Walker (In the Company of Snipers Book 21)

by Irish Winters

  “Come on,” Ryder growled. “I know better. This is me you’re lying to.”

  Walker turned on his XO. Sighed. Then admitted, “I can’t put these folks in any more danger. Stay here and—”

  “Bull to the shit,” Ryder growled. “I’m going with you, Chief. Wherever you go, I go. You oughta know that by now.”

  “Thanks, but no, I—”

  “Shut the fuck up. What’s the damned plan?”

  Walker knew there was no denying his best friend. “I’m going to dig up a body. I need to get there before anyone else does. You up for that?”

  Ryder was taller than Walker by about six inches and brown as dark chocolate with shoulders as wide as a Notre Dame fullback. He was light on his feet and could personally pack more gear and ammo than any guy Walker had ever worked alongside. He not only had the vocal range of Michael Clarke Duncan, he was as kind and as humble. Had never let Walker down or questioned a single order. Just did what had to be done. Quickly. Expertly.

  “How do you propose digging up a grave?” he asked now.

  “With a shovel and Grave Finder,” Walker replied. “I know right where the bastard’s supposed to be. He’d better damned well be in the casket under that marker.”

  “Wasn’t he interred at Fort Rosecrans?” The National Cemetery on Point Loma, the peninsula due west of San Diego, across from Coronado Island.

  “Yes.”

  “How are you going to prove it’s him? Won’t you need a DNA test?”

  “Embalmed bodies don’t decay quickly. I’m pretty sure we’ll both recognize the bastard once I pop the lid off his coffin, if he’s even there. You can bet your ass he’ll be in his best dress uniform and decked out with every last medal he never earned. You with me?”

  “Yes, sir,” Ryder replied quickly, “but that Stewart guy’s going to be pissed when he comes back and finds us gone.”

  “Not worried about Stewart.” Alex would be pissed, but he’d understand. And if he didn’t? Didn’t matter. Walker wouldn’t risk getting anyone else hurt in the upcoming confrontation. Not Stewart or Sullivan. Yes, they were professionals, and they all had his back. Well, he had theirs, too. But leaving Persia would break her heart. That was the real problem, and why Walker hadn’t already left.

  He stared at the teeming throngs of visitors on the dock. Between the magnificent palm trees standing like sentinels along the hotels across the street and the revelry, there was a definite Rio Carnival feeling in the air. Street performers danced, mimed, or did magic tricks everywhere. Costumed vendors in kiosks hawked ice cream cones and aguas frescas, a non-alcoholic fruit drink. Others offered frosty beer and iced coffees. Further down, farmers’ tents and EZ-Ups lined the way.

  Two cruise lines currently docked took up the entire dock ahead of Persia Smiles. A fishing boat had just sidled in behind him. It had gotten a little closer to the yacht than Walker would’ve liked, but this was Mexico, where anything went. People were everywhere. Vendors. Tourists. Some coming. Some going. All distracted or causing distractions.

  The longer he watched the sea of people, the more Walker wasn’t sure he had it in him to walk away from Persia like he had before. Thinking about it was bad enough, but talking and planning another betrayal with Ryder made it real. And doing it—

  The deck jerked forward, forcing Walker to grab the rail to keep from falling.

  “Shit,” Ryder hissed as he leaned hard to his left.

  Walker looked at the fishing boat behind him. Its captain was swearing a blue streak, waving his hands and yelling at the yacht that had come in too quickly behind him.

  “You see that asshat?” Ryder asked. “Probably some rich son of a bitch.”

  “It takes all kinds,” Walker replied wearily. Which explained the sickening state of the world these days. It took a second for him to zero in on the elegant watercraft that had bumped the boat behind Persia Smiles, which in turn, caused the fishing boat to bump her aft deck. “Probably drunk. He’d better think twice before he hits my yacht again—”

  Son of a bitch! That yacht’s captain was Admiral Peckering. Dressed in pristine white slacks, a crisp navy-blue cotton polo, and boat shoes, he dashed off the gangplank, his head up, as if he were looking for someone. He threw a few bills at the kid he’d nearly run over on the dock. Must’ve ordered him to secure the yacht’s lines, because the kid did just that.

  “You seeing what I’m seeing?” Ryder asked.

