Walker (In the Company of Snipers Book 21)

by Irish Winters

  And suddenly, God bless her, there was Izza. Out of breath and red-faced, but fierce and sweaty and deadly at the other end of the alley. Her pistol was up and aimed at the back of Peckering’s head.

  “Move it, people!” she ordered as she stalked through the crowd. “Get the hell out of here! Vamanos!” Izza let out a string of Spanish invective, and the alley emptied.

  He cast a casual glance over his shoulder.

  “Let her go, asshole!” Izza demanded next, “or so help me, I’ll splatter your brains all over that pretty brick wall behind you. I know who you are, Peckering. Soon the whole world will know.”

  “No,” he said clearly. “Drop your gun and shut the fuck up.”

  Which only pissed Izza off more. “Give me a reason not to fill your head with lead.”

  “Because if you do,” he drawled like a man who held the winning cards, “I won’t give this bitch the antidote.”

  “You poisoned her?” Izza hissed.

  “I poison all of them. It’s the only way to keep them coming back for more.”

  Walker didn’t think. Just acted. His pistol leaped up from the cold, hard ground, and—

  BLAM! A single, deep-red rose blossomed dead center of Peckering’s massive ego.

  Rodrigo’s eyes widened. By the time he dropped the hypo, Izza had her pistol pressed to his temple, her knee in his back, and Walker had Persia in his arms.

  Izza punched Rodrigo’s face. “Where’s the fuckin’ antidote?”

  “I… I… I…” he stuttered, the whites of his eyes showing. What a troll.

  Sirens were closer now. Walker grabbed the hypo, then gathered Persia and lifted to his feet. “We gotta go. Bring him with us.”

  Izza dragged Rodrigo to his feet. “You make one whimper, one sound, and I swear you’re dead meat.”

  They’d no more than stepped out of the alley and into the light, when Alex and McQueen appeared out of nowhere like two pissed off guardian angels. Walker could’ve sworn they’d been sent by God. The sirens were up close and personal now, so close he could hear tires screeching and doors slamming. Time was up.

  “Peckering’s body’s back there,” he told Alex. “You might want to bring it with us.”

  “You end him?” Alex asked.

  “Yes, I did. He poisoned Persia. Boss, we need to hurry.”

  “Back to the yacht,” Alex ordered even as he lifted his sat phone to his mouth and ordered the person on the other end to secure Peckering’s body. He’d no more than ended that terse call, when he took hold of Rodrigo’s left arm. McQueen took the right. Together, they left Peckering behind and cleared a path for Walker and Persia.

  “Hurry,” Walker told Alex. “She’s barely breathing, Boss. Hurry!”

  Chapter Forty-Three

  They’d just cleared the gangplank. Alex and McQueen had released Rodrigo into Ryder’s custody, when Izza pistol-whipped him. “Where’s the antidote?” she bellowed, her weapon stuck in the back of Rodrigo’s head. “What poison did you give her? Tell me!”

  Ryder waved Walker to the nearest recliner. “You and your girlfriend, over there. Izza and I will take care of this idiot. You take care of her.”

  Gently, Walker settled Persia onto the cushion. Her beautiful olive complexion had turned pale, and she was clammy all over. Her fingers fluttered like she was losing control. “I need to know what kind of poison he gave her.”

  “We’ll have that info in a minute,” Ryder replied. “Stay with your lady, Boss.”

  Alex disappeared below deck, then reappeared with a first-aid kit the size of a monstrous ice chest. Slapping the cover up and open, he revealed an array of pharmaceutical supplies and medical equipment.

  “Upper left arm,” he ordered Walker, handing him a blood pressure cuff and stethoscope. “McQueen, I need you here.”

  “Copy that,” McQueen replied obediently.

  Alex tossed a clip-on oximeter, an IV set-up, and sterile wipes to him. “Prepare her right hand. She needs to be ready the second we know what poison we’re dealing with. Start a saline drip until then.”

  Walker had the cuff in place by then, the stethoscope in his ears. “She’s one-fifty over ninety-four,” he reported. That high pressure put her in the hypertension range. On her way to hypertensive crisis. A stroke or heart attack.

