Walker (In the Company of Snipers Book 21)

by Irish Winters

  It wasn’t long before Walker cleared the congested confluence where the Tagus River emptied into the Atlantic. With him in the cockpit and the yacht aimed due west, everyone else took a few minutes to refresh and change clothes. It was good to see Alex in cargo shorts and an easy-going light blue t-shirt for a change. Man, he had some impressive calves. Which was par for all the men and women on The TEAM. Most still maintained strict physical condition, a prerequisite for job descriptions that included engaging with belligerents at a moment’s notice, HALO jumping, or running into armed conflicts the world over.

  The next thing Alex did was scan the entire yacht for bugs. Brim was at the wheel by then.

  Walker couldn’t have looked more shocked when Alex confronted him with a surly, “Are these yours?”

  Confounded, he ran a hand over his head, which Persia wouldn’t have noticed, except it gave her a good view of the underside of his impressive bicep. Smooth rounded muscle. Thick, overworked veins. Man, the guy was scrumptious, from head-to-toe and everywhere in between.

  “That explains how the shore patrol found us. Where were they?”

  “One in the cockpit, the other in the inflatable raft.”

  “Shit. He’s known where I’ve been this whole damned time.”

  “Not anymore.” Alex chucked both transmitters over the rail and into the ocean. “But whoever planted them knows you’re on the move again.”

  “I… I don’t know what to say.”

  Alex clapped Walker’s back and walked away with, “Shit happens.”

  But Persia could tell Walker was stunned at the revelation. Just as stunned that Alex had touched him. When he finally stopped staring at Alex’s back, his gaze zeroed on Persia.

  She winked and mouthed, “He likes you.”

  He waved her off, and that was okay. There was a time Persia hadn’t been sure of her boss, either. But he was beginning to grow on her, and she had to give Alex credit. He took good care of his people, and not once had he asked for any payment in return.

  At the moment, he, Senator Sullivan, and Ryder Dahl were sequestered back in the cockpit with Walker. They’d left the hatch open, and Persia knew she should probably be up there strategizing with them. She had fought tooth and nail for Alex’s approval. But the flight from Ireland and the hectic drive to the docks had left her bone-tired.

  Izza had gone below deck to the galley. That woman seemed to enjoy cooking, so Persia let her. Brimley had taken possession of one of the recliners just off the cockpit. Rover was still roaming the ship like he was happy to be back aboard.

  Okay then. Why not? She just needed forty winks.

  Persia settled into the comfortable recliner opposite Brimley. He didn’t seem inclined to talk, and she was glad for the companionable silence. The ocean air was cool and so, so easy to breathe. She hadn’t been near the water since she’d left Florida, and she’d missed it. The busy Potomac River that ran between the District and Virginia, didn’t count.

  It wasn’t long before her eyes grew heavy. The gentle sway of the yacht and the fresh salt air worked wonders. She fell asleep to the sounds of gulls and sea and freedom.

  Walker couldn’t have been happier. Finally. He was back where he belonged, at sea with his troubles behind him. The evidence of human trafficking he’d found was safe, and he had Kenny’s knife sheath strapped at his side again. Brim had proven to be one helluva surprise.

  For now, Walker wanted nothing more than to just stand over Persia and watch her sleep. Man, she was a beauty, with her long elegant fingers clasped together over her chest and her cheek tucked into her shoulder. She’d changed into cutoff jeans and a simple pink t-shirt. Her long, lush hair was tied in a ponytail, like Izza’s.

  To look at the two women, it was easy to think they were sisters. Both were olive-skinned, dark-haired, dark-eyed, and intense as hell when working. But Persia was sleek and tall, like a model straight out of a swimsuit calendar, whereas Izza was shorter. She was just as pretty, in her way, but she carried herself like she was always ready to pick a fight. Her husband had to be one pussy-whipped weakling if the rule about opposites attracting held true. Walker wondered who Mr. Maher was. An insurance salesman or some other pencil pusher? A wuss?

