Walker (In the Company of Snipers Book 21)

by Irish Winters

  “That better be Persia touching my ass,” he growled into his pillow.

  “Of course it’s me,” she breathed as she climbed into bed with him, then covered them both with the blanket.

  Still face-down, Walker breathed in her flowery scent. She’d settled against him, with one hand around his head, which put his face against the side of her breast. There he was within reach of the succulent skin he craved, but once again, his energy was flagging, and everything else along with it. She always seemed to come to him when he had nothing to offer. One of these days, he’d be Johnny-on-the-Spot, ready to perform at her beck and call. He’d jump her bones until he made her scream. But tonight, he was spent. This day had taken everything—even—that.

  “I like the way you smell,” he said as he wrapped an arm around her waist, hoping she’d understand. “What is it? Some kind of perfume from Paris?”

  “Just the bar soap from the shower.”

  “I’m so damned tired,” he breathed. Soap, huh? That meant she’d taken a shower and all that clean, sweet-tasting flesh was now pressed up against him and his for the licking. Damn. If he didn’t have bad luck, he’d have no luck at all. “Raincheck,” he mumbled to his pillow. “I want a damned raincheck.”

  “Sleep,” she whispered, her fingers drifting through his hair. Over his head. Petting him. Softly. Tenderly.

  He woke up the next morning to an empty bed. The day brought a couple more faces into the group. Another TEAM agent, Jordan Hannigan, who seemed thrilled to see Eric. Guess they’d worked together before, only Jordan had a definite Irish accent going for him. He’d come with a willowy blonde female medic who had no trouble telling Walker he was a “dumb arse and get back to bed, so I can treat you properly.”

  Turned out she was Murphy Finnegan’s niece, Elsa Day, soon to be Elsa Day Hannigan. Blonde. Blue-eyed. Obviously smitten with the sturdy American male at her side.

  She took her time redressing Walker’s shoulder wound, using antiseptic packing that instantly stilled the throbbing pain of the through-and-through. As if one hole in a man’s body wasn’t enough, now he had two.

  Then she patiently stitched the skid-mark the grazed bullet had left on the side of his head. Along with that came a warning: “You, boyo, have a lot of bruises on your back, and you most definitely have a concussion. I recommend you lay low and take it easy the next two days. You’re not to lift anything heavy, nor tackle anything strenuous. You may only rest and sleep and eat. Do I make myself clear?”

  “We’ll see,” was all he could promise. Taking it easy wasn’t going to happen, not with the upcoming mission.

  Ever since Persia had mentioned Florida and making love for days, Walker’d had his head on straight. He had a goal. No more pity parties. No more worrying about who was taking risks and who wasn’t. With this particular team at his back, he could get to the bottom of the false charges against him. He would finally bring the bastard behind his misery down. Once again, Persia had given him a reason to hope and something to look forward to. Her.

  “There you be, you poor, dumb lamb,” Elsa said as she packed her medical bag and lifted from the side of his bed where she’d been working on him. “Miss Coltrane will be in soon with your breakfast. I know you won’t, but it’d be wise if you stayed here with my uncle while your friends go off and do whatever it is needs doing. Two days, that’s all I’m asking. Just rest for two days.”

  She kept coaxing, but Walker wouldn’t promise anything. He’d eyed the pistol Eric had given him. Two loaded magazines now rested on his nightstand beside it. A box of ammo and a holster beside them. All he needed was Kenny’s knife back, and he’d be himself again.

  “Ah, I knew you’d ignore me. You’re a man, after all, and since I’m just a woman,” —Elsa stuck her chin at him— “you’ll be stubborn and ignore my excellent advice. Okay then, if you have to go, go with God, and be quick about your business. It’d also be wise if you married that sweet thing who can’t keep her eyes off you.”

  “Thank you, ma’am. I appreciate all you’ve done for me.”

  “Ah, the hard heads of hard men,” she grumbled. “I’d knock on yours for good luck, but I’ll wager it still hurts plenty, doesn’t it?”

  “I’m good,” Walker replied. Headache or not, he was going to war.

  He walked out of his room and into a flurry of activity. Stewart seemed to think he was in charge, so Walker let him run the show. By then, Stewart knew everything anyway.