  Hurriedly, Alex tore open several packs of sterile cloth, doused his hands with alcohol, then used one of the cloths to pat them dry. Tossing the used cloth aside, he donned surgical gloves next and told Walker to do the same. “Step on it.”

  While Walker disinfected his hands and gloved up, McQueen swiped the back of Persia’s hand and inserted the IV like a pro. He taped it in place and advised, “Her O2 sat rate’s dropping like a rock, Alex. Is there any epinephrine in that crate if she goes into cardiac arrest?”

  “No worries,” Alex replied calmly as he opened a pre-packaged sterile hypo.

  “God, I hope you guys know what you’re doing,” Walker muttered, worried this was it, the end. That he’d never kiss Persia’s sweet lips again or smell her warm breath in his face. Never feel the silky tease of her long hair over his bare belly or her fingernails raking through his hair. Never be able to tell her how much he adored her. How he meant to marry her...

  Out of nowhere, a tear fell out of his eye, like a damned pussy. He brushed it away. “I can’t lose her.”

  “Have faith,” Alex whispered. “She’s not going anywhere. Hold her arm steady. I need to draw enough blood to run a few tests.”

  Walker did as asked while Alex extracted a full vial of dark, red blood. Her life force. But it was too late. Persia stiffened. She was seizing.

  “Hold her still!” Alex ordered.

  “You’re killing her!” Walker growled as tremors shook her like a dog with a rug. Thin strings of drool slid from the sides of her clenched tight mouth even as he held her steady.

  Alex was already dripping blood samples into a small rack of previously prepared test tubes that Walker honestly hadn’t seen until then. The man seemed prepared for everything. He’d better be!

  With sweat glistening on her forehead and the loose hairs around her face frizzy, Izza intervened from her enthusiastic interrogation with an out of breath report. “Diethyl-meta-toluamide, Boss. He shot her up with diethyl-meta-toluamide. That’s all.”

  “Christ, that’s enough,” McQueen ground out.

  “You’re telling me,” Izza answered. “Now save her, Boss! Damn it, save her!”

  Man, she was as pushy as Alex.

  “Organophosphates…” he muttered as one vial turned bright yellow, then blue. “Confirmed.”

  “Insecticides?” Walker murmured. There were more lethal poisons, but those were bad enough, especially when administered directly into a person’s bloodstream. “Does that bastard know which brand? What dosage? How much did Peckering give her?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Izza replied. “Rodrigo says Peckering shoots his girls up with this insecticide, then tells them it’s delayed-reaction cyanide. That it’ll kill them inside twenty-four hours if they don’t do what he wants. He gives his new girls larger doses. Rodrigo didn’t know the exact amount. Only knew Peckering wanted them good and sick and wanting to die before he—”

  “Before he walks in and saves them,” Walker interrupted, “and they end up believing him.”

  “Yeah, well, Peckering keeps his girls locked up tight. He only drugs them when he sends them out. They get the antidote after they return, after they’ve done what he wanted.”

  “Asshole,” McQueen growled, his fingers on Persia’s neck, checking her pulse even though the fancy oximeter on her finger was doing the same thing. “You have the right antidote, don’t you, Boss?”

  “Atropine,” he answered, as calm as if this kind of thing happened every day. He’d set the test tubes aside, had already lifted another vial from the chest, tipped it upside down, and filled a new hypo. Man, even under pressure
, this guy was a rock. His fingers weren’t even shaking.

  But Walker was coming undone. He’d treated numerous men and women from combat injuries, but this was different. This was Persia. He didn’t want to think what would’ve happened if Alex hadn’t come with him. Walker couldn’t help it. His eyes brimmed at the gentle care these warriors were taking with her, the way they handled her with respect. The way they both knew just what to do. Both badassed men. Men who ruled the country in their own way. Without them—

  “Thanks, you guys,” he murmured, so damned grateful for men who lived to serve.

  Alex never hesitated. Never answered, either. Just expertly eased the atropine into Persia’s IV. In seconds, rigidity eased its stranglehold and her body softened. Her spine relaxed. She started breathing again. The caved-in, sucked-in hollow where her collarbones joined, vanished as her chest lifted with steady, calm inhalations.

  “Breathe,” Alex told her quietly even as one brow lifted and he asked Walker and McQueen, “Stats?”

