding tent. People were smiling. The music was perfect—

  Until an explosive shock wave shook the scene.

  Interestingly, where most amateurs would’ve dropped their cameras and run for their lives, whoever was behind this lens zoomed in on the fire and carnage. Where once a regal wedding tent had stood, now thick black smoke filled the air. The cameraman, or woman, panned out and captured the entire scene of mayhem. Then zoomed back in, onto the charred, bloodied faces of those screaming and crying and dying.

  “Who filmed this mess?” Walker asked.

  “No one knows,” Persia replied. She’d reviewed this clip briefly when he’d been sleeping, but it still turned her stomach. Those poor people. Those dear sweet little ballerinas—all gone. “Admiral Pickering claims he received the video from an anonymous source. There was no name or note with it when it arrived, no fingerprints.” Or so he said…

  “Did NCIS investigate this, too? They should have. Do you know? Did they go to Jordan? Did they perform autopsies?”

  She nodded, wishing there was a way to calm his rising panic. “That’s what Pickering said, yes.”

  “But you don’t believe him.” Walker’s vehemence rippled through his words. His lips were pinched and his jaw tight, as if he were biting back the words he didn’t dare speak. If eyes truly were the windows to a man’s soul, he was in Hell right now. Struggling to make sense of terrorist acts.

  She heard the question he’d really asked. So she gave him the answer he needed. “To be honest, LT, I don’t believe or trust anything Admiral Pickering or NCIS said or did during your trial.” She nodded at the images frozen on the wall. “This was a despicable act of terror. If NCIS suspected any American was involved… if they lied and said they investigated the deaths of these poor people when they didn’t—”

  “I’ll have their asses,” Alex spat. “Senator Sullivan is already backtracking everything they said they did.”

  Walker’s head snapped to Alex. “Sullivan?”

  “Sullivan’s one of the good guys,” Alex replied. “You oughta know that.”

  Interestingly, Alex stretched one long arm along the back of Walker’s chair. Which Walker had instantly sensed. He was on the balls of his feet, once again ready to run or fight.

  Until then, Persia hadn’t fully realized how deeply he’d suffered from the betrayal and lies, how much he distrusted others. How utterly devastating to know you’d been falsely accused by the command you’d fought for and were prepared to die for, the leaders who should’ve had your back. Then convicted and disavowed? She already knew that the decision to flee the country he loved had devastated him.

  At last, the tight cords in his neck relaxed. He swallowed and told Alex, “I do know that. He set me up inside Fort Campbell. Gave me clearance to fly and a sound way forward.”

  And suddenly, whatever war Walker thought he was fighting, was over. His Adam’s apple bobbed with relief. He licked his bottom lip and sent her the tiniest nod.

  The compulsion to run to him, to run her fingers through his hair, to hold him close, and kiss him and tell him that she’d always have his back, nearly swamped Persia’s common sense. She would’ve done just that, but Hans was back on his feet. “Excuse me, Agent Villanueva, but could you please play it one more time?”

  The room stilled as Beau restarted the video. Hans stepped within the flickering images and pointed at the tall, brown-haired gentleman in a crisp, black tux. “This is who brought the explosive. Do any of you recognize him?”

  “No,” Alex clipped. “Never seen him before.”

  But damn. If Persia didn’t know better, she’d swear that dapper gentleman was Walker’s twin. Same proud bearing. Same short hair and clean-shaven chin. Same dark glasses. Just as handsome. Dressed like the other men at the wedding, this guy strolled into the wedding tent and set an elegantly wrapped gift between the bride’s and groom’s place settings. Then he turned and chatted with the Jordanian couple at his left. Smiling. Congenial. Just like any invited guest.

  “Freeze that frame, please,” Hans ordered.

  Beau did as asked, then enlarged the view.

  “Now look closely,” Hans murmured. “Please. See what I see.”

  “I see a murderer,” Alex growled. Man, once he made up his mind, there was no dealing with him.

  “Yes, sir. You are right. But look at this—” Stretching his arm into the image, Hans ran his index finger along the stranger’s nose— “now please compare with the accused.”

  Every head turned toward Walker, but he had the good sense to look directly at Alex. Smart move. Never blinked, just stared at the man who could hurt him the worst—or help him the most.

  “As you can see, Mr. Stewart, Lieutenant Walker’s nose is as straight and unbroken as yours. But this man” —Hans tapped the image on the wall— “his has been broken before. It is slightly crooked. See the small knot and scar? See how it ends at rather red, bulbous nostrils, instead of nostrils that are finely crafted. And here” —Hans directed everyone’s attention to the man’s chest— “compare again.”

  Persia couldn’t help herself. “That’s not Walker Judge.”

  “No, it isn’t. That jackass is barrel-chested. This jackass” —Alex stuck his chin at Walker— “is trim and fit. He works out, and it shows. That jackass eats too damned much.”

  “And that shows,” Adam added. “He’s got a beer gut.”

  “And that belly band didn’t hide it,” Izza added.