  Not that it mattered. Walker needed to get this next meeting over with. The sooner, the better. Once he’d disclosed everything on those flash drives, he hoped to have the name of who was behind all those sad women’s faces, and every last one of his false accusations. He’d know what to do next then. Even if there were no names on those flash drives, at least he now had a helluva lot of help. It didn’t hurt that Senator Sullivan had stood up for him. Sullivan and Stewart seemed like two head-butting mountain goats, ready to run over anything in their paths, including each other.

  Walker stroked Persia’s shoulder. “Wake up, sugar. I need you in on this meeting.”

  “You got yourself a winner there, son,” Brimley muttered softly. “Hope you know that.”

  “I do. You’re invited to join us. We’re headed below deck to my room, and you absolutely need to be in on what you and I found.”

  “Guess me and Rover’ll be there then.”

  “Guess you’d better.”

  Persia shook herself awake. “Sorry, I drifted off,” she said sleepily.

  “Come on. Brim and I have something to show you.” Walker tugged her out of her recliner and onto her feet.

  Back in the master stateroom, he left the door open, so Rover could come and go. Senator Sullivan had taken the seat next to the desk. Dressed casually in jeans and a simple white t-shirt, his eyes sparkled out of his tanned, weathered face. This Texan carried himself with authority and pride. His trimmed, salt-and-pepper mustache wasn’t the length and thickness of Brim’s, yet it gave him the same distinguished vibe. He was older, yet still what women would call movie-star handsome.

  Walker only knew him as the cowboy senator from Texas who’d tamed the wild Sinclair brothers of Montana—the Sin Boys. Former SEALs, Sullivan had enlisted the rowdy threesome into his team of covert operators. The SOBs were funded with dollars so black, they were redacted even on federal budgets. The man seemed to have complete power over his presidential assignment, a rare thing in DC these days.

  It was Kruze Sinclair who’d come to San Diego the day before Walker’s sentencing. By some miracle, Kruze had been allowed into the brig. Their conversation was quick, to the point. Kruze had simply shaken Walker’s hand, then told him to keep the faith. He’d written a phone number in black ink on the inside of Walker’s wrist and said, “You’ll need this.”

  Then he’d walked away. Walker had quickly committed the number to memory, then scrubbed his hands and wrist clean. After he’d ditched the wretchedly sick guards taking him to Leavenworth, that phone number had taken him straight to Senator Sullivan’s desk in Washington, DC. From Nowhere, Kansas, Sullivan had whisked him across country to Fort Campbell, Kentucky, where Walker’d met shit-eating, grinning Chief Warrant Officer Trevor Duncan. The rest was history.

  Duncan taught Walker to fly the one-of-a-kind, experimental Blackhawk helo. Also taught him not to worry if the helo ever failed to perform. All he’d had to do, if or when that happened, was call Trevor and turn over the controls.

  It was the wave of the future, where even big birds were unmanned drones. Where loss of life was, supposedly, taken out of the equation that had heretofore built massive federal defense budgets.

  But Walker knew better. He’d lost his faith in elected officials long ago. Those pretty boys and girls didn’t really care about the men they put in harm’s way. If they did, they’d take better care of them once they’d returned home. There’d be no homeless vets on street corners, begging for scraps and loose change. There’d be no more suicide from untreated PTSD. No need for vets to fight for decent medical care. Besides, nothing provided accurate intel better than boots on the ground. End of that fairytale.

  Stewart stood behind Sullivan, w
ith Ryder seated on the easy chair to his left. Persia, Izza, and Brim sat on the bed to Walker’s left. It was time. Swallowing hard, he retrieved the accordion-pleated file. Undoing the elastics, he moved the laptop aside and spread the incriminating photos across the desk. Made him sick to see them again.

  Stewart was at his side by then, already had his sat phone at his ear. “Ember. I’m sending photos of…” He looked down at Walker.

  “Twenty-one women and girls,” Walker answered as he lined them up, so Stewart could take a better picture.

  It took him seconds to send those pictures. “What else?”

  Walker pulled the handwritten purchase orders out next.

  “Jesus Christ,” Stewart hissed, when he leaned in closer to take a better look.

  “Shit,” Sullivan growled.

  Everyone was on their feet. Persia turned instantly hard. “I will kill this motherfucker, if it’s the last thing I do.”

  Walker looked up at her. Man, he loved tough talk from this beautiful woman.