  Walker responded quickly. “Still elevated, but it’s coming down.” Thank God.

  “Oxygen saturation’s in the eighties now,” McQueen said. “Looking better.”

  “She’s off-duty TFN. Izza, she’ll need some of your tortilla soup.”

  TFN was short for til further notice.

  Tortilla soup was short for… Izza, as she wrapped both arms around her boss’s broad shoulders and wept openly. “You saved her, Boss. You saved my best friend.”

  Alex patted Izza’s back. “No, you and Walker saved the day,” he corrected stoically. But who was he trying to kid? His eyes were as misty blue as Walker knew his were.

  “How’d you know where we were?” Walker asked when he could finally speak. They’d been completely out of sight in that alley.

  “She sent a panic call before I lost her,” Alex explained, while Izza sniffed and dried her eyes. “I could hear her arguing, but the line disconnected before I could pin down her precise location. No doubt Peckering destroyed her sat phone once he disabled her. Never would’ve known there was an alley behind that hotel, until I heard your gunshot.”

  “Which one of you fired?” McQueen asked.

  “Walker,” Izza replied quickly, her eyes bright as she leaned away from Alex. “You shoulda seen him, Boss. Never blinked. Only fired once. Nailed the bastard. He’s as badass as you.”

  Walker glanced over Izza’s shoulder to where Ryder leaned against the aft rail. His XO smiled approvingly, as if he’d never doubted Walker’s skills. Which he shouldn’t. They’d worked enough missions. They both knew how lethal the other was. How loyal.

  But Peckering’s cohort looked like he’d seen better days. Rodrigo was face down to the deck, his hands cuffed behind his back, and his chin was bleeding from several lacerations. Walker wasn’t sure what Alex would do with the degenerate once he came to. Shooting an unarmed asshole was a crime in any part of the world, but Alex seemed capable. If he wasn’t, Walker was.

  It was unfortunate Admiral Peckering hadn’t spent more time working with and getting to know the men who served with him. He might’ve been a better commander. At least, he would’ve known not to mess with a SEAL on a mission. Because SEALs never backed down, never gave up, and that ‘only easy day was yesterday’ bullshit was the fuckin’ truth.

  Walker avoided looking at Izza. He’d caught the love for Persia glowing from her dark eyes when she’d cried. That kind of love was pure, chocolate sunshine, if there were such a thing. If he looked too long, he’d melt like an M&M left in the sun.

  A big, square, kick-your-ass fist caught his bicep. Instant agony radiated down from the still healing through and through, but Walker had no choice but to look his new boss in the eye then. He bit his bottom lip, not sure what Alex would see, but sure it wasn’t a tough Navy SEAL.

  “You took one helluva chance,” Alex told him. “How’d you know Peckering was here?”

  Walker manned up, sucked in his emotions, and filled in most of the rest of the story. How Peckering had forced his yacht into dock, then disembarked into the crowd. How Walker’d known right then and there they’d been followed, that Peckering was going after Persia. How he and Izza couldn’t locate Persia, wouldn’t have known where she’d gone if Izza hadn’t bullied the young girl selling watermelons for information.

  “Thanks for that,” Walker told Izza now. The only part he’d left out of the telling was how he and Ryder had planned to take off after Peckering by themselves. Wasn’t Karma a capricious thing? By delivering Persia to Peckering, she’d also served him up to Walker. After, of course, she’d let Peckering’s ego get the best of him.

  Izza shrugged. “Just glad Maria saw what went down.”

  They were all sitting cross-legged on the deck around Persia by then. She was still unconscious but breathing steadily. Walker would’ve had her on his lap and in his arms, but he didn’t think she’d appreciate the public display of affection.

  “We need to get underway,” Alex said as he covered her with a light blanket.

  “One question, Walker,” McQueen mused. “What’s your plan once you’re cleared of the charges against you?”

  “I don’t imagine that’ll be easy or happen anytime soon, sir. As soon as the Navy knows I’m back in the States… If I even go back to the States—”

  “You let me worry about that,” McQueen drawled, his gaze never straying from Walker’s worried eyes. “Let’s say all this crap’s behind you. Your name’s clear. You’re a free man. You were working for me at Fort Campbell, but that was just a short-term fix. What now?”