  “Persia and Izza, you’re with me. Eric and Zack, accompany Mr. Koning back to—”

  “I have a sister in New York,” Hans interrupted. “Please, sir. I’d rather go to America, if it’s okay with you.”

  “Good call. You’ll be safer there. Eric and Zack, make it happen.”

  Eric gave Hans a thumbs-up while Stewart continued dispensing orders. “Captain Dooley, appreciate your support, but I know you’re due back to the Iwo Jima. Safe travels and following seas, sir.”

  Quinn looked to Walker. “Trust me. I’d love to put a bullet through this bastard’s head, whoever he is. Sure wish I could’ve identified the faces in those photos for you. But life on a carrier never slows down. Stay safe, Walk.”

  Walker shook hands with his long-time friend. “You, too, Q. Hug Emily for me. Tell her I’ll never take her bracelet off. She’ll always be with me.”

  “Good enough.” Dooley nodded a respectful farewell to Persia, then stepped back.

  “Murph, thanks for letting us crash here,” Stewart said. “Jordan, you and your fiancé aren’t invited. Go home. Beau, dig into Prince Khalid and Captain Spenser Cole. I want to know everything about their friendship. Adam, keep working with Ember to locate who’s behind the deposits going into Goff’s off-shore accounts. I don’t care if you have to go to Switzerland, Germany, or the Caymans—”

  “They’re in Singapore, Boss. She’s got several accounts,” Adam said, “all in Singapore.”

  “Then get it done,” Stewart replied crisply. “Julio and Kruze, there’s a cab waiting outside to take you to Shannon Airport. I need you guys in Guatemala. Track down the gangs who staged the fights that enabled them to kidnap little girls. Locate Officer Bruno and Renzo, too. Make them talk. I want the name of the bastard behind this mess, damnit.”

  “I’d like in on that, sir,” Smoke spoke up. “Got a lead from a sting operation in Texas. Found evidence that points to human trafficking coming north out of Guatemala. Hoping it leads back to the same person Judge is after. It’d be good to kill two birds with one stone.”

  “Or a fifty-caliber round,” Stewart added grimly. “Julio? Kruze? You got a problem if Smoke teams up with you?”

  “We can always use another gunslinger,” Julio replied.

  “They work for you?” Walker asked Alex.

  “Hell, no,” McQueen spoke up. “Smoke, Julio, and Kruze work for me. Always good to have the best on your side when you’re fighting the Devil.”

  “Ryder Dahl stays with me,” Walker said. Not asked. Just in case Stewart planned to send all his men running off on errands.

  Stewart’s answer came back sharp and crisp. “I don’t need a damned army on my ass.”

  “Ryder stays,” Walker repeated unequivocally. “He’s my XO.” At least, he was. And him, I know and trust. You, I’m not so sure about.

  “Fine, but I need the rest of your men back in San Diego, guarding the ensigns who testified against you. They might as well watch over Miss Breeze, too.”

  “Are you thinking retribution, Boss?” Izza asked.

  “I’m thinking we’d be stupid not to take care of the witnesses.”

  “What about Trevor Duncan?” Persia asked.

  “No can do,” Trevor answered gruffly. “Only got a two-day pass, Agent Coltrane. I’d love to join you guys and kick this bastard’s ass, but I’ve got to be back at Fort Campbell come morning for a training program.”

  Walker had to ask. “Wait a minute. Yo
u guys came all this way just to—”

  “Just to see you?” Trevor bit out. “Are you kidding? Hell, yeah.”

  “From The Hague, then here to Ireland? For me? Are you all morons?”

  “I told you once that you had more friends than you knew.” Julio said clearly. “Here we are.”

  “Brothers,” Smoke added.

  “To the fuckin’ end,” Adam growled.

  “Hell, yeah!” Team 18 roared.

  Walker couldn’t speak. Physically could not make his tongue work in the face of so much blatant loyalty.

  Leave it to Chief Warrant Officer Duncan to save the day. “Hell, yeah, is right. I came all this way just to tell you that you’re the biggest, dumbest ass I’ve ever had the pleasure of working with.” By then, he’d crossed the room and had a good grip on Walker’s uninjured shoulder and hand. “My little sister Meg thinks a helluva lot of you, Hotrod. Don’t ask me why, I sure don’t understand it. But what Julio said is right. You’re family. What’d he call us—familia? That’s why we’re here. For you, you idiot.”