  The barest smile creased Walker’s handsome mouth. Persia bit her tongue. It was either that or run to the only man in the room she was beginning to love—yes, love—and kiss the hell out of him. Make sure he knew he’d never be alone again.

  “One more item. Please, may I have your undivided attention?” Hans asked above the murmurs and grunts.

  Again, Beau forwarded the clip to the point where the stranger had removed his sunglasses and wiped his wrist over his eyes. By then, sirens blared in the background. Dozens more men and women were now on the scene, running to help, or carrying charred, bleeding victims from the disaster zone.

  “This is all we need to prove Lieutenant Walker’s innocence,” Hans told everyone. “This… right… here....”

  Beau enhanced the image until—

  “Walker’s eyes are blue,” Persia declared adamantly. “That liar’s are amber.”

  “But the prosecutor will insist I wore contacts,” Walker added.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Alex declared. “That bastard is not you.”

  “Watch this.” Beau reversed the clip, then forwarded it back to the frontal shot of the bomber looking directly at the cameraman. He’d known he was being filmed, and he knew the guy filming. The corner of his mouth twisted into a sardonic smirk. He nodded, as if saying, “Job well done, now let’s get outta here.”

  “Enlarge that son-of-a-bitch,” Alex snapped. He’d tilted forward, his elbows on his knees and fire in his eyes. “The
re. Stop it right there.”

  Sure enough. In the reflective lens of the murderer’s Ray-Bans, Beau had caught the image of a tall, blond male in a waiter’s uniform, holding a palm-sized video camera.

  “And he has a tattoo,” Hans proudly announced. “Show them, Agent Villanueva.”

  With several deft keystrokes, Beau magnified the black-inked number seven over the man’s left eyebrow and three equally black teardrops beneath the same eye.

  “Run him through Ember’s facial rec program,” Alex ordered.

  “Already did, Boss,” Beau replied. “Name’s Butch Costa.”

  “Track him down.”

  Beau actually smiled. “Already did that, too. He works for a security outfit out of Canada that handles search and rescues, hot target grabs, like missing wives or children who’ve been taken out of the country. All former military. FBI Director Chase is holding him for you in DC. He’d appreciate a call before he and his guys, ahem, interrogate Costa to get the bomber’s name.”

  “Tell Tuck to do it. I want to know that bastard’s name the minute he calls back.”

  Director Tucker Chase managed the one and only FBI psychic team in the country. Any one of his agents could psychically probe Costa’s mind, and he’d never know it. They might even release him, then tail him, give him just enough room and rope to hang himself. But only because they needed actual physical proof, since psychic probes into alleged perpetrators’ minds weren’t admissible in courts of law. Yet.

  “Copy that,” Beau replied evenly, his sat phone already out of his pocket and at his ear.

  Hans still stood looking across the room at Walker. “There is still more, Lieutenant. Much more.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Walker couldn’t believe all that Hans—his one-time court-assigned ICC defense attorney and a veritable stranger—had done for him. There was more, all right. The papers Hans distributed to the group outlined other discrepancies in the wedding video.

  Number one being the accusation by the Khalid family that Prince Jamalud had been killed in the attack. Turned out he hadn’t. Hans had located the security footage taken at a prestigious local hotel, where Khalid’s parents had stayed the night before the bombing, then had the audacity to return to afterward.

  Seemed Beau Villanueva was another stranger to be damned thankful for. He was good at video forensics, had used something called satellite triangulation, to zero down on the rear view of a man walking away from the explosion. The same man had also been caught on Costa’s video during that quick pan from the murderer back to the disaster—the ‘murdered’ Prince. Not only that, but the men and women walking away with him, were his parents and grandparents. This explosion wasn’t the end of a marriage. It was Khalid’s way out of that marriage.

  Hans had dug deeper then, and discovered a link between Prince Khalid and Captain Spenser Cole, the Navy judge who’d presided over Walker’s trial. They’d met during a Foreign Military Sales Program Management Review, an FMS PMR, long before Walker was charged with murder. Poseidon’s stars were beginning to shine even brighter.

  By then, Walker had to sit back and just let the revelations come. It was either that or hit something. There were so many. Hans had uncovered quite a spider’s web. He also knew the allegedly-murdered Khalid family had fled to Saudi Arabia and were in hiding at one of the reigning king’s many palaces. Living in luxury, while what was left of the bride’s family truly grieved.

  Then there was Adam. He’d located three off-shore accounts in Goff’s mother’s maiden name: Wallace Bernadette Samar. After weeks of tracking down the elusive woman, he’d located her grave in New Jersey. Then backtracked through city, school, and hospital records to prove that she was, in fact, Goff’s mother. She’d been born in Jordan, came to the States with her parents when she was a young child, and had died of pancreatic cancer the year he’d graduated from high school. So how was a dead woman still depositing thousands of dollars a month into her off-shore accounts? And did she have anything to do with the Khalid family?

  Back to Beau. Somehow, he’d gotten into the USN personnel system and had photographic proof of Walker’s Navcompt 3065 leave request when he’d gone to Guatemala. It was in the USN personnel system. Yet, both Prosecutor John Cudahy and Walker’s defense attorney LT Cameron Kroft, had denied any record of it. They’d claimed Walker lied, that he hadn’t requested, nor been on leave during that time.