  “It’s Peckering.” The hairs on the back of Walker’s neck were on end. The Admiral looked like he was in a hurry. But who was he looking for? Persia? His being here at this precise moment was no coincidence. Somehow, he knew losing her would destroy Walker. And if he was after her… shit. He was the bastard behind the human trafficking ring. It made perfect, scary sense.

  “Stay with my yacht,” Walker ordered.

  “But—”

  “Stay here!” Walker snapped, his eyes tracking Peckering as he dashed into the crowd. “I won’t leave Persia again, damn it. Someone needs to be here when she comes back.”

  “You sure about this?” Ryder asked, a kick-ass tone in his voice even as Walker cleared the gangplank.

  “Keep your ears on. I’ll be right back.” And I’m bringing Persia with me.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Izza went one way. Persia went the other. So many vendors clogged the winding streets and narrow alleys that she quickly lost sight of her friend. No matter. She tugged her sat phone out of her jeans pocket and dialed Izza. Hmmm. No answer. Just Izza’s cocky voicemail: “You want me, you got me. Leave a number.”

  “Stop shopping like a mad woman and call me,” Persia teased. “I’ll wait for you at the fruit stand, the one with papayas and watermelon. You should see the size of these. I’m buying three. Don’t be long!”

  Izza had wanted to grab some small trinkets for her two kids. Persia wanted a bottle of rum and fresh fruit. She was weary of the steady meat, fish, rice, and potatoes diet. Men might be able to live on that, but she needed fresh vegetables and fruit. And it’d been weeks since she’d had a decent drink. Normally, she wouldn’t mind going without while on an active operation. But after seeing that ugly video of Roland Montego’s prison, she’d been craving one good burning swallow. That was all. Just one.

  Isn’t that what all alcoholics say?

  “I’m not an alcoholic,” she told herself. Because, well, she wasn’t. One bottle did not an alcoholic make. But all the bottles lined up like prizes at the kiosk window ahead of her…

  She pointed to the bottle of dark Jamaican rum, paid for it, then stashed it in the orange and pink cloth shopping bag she’d brought along for this precise reason. No one needed to know she was a closet drinker. She headed for the fruit stand beside the booze kiosk next.

  “Three,” Persia told the kindly dark-eyed little girl running the stand, even as she scanned the crowds swelling around her, keeping an eye out for Izza. Seemed like fruit was a popular item among more than a few lady tourists.

  “Persia!”

  She whirled around, expecting to see Izza winding her way through the crowd. Even though the voice calling her name had sounded like a guy.

  “Persia!” someone else called at her left.

  “Over here!” she answered, not recognizing the voices. But honestly, how many Persias could there be?

  “Persia!”

  Okay, that voice was definitely male. Not Walker, though. Not Alex, either. The sun went behind a cloud, casting an instant chill over her sunburned skin. A creepy sense of foreboding slithered across her shoulders. It was time to get back to the yacht. Like most women on the street, she’d only worn cutoffs and a bikini top. This was Puerta Vallarta, for heaven’s sake. The vacation capitol of the world. But now she felt underdressed and exposed. She’d left her pistol behind to make room for the rum.

  Concerned, she paid for the fruit, thanked the young girl, then turned in the direction she’d last seen Izz
a. Palming her sat phone, Persia hit redial. When she got Izza’s voicemail again, she glanced over her shoulder. Call it instinct. Call it whatever you wanted. She called it intuition, the one gift that had kept her alive all those months in Zapata’s lair. Someone was watching her.

  Persia dialed Alex. He and Senator Sullivan had to be close. She’d no more than looked up from her sat phone, when a tall American male blocked her way. Gray hair. Impressive posture. Military bearing. Shifty eyes. He grabbed hold of her biceps as if he were simply making sure she didn’t fall.

  Persia knew different. Jerking away, she was pissed he’d touch her at all. “Do you mind?” He reminded her of… of… Oh, shit. Admiral Peckering.

  Automatically, the middle finger on her free hand lifted to her eyebrow. “Well, bless my heart. Admiral Peckering. What do you want?” she asked, unable to answer the questions Alex was firing in her ear, her brain too flushed with a prey’s instinctive need to run.