  “I’m right there with you, sister,” Ryder muttered, his deep baritone somehow calming in the middle of this view of hell.

  “You have no idea how many times I’ve dealt with similar cases,” Stewart breathed, as he snapped close-ups of several receipts. “Sex trafficking is the world’s current Black Plague. It’s everywhere. Interesting these are handwritten. That’s different.”

  “Also interesting they’re legible,” Sullivan added darkly. “A handwriting specialist should be able to tell us who wrote them, provided we’ve got matching cursive. All the same penmanship. And they’re numbered. At least whoever’s behind this business kept records. Think your TEAM can narrow the playing field?”

  “My TEAM works miracles.”

  “Good. Let’s see how fast they can get answers, then.”

  “I think Wallace Goff is behind this,” Walker offered. “Tell Ember to compare these receipts to his writing first.”

  “Might’ve been him,” Sullivan drawled.

  “No, sir, it is him. What I mean is, I’m sure he’s still alive. I think he faked his death.”

  “Why would you think that?” Stewart asked, his sharp eyes scrolling over Walker like he’d been weighed and found wanting.

  “Because there are just too many coincidences, Mr. Stewart—”

  “Alex,” the alpha hardass barked. “For hell’s sake, if you’re not going to call me boss, just Alex.”

  Alex it is. “First off, Renzo said something the night we… talked,” Walker explained. “He said his buyer was late because another transaction had gone sideways. I think I’m what went sideways. His other POC, Officer Bruno, must’ve warned Goff that I was snooping around. Which was why I was able to rescue all those women and girls. If he’d been smart, he would’ve sent someone else to grab this human shipment, but he didn’t, and he knew I’d recognize him. That’s the only reason I was able to get Emily Dooley out of there.”

  “And…?” Alex prompted.

  “And because…” Walker gritted his teeth, probably going to sound crazy, but still going full steam ahead. “Because this yacht’s still registered in Goff’s name. And the dates line up. The MPs were inside my house the morning after I returned from Guatemala. I was sound asleep. Hell, I still had jetlag, but there they were, arresting me for murdering my CO at 2100 hours the night before. Check my flight time if you don’t believe me. I didn’t arrive until 2030. Yet Goff’s neighbor’s testimony puts me at the scene before I’d even left the airport. There’s no way I could’ve been in two places at once. Who else could’ve stacked the cards against me that fast? Had to be Goff.”

  “And…?” There went those sharp blue lasers again.

  “I gave my leave request to Goff. He’s got to be behind the sabotaged Blackhawk demonstration in Britain.” Walker ran a quick hand over his too long for Navy hair. “And now that bombing in Jordan. Christ, I’ve been set up for every shit show that’s gone down since I set foot in Guatemala. They can’t all be coincidences. Who else could it be? Who else would’ve known?”

  “You and he ever get along?” Sullivan asked sarcastically.

  “Team 18 hated the son of a bitch, sir,” Ryder piped up, his dark eyes hard and fast on Walker. “He played by the book and followed rules, but he never once backed us up. Never had a problem hanging us out to dry if it made him look good. Goff was a pencil pusher. Isn’t that right, Boss?”

  “Spot on,” Walker agreed. “I can pin two deaths directly on false intel Goff fed us on an op in Algeria. We lost two good operators that time.” Made him wonder what Goff might have had on them. Had they stumbled across his involvement in human trafficking? Was that why they’d died?

  “And you…?” Sullivan pushed.

  Walker didn’t know what else to say. “Goff was plenty book smart; he just didn’t connect with his teams like decent commanders did. He was too busy playing politics and kissing ass. None of us SEALs liked him.”

  “What do you know about the incident in Britain?” By then, Alex had crossed both arms over his chest, subtle body language for ‘convince me, asshole.’

