Walker (In the Company of Snipers Book 21)

by Irish Winters

  Chapter Seven

  Walker didn’t go far, just to the other side of the island, where he could get his head straight and plan his next move. He dropped his tired ass to the beach. The long stretch of Florida Keys lay across the narrow channel in front of him. They were so close, he could make out the cars on Interstate One, the highway that kept the Keys connected to the mainland.

  He felt like crap. Sneaking out from under Persia’s warm embrace before sunrise, without waking her, had been one of the worst things he’d done to a woman in years. Not because he hadn’t wanted to disturb her, but because he’d felt something in her arms last night, something rare and unique that had thrown him off balance.

  The sensation of all he’d run from, that he was the biggest loser, lingered still. Like a sucker punch square in his solar plexus. A rogue wave on the ocean. He couldn’t shake it—or her. Yeah, he should’ve stayed, at least left a better note than that scribbled ‘Later.’ But there’d been no choice. She didn’t need his kind of trouble, and he wasn’t going to Leavenworth.

  But mostly? He couldn’t stand to be betrayed by a woman he finally cared about. Persia was no uneducated SEAL wife-wannabe, no flirty bar fly, and no loser. She was smart enough to figure him out. And when she did, she’d be mad as hell that he’d used her like he had. She might even shoot him on sight the next time she saw him, and he wouldn’t blame her. He had used her. She’d used him too, but women tended to forget that part of the equation, when a man walked away from them.

  Walker rubbed his sternum, not sure why it ached. Maybe the long swim from Cuba to the mainland had been too much, even for a disciplined swimmer like him. Even competitive swimmers tore tendons and muscles during exhausting forty-eight-hour marathons.

  Or it could be the bag drag from Cuba to Florida. The weight of Walker’s gear had fought him every forward thrust and through every wave. He knew no shark had gotten close enough to have bumped his chest with its sandpaper snout, so the ache wasn’t from that. Even if one had, his suit would’ve prevented any abrasions. No box jellyfish stings, either. He’d checked. Yet the center of his chest throbbed with a hollowness he’d never felt before and couldn’t explain.

  That ache was all about Persia. They’d connected at some elemental level and leaving her just plain hurt. Yet, it was for the best. He’d been on the run too long, and with every step, every backward glance, he hadn’t been able to work out why he’d been targeted, convicted, and condemned. He needed time to think and to plan. To dig into his own case. Jesus, he just needed a quiet place for a change. This last year had been nothing but looking over his shoulder and trying to stay hidden.

  While he sat staring at the bustling southern shoreline of Key West, he forced down his last protein bar, then sucked his final bottled water dry. He needed to leave, yet at the same time, he needed to stay. This morning, he was far from fit. Yes, he’d eaten and rested last night, but he hadn’t armed himself against Persia Coltrane, had he? While in her home, he hadn’t felt the need to carry, even after he’d seen the pistol coyly trapped against her thigh.

  Leave it to a clever woman to know how to seduce a man. But that lush, tanned thigh…

  Most likely he’d decided to linger just because of it. The woman was well-endowed, soft in all the right places. But every FBI agent on earth had been trained at Quantico, and that training could get him killed. Which made staying with her another day or two impossible.

  When she realized who she’d invited into her home, then slept with, there’d be hell to pay. This time around, he was the betrayer. The deceiver. He knew damned well she never would’ve slept with him if she’d known who and what he was.

  Disgusted with himself for running out on her, Walker lifted to his feet, grabbed his bag up from the sand, and walked into the surf. The channel between Persia’s island and the Keys wasn’t wide, maybe a good hour’s swim was all. Might as well get it done.

  Steady, measured strokes took Walker to Geiger Key. Naval Air Station Key West lay to his left, Saddlebunch and Sugarloaf Keys to his right. Highway One connected them to the mainland. He could walk that distance, but Walker had something else in mind.