  “You.” Reaching both hands out, Peckering shoved her backward.

  “Like hell…” she meant to say as she landed against another warm body. Her phone slipped from her fingers. Something stung her neck. Something very sharp. And she tumbled into darkness.

  Walker ran into Izza first, standing in front of a busy fruit stand, a colorful cloth bag hanging off her shoulder as she stretched on her toes to see over the crowd. “Have you seen Persia?”

  “No, and I’ve been looking for her. She left me a voicemail, said she was waiting here. You’re taller than me. Can you see another watermelon stand around here? Do you see her?”

  While Izza dialed Persia again, Walker did a quick three-sixty. Nothing.

  “This can’t be happening,” Izza whined as she stuffed her sat phone in her rear pocket. Leaning into the watermelon stand, she ripped off a string of Spanish at the young girl.

  The girl nodded, then bent over and pulled an orange and pink bag from beneath her table. With a few words, she handed it over, then pointed to a monster palm tree and the alley hidden in the shade behind it.

  “Gracias,” Izza said, as she examined the bag. “Yup. This is Persia’s. Three papayas. A bottle of rum. But no phone. Damn. She couldn’t have gone far. Maria said she was just here. She dropped the bag when she ran into some guy. She sounded angry, but the guy grabbed her and wouldn’t let her go. I asked what he looked like. Maria said he was tall and old. He had gray hair. He and another man took Persia this way. Follow me.”

  “It’s Peckering,” Walker growled as he followed Izza through the crowd, around more fruit and vegetable stands. “He docked behind us. He knew right where we were.”

  “How the hell’d he find us?” Izza muttered out of the side of her mouth. “Thought Alex scanned your boat for bugs.”

  “Only after we were at sea. Peckering must’ve had someone watching the marina.”

  “All this time? You think he’s behind this? Really? A Navy admiral?”

  “I know damned well he’s behind it,” Walker replied as they hurried into the alley. “Are you armed?”

  “Always.” Izza pulled a pocket pistol out of her bag. “You?”

  “Yes.” Reaching under his arm, he loosened one of the two SIGs he’d requisitioned at Murphy’s from its holster. Lowering its barrel, he kept the weapon alongside his thigh and out of sight. No sense scaring the locals.

  “I’ll kill him,” Izza promised, her piece hidden as well. “If that’s who’s got Persia, I’ll fuckin’ kill him.”

  “We have to find him first.”

  The narrow alley was crowded with more kiosks, more people, and plenty of shadows. Little sun filtered down between the twenty-plus-story hotels on either side of the alley. There were no cutesy outdoor cafes here. No welcoming lights or dapper entertainers hawking their next street performances. Just the raw, untamed side of a tourist destination.

  Garbage was everywhere, some in overflowing waste receptacles, some scattered underfoot. The farther into the alley they went, the darker it became. Yet Izza walked as if she knew where she was going, so Walker let her lead.

  Until he caught sight of the tall, gray-haired man up ahead. “I see Peckering,” he told Izza as he dodged back and forth, straining to catch a glimpse of Persia past the crowd. “Can’t see her yet. We need to split up. Take the next backdoor we come across. Go through the hotel and cut him off. Hurry!”

  “Copy that,” Izza replied. Turned out another, narrower alley branched off within seconds. She disappeared into the dark.

  Walker dodged couples and families in his way, keeping his eye on the back of Peckering’s well-trimmed haircut. Another man walked quickly at his side, but Walker couldn’t tell if Persia was with them. There were too many people in the way. Apparently, the locals used this alley to avoid the congested plaza. He couldn’t risk taking a shot.

  In a dozen steps, Peckering would be lost, Persia with him. Walker took a chance and called, “Admiral! Is that you? Wait up!”

  Like an idiot, he stopped just long enough to glance over his shoulder.

  But that split-second distraction was enough. Instinctively, Walker’s pistol came up. “Stop, or I’ll shoot!”

  The crowd parted like the Red Sea did for Moses. And there he was, in plain view. Admiral Fuckin’ Peckering. The shorter, stockier, olive-skinned guy with him had one arm around an unconscious Persia. She appeared limp, draped against him. Drugged. A helpless beauty in nothing but her damned skimpy bikini top and shorts. I’ll kill him if he’s hurt her.