  “Only what I read—”

  “It happened just weeks before the night Walker left Julio stranded on a sandbar off the coast of Brazil, Boss,” Persia interrupted, her fingers still firm on Walker’s shoulders. “The Nightstalkers were there demonstrating a hot infil from their Blackhawk over Buckingham Palace, for the Queen. It was a big deal, and had been vetted through DoD. Media was everywhere. Security was extremely high. The Blackhawk had just cleared the palace roof when it exploded. Nine spectators were injured, one critically, and all thirteen Green Berets on board were killed. The Army pilot and co-pilot escaped with injuries, but the pilot is blind. He’ll never fly again. Allegations surfaced instantly that escaped convict Walker Judge had jury-rigged a small explosive device onboard the helo. That he’d detonated it via remote control. Parts and pieces of a cell phone were found in the wreckage. A single fingerprint was on one of those pieces.” She squeezed Walker’s shoulders. “His.”

  “Where was he when this happened?” Alex asked.

  “Working for me out of Fort Campbell,” McQueen replied. “Already had him flying coach with Trevor Duncan. Learning to fly helos.”

  “He was in Minas Gerais, Brazil, Boss. I can prove it,” Persia added.

  “Who claimed the fingerprint was his?”

  “Probably NCIS,” Walker answered sarcastically, at the same time Persia replied, “NCIS, Boss.”

  When he looked up at her, it seemed her brown eyes were melting all over him. Man, he needed a break from all this cloak-and-dagger bullshit. Dragging her onto his lap and kissing the hell out of her would help.

  “I’ll check to see which NCIS agent handled that investigation, Boss,” Persia told Alex. “I’ll backtrack the chain of evidence, too.”

  “I’ll check security footage at San Diego Airport, get a copy of our guy coming and going,” Izza chimed in. “Want me to check with Buckingham Palace? See what Scotland Yard knows?”

  “Do that,” Walker said at the same time Alex barked, “Yes.”

  Alex shot him a dirty look. Walker just shrugged. “They didn’t call me Chief and Boss for nothing,” he offered semi-apologetically. Ideally, he shouldn’t be investigating his own case. But he also shouldn’t have had to.

  “What I want to know is what motive NCIS claimed Walker had to execute those Green Berets. That’s a damned stiff charge to make against someone they lost on their way to Leavenworth.”

  “Doesn’t seem to me these yahoos needed honest proof or logical motive,” Brimley added. “None of this makes sense, and it doesn’t take a master’s degree to see through all these bogus charges.”

  A gust of breath escaped Walker’s lungs. There he was again, Brim coming to his rescue.

  “Guys,” he said, his voice hoarse. “For the record, I’m innocent of all these charges. I didn’t kill Goff, those
Green Berets, or the people at Prince Khalid’s wedding. Do I know how to set remote charges? Yes, but I’ll wager all of you can do that, too. Hell, I’ve never been to London or Jordan. Check my orders. Please, check everything I’ve ever done or said. I’ve got nothing to hide.”

  “Forget Khalid and that mess in Jordan,” Sullivan muttered. “Alex and I already know who bombed the wedding. We can also prove Prince Khalid paid two million US dollars to erase his bride’s family from the face of the earth. We have someone inside Saudi Arabia, sorting the details, right now. Just need to out whoever’s hiding Khalid before we go to the AG and prove our case.” AG as in Attorney General.

  “My friend, the King of Jordan, will have something to say about Khalid murdering a prominent Jordanian family,” Alex remarked drolly. “That’ll be fun, watching the Saudi royal family facing off with him.”

  “What I want to know is how Captain Spenser Cole figures into this mess,” Sullivan mused, twisting one end of his mustache. “Walker’s right. Him being fingered for Goff’s death the second his feet hit California, feels like a small part of a bigger plot. What are we not seeing?”

  “Damned if I know,” Alex replied, his sharp eyes all over Walker again, slicing him into bite-sized pieces. “Beau’s working the Spenser Cole angle. My TEAM will get back to me with Sitreps before dinner. If they’ve got anything, I’ll let you know.”

  Made Walker wonder if he had something stuck in his teeth the way Alex’s gaze scoured his face, like he wanted to peel his skin away and dig a spoon into his brain. Just how powerful were these two men? “You know the King of Jordan? You guys have operators inside Saudi Arabia? Christ, how many agents are working my case?”

  “All of them,” Alex answered evenly.

  Sullivan held up three fingers. “Just me and the Sin Boys.”

  Walker sagged back in his seat, humbled. Pride was a damned hard thing to swallow. “How… how many’s that, Alex?”