  Walker leveled an index finger at Alex. “Sorry, sir, but I already work for him.”

  “Damn you, Stewart,” McQueen cussed, raking a quick hand through his silvery hair. “What makes you think you deserve this guy? He’s a SEAL, for hell’s sake. My man worked with him in Brazil. Not yours.”

  “I asked first,” Alex deadpanned, “and I pay more. You might be black world, but you’re still civil service, Senator.”

  “You’re a greedy son of a bitch, you know that?”

  “I’ve been called worse.”

  But Walker knew better. He wasn’t staying because of the money. Hell, he hadn’t even thought of asking about salary or benefits. Hadn’t cared. All he knew now was that Persia would be dead if he’d run out on Alex earlier. At the least, she would’ve been trapped in Peckering’s ugly web. For the first time since he’d met her boss, Walker knew he was right where he belonged. He’d never heard of the guy or The TEAM before, but he wanted in on it now.

  Automatically, he rested his fingers on Persia’s shoulder, needing a connection with her. “Boss,” he said as evenly as he could. “Peckering knew Roland Montego. I asked him. He didn’t admit it, but I saw the look in his eye. They worked together. I don’t know which one was the boss, but is it possible that Black Dragon Syndicate you were talk—”

  THUD. Ryder hit the deck like a big bag of bricks. And there stood dripping wet Commander Wallace Goff with a hypo and a sawed-off shotgun in his shaky hands. “You’re sure a Goddamned pain in my ass! Why can’t you just die?!”

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Jerking the pistol out from under his left arm, Walker jumped to his feet and put himself between Goff and Persia. “Stand back!”

  “Drop it!” Goff ordered. “All of you! Drop your weapons, or I’ll shoot!”

  Walker had no choice. Neither did Alex or McQueen. Heavy hardware settled to the deck, but Walker only lowered his pistol to the blanket covering Persia. “You’re supposed to be dead,” he growled at his former CO. “I was convicted for killing your dead ass.”

  Goff raked a hand over his head, plastering his thinning hair to his skull in a foolish combover. “It was never enough for you, was it? First, China. Then Cuba. Then, that meat packing plant outside Joint Base Andrews. Can’t you ever mind your own fuckin’ business?!”

  Walker didn’t have a clue what Goff wa
s raving about. “What meat packing plant?”

  “Not you. You!” Goff bellowed. “Get the fuck out of my way, Judge!”

  Alex took a half-step in front of Walker, blocking him in beside Persia. Shielding him. Wicked energy, like the dangerous voltage generated by Tesla coils, arced off the man. It whirled unseen, whipping out, making the tiny hairs on the back of Walker’s neck stand up.

  “You,” Alex spat.

  Goff rolled his eyes. “No, Stewart! Not just me! But I swear, every time I turn around, it’s always just you. Dan Peters was right. We should’ve taken you out first.”

  “You sure as hell tried. Or don’t you remember the pressure bomb you rigged in my elevator? All this time, Interpol Director Daniel Peters worked for you, didn’t he?” Alex asked, his head cocked and his fists clenched. The man was a formidable force at rest, but his shoulders seemed broader now. Wider. As if Hercules breathed beneath his skin, aching to tear Goff apart, limb from limb. “You’re part of the Goddamned, son of a bitchin’ Black Dragon Syndicate.”

  “Not part,” Goff sputtered. “Me! Just me! I… I am the syndicate!”

  “You worked with Roland Montego and—”

  “I don’t work with anyone, Stewart! They worked for me. It was my idea. My dream. But you had to kill ’em. All of them!”

  Everything became crystal clear when Montego’s ugly name rolled off Goff’s tongue. Without thinking, Walker elbowed Alex out of his way. “It was you that night in Guatemala,” he accused Goff. “Renzo said his buyer was late. That buyer was you. You engineered the abduction and sale of Emily Dooley and all those women. Those little girls! Then you ran your own gangs down and murdered them to cover your ass. You accused me, so I’d never connect you with Renzo and Bruno. You’ve killed everyone you worked with!”

  Alex put a firm hand to Walker’s forearm, but the day for tolerance was long past.

  He brushed the warning aside. He would’ve taken another step at Goff, but he didn’t dare leave Persia. Goff seemed to be acting alone, but the man was unpredictable as hell.