  Walker didn’t know what to say. Not even when Trevor crushed him in a monster bro hug, then slapped his back, stepped away, and growled, “Don’t let Meg down, damn it. And you owe me one Blackhawk, you bastard.”

  Walker let that one slide. He had been at the stick the night Trevor’s fancy experimental Blackhawk fell out of the sky and landed on that sandbar. Kind of. He’d actually been unconscious and drooling, after the Russian spy on board had stuck him with a hypo filled with Special K.

  Trevor was the one who’d landed the high-tech bird—by remote control, no less—all the way from Fort Campbell, Kentucky. Walker’d been out cold, and Julio’d been about to have a heart attack.

  By then, the room was nearly empty. “That does it,” Stewart said.

  “Brim and his dog are coming, too,” Walker added.

  “Can that yacht sleep eight?”

  “It’s a forty-five-foot Meridian, what do you think?”

  Stewart’s hard blue eyes skewered Walker once again, but Walker stood firm. It was his damned yacht. Well, not really. But he wasn’t military anymore, and he was done taking orders and blindly following anyone.

  After a few tense seconds, Stewart lifted his sat phone to his ear and turned away. He commenced making travel arrangements with someone he called Mother, and the stand-off was over. Walker shot Persia a look that meant ‘join me in my room.’

  He had her in his arms as soon as she closed his door behind her. “Damn, your boss is an arrogant ass,” Walker breathed as he captured her face between his palms and peppered her cheeks, nose, and mouth with tiny, moist kisses.

  “I think he likes you,” she murmured as her fingers roamed under his shirt, lighting him up like she always did.

  “Soon…” he told her, needing her skin to skin. “We are going to be together again soon.”

  “Promise?”

  He kissed her thoroughly. “Oh, yeah…”

  The next day was a clear, sunny day for flying. Stewart had arranged transport to a private airstrip outside Cashel, and from there, they flew by private plane to Shannon Airport on Ireland’s west coast. This multi-legged trip to Portugal had to have cost a pretty penny. Yet Stewart had provided for everyone, even had a crate for Rover. Once again, Walker wondered just who the man was that he could afford to move so many people and a dog by private plane. Transferring this small army was no small thing.

  They landed at a private airstrip outside Lisbon. Then everyone climbed into the two vans waiting for them, while two male attendants loaded their luggage and gear, all without batting an eye. Since Persia had claimed the driver’s seat of the nearest van, Walker took shotgun. Brimley, Rover, and Ryder joined him. Stewart commandeered the other van, with Senator Sullivan at his side, Izza in the back.

  “You know where we’re going, young lady?” Brimley asked once Persia pulled away from the airport and into traffic.

  “Actually, no. I’m headed south on the highway that’ll get us across the Ponte 25 de Abril bridge. I figured we’d find more boats and docks along the river.” Ponte 25 de Abril was the suspension bridge across the mighty Tagus River, linking the cities of Lisbon and Almada.

  “Smart thinking. I’ll tell you when to turn.”

  Walker leaned back, content to bask in the sun pouring in his open window, since Persia and Brim had everything under control. He closed his eyes, taking in the smells of the nearby river and ocean. It’d be good to get back on the water again.

  Persia was a capable driver. In short order, Brim told her where to exit. She turned off the highway and approached the docks.

  “Turn at the metal gate up ahead, young lady,” Brimley instructed, as he handed a ticket stub forward. “Here. This’ll get you in. The storage number’s 18B, right next to the hoist that’ll put her back in the water.”

  “Good thinking.” Walker peered over his shoulder. “How much do I owe you for storage?”

  Brim waved it off. “Don’t worry.”

  “We’ll discuss this later.”

  “We’ll see…”

  Like hell, we’ll see. Drydocking a forty-five-foot Meridian Motoryacht was no small thing. It required storage as big as a barn. She’d be on blocks or dollies, possibly suspended on industrial-strength belts designed to hold her tonnage. Yet Walker wasn’t going to argue about money now. That would embarrass Brimley, who’d probably hocked his life’s savings to store the yacht. But wasn’t that interesting…? Brimley Scott had taken extra special care securing the yacht of a guy he’d barely known, had in fact, just met.