  A crackling firework-like explosion rippled overhead. The crowd looked up. Peckering’s toady stooped just long enough to sling her over his shoulder. She hung like a rag doll, her hands stretched limply over his butt.

  Walker leveled his pistol at the Admiral. “Take one more step and I’ll end you.”

  The light at the end of the alley beckoned, but Peckering had stopped just short of freedom. And now, he’d drawn on Walker.

  Well, good. Walker had never let a challenge go unanswered before. Didn’t plan to now. With calm, deliberate steps forward, he made himself a target. Buying time for Izza. Buying hope for Persia.

  “Put her down, Admiral Peckering,” he ordered loud enough for all to hear, his pistol warm and ready in his palm. His plan clear. One through Peckering’s head. One through the asshole at his side. Catch Persia before she fell. Backstop was clear, and that made this plan perfect. No collateral damage. By the end of the day, she’d be back in his bed where she belonged.

  But someone had called the local police. Sirens sounded nearby. If they arrived before this showdown was over, it’d be Peckering’s word against Walker’s. A United States Naval officer’s lies against a convicted felon’s truths. Walker would be disarmed, back in cuffs, and on his knees. Or dead. And Persia would be just another face in another accordion-pleated file.

  Not. Happening!

  Walker charged. Peckering’s accomplice let Persia slide off his shoulder, his arm around her neck. Only then did Walker see the hypo he held to her throat.

  “One more step, I kill her,” the bastard hissed.

  Peckering put himself between Persia and Walker. “You don’t want Agent Coltrane to die, Lieutenant Judge,” he said, his voice as slick as any politician’s. “Put your gun down. Walk away.”

  “Take me instead,” Walker said, his heart screaming like a Harley running full-out on warm blacktop. “I’m the one you’ve wanted all along. Look, I’ll go willingly.” He lowered his pistol, earnestly convinced he could persuade Peckering to let her go.

  The sly monster’s upper lip curled. One shoulder lifted like he was annoyed that he had to deal with an idiot. “Where’s the fun in that? I can get good money for this whore. There’s no demand for men like you. No. What you’re going to do, LT, is put your pistol on the ground, kick it away, then back off. You’ll let me and Rodrigo leave. You’ll walk away, wave goodbye, act like you never saw us. You won’t look for this woman ever again.”


  Like hell. Yet Walker set his weapon to the ground, but he didn’t kick it away, and he stayed crouched with one hand on the dirty cobblestone. “How’d a recognized Navy officer get mixed up with the sex-trade? It was Goff, wasn’t it? This was all his idea. Is he blackmailing you?”

  The damnedest smile tweaked Peckering’s lips. “Yes, sure. Goff. It was all his idea. That’s right.”

  The son of a bitch was flat out lying. But if Goff wasn’t behind this—?

  “You know damned well outside work pays a helluva lot better than Uncle Sam,” Peckering continued. “You’ve been to Guatemala. You know what I’m talking about. Should’ve tried a little girl on for size when you had the chance. Then you’d know what it feels like to be a real man.”

  “You knew Roland Montego,” Walker said, not asked, more and more disgusted with this cocky pervert. “You worked with him. Or did you work for him? Is that how this worked? You found the girls and he gave you a commission? Did you work with his sister, too? Or did he work for you?”

  Peckering didn’t confirm or deny, but Walker saw a glint of anger flash in his eye. Might as well get everything out in the open. The local cops might still get him, but Walker would know the truth. “I can pay for her,” he wheedled. “Let her go, and you’ll never see me again.”

  “You can’t pay enough, LT. Hell, you’re not even that anymore. You’re ruined. Broke. Back the fuck off. Don’t grovel. Weak men disgust me.”

  Walker was plenty disgusted, too. “I know you targeted Captain Dooley’s three girls, Admiral Edgar Peckering,” he declared loudly even as sirens screamed closer. People needed to know who this vile man was and what he did to children. “You sold little girls to the highest bidders. You killed United States Navy Commander Wallace Goff, and I can prove it.”

  “Can you now…?” The ghost of a smile shifted across the Admiral’s face. He hadn’t lowered his weapon an inch. Didn’t need to. He had the one and only golden ticket out of there. He had Persia.