  Beau had also dissected the backstories to every individual who’d ever attended Walker’s trial. Not only was his former girlfriend Miss Breeze friendly with Prosecutor Cudahy, she was sleeping with him. Also noteworthy and profoundly disturbing, USN Admiral Pickering had attended the hearing more than once. He’d always sat in the back of the room, so Walker had never known he was there. But he’d always worn his uniform. Damn the arrogant ass.

  “I wondered who that was,” Persia commented.

  “You’ve seen the footage before?” Walker asked.

  “Yes, parts of it. Hans shared the court video with Izza and me the first day at the safe house. I didn’t realize that was Pickering, though. I couldn’t see his rank insignia clearly.”

  “That son of a bitch!” Stewart hissed, “Peckering had no business showing his face at your trial. No wonder these bastards never stood up for you. They were too busy kissing ass!”

  “Pickering,” Walker corrected. “He’s Admiral—”

  “I said Admiral Fuckin’ Peck-Er-Ing...”

  Well, okay then. Peckering it is and would forever be. Walker was beginning to like the hardass sitting at his right.

  “Understand, people,” Stewart continued earnestly. “His presence in any courtroom, at any trial, means he’s watching, that he has a vested interest in the outcome. Every brown-nosing, weak-kneed moron will skew the truth just to look good in front of the boss.”

  “Or because he was following orders,” Persia added.

  “You think the Secretary of Defense is behind this?” Walker asked.

  “Someone with a lot of clout certainly is,” she answered.

  Stewart turned on Walker. “Your son of a bitchin’ attorney should’ve had the balls to declare a mistrial.”

  “The jerk barely spoke with me. Said he was too busy, that he had other clients, and he’d already spent too much time on my case.”

  “They had you right where they wanted you,” Adam added, “headed to slaughter.”

  “Yes. I was…” Walker could barely go on. “Where were you guys when I needed you?”

  “Looking for your dumb ass the minute you left Juarez and me standing on that fuckin’ sandbar,” Trevor growled. “What were you thinking? Swimming alone in the ocean at night? Are all SEALs as stupid as you?”

  “I had no choice—”

  “You swam over a hundred miles to get to shore,” Julio murmured. “I would’ve helped. I told you that you had more friends than you realized. You said only Sullivan and Charlie Brown were your friends, but when I mentioned that Chief Warrant Officer Trevor Duncan was in transit—”

  “Why the hell do you think I came all the way from Kentucky, in person! Just to save your sorry ass!” Trevor thumped his chest with his fist. “I had contingencies in place, damn it. I could’ve gotten you back to the States! Hell, back to Fort Carson, and no one would’ve known.”

  “I… I…” Walker couldn’t speak. Acting tough was difficult in the face of so much overwhelming loyalty. But it’d been tough asking for help back then. It would’ve put Julio and Trevor at risk, and Senator Sullivan at more risk. They’d already done so much.

  “Who do you think was behind the empty gas tank in that rental the day you escaped custody?” Adam asked quietly, the light in his eyes so damned tender, it hurt to look at him. “Who do you think slipped magnesium hydroxide into those two Masters-at-arms’ sodas when they weren’t looking?”

  Magnesium hydroxide was the active ingredient in OTC stool softeners.

  Walker
swallowed hard. “You?”

  “Hell, yeah. Me. I added a touch of flavorless Ipecac to their sodas, too, just to make sure those guys weren’t going anywhere but to the head. Alex and I have been on your butt since the day that kangaroo court started. We even had a plan to break you out of the Navy brig, but I ended up following your dumbass all the way to Kansas. I was on the same flight as you and your guards. But then you disappeared into thin air—”

  “I didn’t know there was such a thing as flavorless Ipecac,” Walker muttered, needing everyone to focus on something besides what an idiot he’d been. He’d sure been called dumbass a lot lately.

  Adam lifted one shoulder like the big kid he was. “It worked, didn’t it?”

  Walker nodded, so damned humbled.

  “Senator Sullivan had a plan, too,” Stewart added quietly.

  “He’s in on this, too?” Walker had to ask, fully aware of that muscular arm behind him. What’d Stewart plan to do? Knock him senseless or… knock sense into him?

  “He and I have been at cross purposes a time or two, yes. Now we coordinate our operations, at least we try. Apparently, McQueen didn’t think to advise me he’d sent Kruze Sinclair to retrieve you from The Hague. By the time I found out, Persia and Izza were already in-country. They got to you first. Kruze spent two days hunting you down. By the time he located the safe house, I’d already been there and gone.”

  “Senator Sullivan installed me at Fort Campbell. In plain sight. It worked for a while.”

  “I know he did. But then he lost you, didn’t he?” Jesus, who was this man that he knew so many powerful people? “Kruze just landed in Dublin. He’ll be here before nightfall, and he’s not going to be pleasant when he arrives.”

  Walker couldn’t believe it. “Why’s he coming here?”