  Walker ran a hand over his aching head. The flight from Ireland to Lisbon had done him in. Then the drive here. Now Brim’s unexpected foresight and kindness. Possibly more secrets...

  He was trapped in an upside-down world, where everyone he’d met lately was on his side. After a year on the run, that kind of loyalty made him antsy. He honestly still wasn’t sure if he could trust everyone or what to expect from any of them. So Walker let Brim’s comment slide.

  Persia rolled her window down and presented the ticket to the sunburned, smiling guard at the marina’s gatehouse. “The car behind is with us,” she told him politely.

  The friendly gentleman leaned out of his guard-shack window to peer into the van, then grinned when he spotted Brimley and Rover. The two exchanged pleasantries, and once again, Walker looked over his shoulder. Brim knew Portuguese? Rover barked, as if even he knew this guy.

  The guard reached into his jeans pocket and pulled out a dog treat. Still grinning, he tossed the treat to Rover, then activated the metal gate and waved Persia through and for Stewart to follow.

  She turned the corner at the end of a row of small storage units. Then Walker caught sight of the shipyard. Damn. Persia Smiles wasn’t just docked. She’d been professionally stored, and that hoist Brimley mentioned was a massive floating crane that could probably lift three to four thousand tons.

  “How big is that boat you stole?” Ryder asked.

  “Forty-five-feet long.”

  “Is that crane going to be big enough?”

  “Oh, yeah.” And then some.

  Brim and Rover hit the pavement before the vehicle stopped rolling. Brim strolled over to the hundred-foot high double doors, marked by a tiny metal sign with 18B printed on it, and punched a code into the keypad. The large metal door rolled upward, and there she was. Persia Smiles. In all her magnificent dry-docked glory.

  Stewart’s van had pulled alongside by then. “Everyone out,” he ordered while Walker stared up at the tremendous size of his—boat. She was a monster on dry land, a sleek, beautiful lady monster. Man, her keel alone lifted her a good ten feet from the concrete floor.

  Persia was standing aft, looking up at the lettering above the landing deck, now high over her head. “Persia Smiles,” she murmured.

  “You were always with me,” Walker admitted easily. “Even when I left y
ou behind.”

  Walking over to him, she linked her arm through his. “You only left because you were a hunted man.”

  His heart swelled at her easy forgiveness. Lifting her hand to his mouth, he closed his eyes and pressed a kiss into her palm. “You never cease to amaze me.”

  The light in her smile outdid the sun. “Then let’s get this gal back in the water, sailor.”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Whew! Getting Persia Smiles into the river was no small chore. Maneuvering her out of the storage building to the crane took the rest of the day. By the time the sun set, Persia was ready to leave Portugal behind. Walker’s beautiful yacht bobbed placidly alongside the dock. He was antsy, ready to cast off.

  Once aboard, he ran to the cockpit first, then returned to the aft deck with a screwdriver. Brim had called out to him then, “I moved it!”

  Walker stopped in his tracks and cast a terse, “Where?”

  “Sumbitch, can’t an old man get aboard before you start bellowing?” Brim grumbled as he maneuvered across the gangplank, with Rover straining at the end of his leash.

  Whatever evidence Walker had, it made him uncharacteristically tense. “Where’d you put it?” he asked the minute Brim’s feet hit the deck. “Is it safe? Did you look at it?”

  Brim cupped Walker’s shoulder. “No, son, I didn’t open or look at whatever you’re hiding, but I wasn’t sure it’d be safe where you’d left it. Those pirates boarded us so fast, we didn’t get much time but putting it back where we found it, remember? Come on, son. I hid your bag, too. Let’s go get your stuff.”

  While Walker went below deck with Brim, Persia helped Alex and Senator Sullivan transfer supplies to the galley. A few moments later, Walker was back up top, untying ropes from the dock and casting off.

  He’d changed into khaki cargo shorts, an ordinary gray t-shirt, and boat shoes. Persia watched him turn from a hunted criminal to the captain of this yacht. The prestigious title fit. If she didn’t know better, he’d gained two inches in height since he’d come aboard. Out here, he was king of these ocean waves, the master of his destiny. The wind off the river furrowed through his short, lush locks like wind through the stalks in a cornfield. She wanted to rake her fingers over that hair and smooth it down while she kissed that handsome man’s lips.