  Before he did anything else, he tugged another light gray, ratty Ron Jon t-shirt out of yet another plasticized compartment in his bag. This was his last decent shirt. He’d have to do some real shopping before long. To finish the look, his Ray-Bans with black reflective lenses came next. Today, he was jut another bland, nondescript tourist.

  He found what he was looking for on the eastern most tip of Geiger Key, where a streamlined row of high-priced yachts bobbed in the shallows behind a long stretch of security fencing, itself topped with concertina wire to keep guys like him out. Dusting the sand off his bag, he walked the boardwalk between here and there, with the nosey confidence of a lost tourist, sizing up the multi-million-dollar babies bobbing in their bumper-lined docks. Nothing dry-docked here, not with these expensive toys. No way. Only the best for the rich set, and that meant they were all in the water, probably gassed up, and ready to go. Perfect…

  A couple tough guys in muscle shirts watched. Not that Walker gave them a second look. Mall cops didn’t scare SEALs. Sure, they were packing heavy-duty holsters and over-sized pistols, and they did look big and burly. Walker just didn’t care. He wasn’t here to tangle with, or kill anyone. This was about getting away from it all, in his case, that meant America. Wasn’t that what these yachts were for, to get their wealthy owners away from all those petty problems of being obscenely rich?

  He brushed a hand over his chin when he’d nearly smiled. Then, because he couldn’t be seen breaking into these secure slips, he headed back the way he’d come. Even waved at the two guys still glaring at him. Smiled like a tourist out for a stroll.

  When he could manage it without being seen, Walker ducked out of sight. The beach was calling his name. Stripping off his glasses and shirt, he sealed them back in his bag, then walked into the surf, the bag over his shoulder. This next adventure wouldn’t take long.

  Out beyond the breakers, he turned east, maintaining strong, slow, powerful strokes. To anyone watching, he was just another swimmer plowing through the gentle swells beneath the bright Florida sky. He was no one. Just some guy.

  Until he’d breached the supposedly secure dock. There were no fences or concertina wire out here in the water.

  Like one of the pesky dolphins the Keys were known for, Walker arrowed through the shallows to the first yacht. Nope. It was a charter boat. Not what he was looking for. Moving on, he swam toward the next. But the Arabic script on the bow meant trouble Walker didn’t need. The one-hundred-eighty-foot Benetti yacht at its side was too long. The next, an Oceanfast Superyacht sat too high, too visible in the water, and looked like a destroyer. Walker didn’t want anything that hinted Navy. The damned thing was even painted gunmetal gray. Oh, hell no.

  The next vessels were three Cantieri di Pisa yachts, all in a row. All sleek, white, and way out of his class. Each one-hundred-fifty-three feet long. Tonnage... He guesstimated four hundred fifty, maybe more. They probably all required a twelve-man crew to operate. Not only out of his class, but too much trouble. Someone would miss any one of these babies the second it pulled away from the dock and into clear water.

  Walker kept going, not sure what he was looking for, but sure he’d know when he found it. Treading water now, he kept afloat even as his bag weighed him down. There were two rows of secure berths on this narrow peninsula, one on the south side, the other north. He didn’t want to search all hundred or so slips, but he would if he had to.

  Eleven yachts later, he stopped cold and swiped the water out of his eyes, not believing his good luck. A forty-five-foot Meridian Motoryacht. What was a vessel worth a measly two hundred K doing here among all these million-dollar yachts the caliber of Donald Trump’s wet dreams?

  A large, roomy cockpit sat high and proud above what was undoubtedly a lavish master stateroom on this white and black,
all-polished, albeit much smaller, watercraft. Tinted windows lined the deck level. Security cameras blinked along each topside window frame. But Walker was willing to bet those were merely part of an onboard security system, that there was no one sitting in an office somewhere, actively watching this yacht twenty-four-seven, ready to spring into action and call the police if a seagull happened to sit on the yacht’s rail. Or if a seal, pun intended, climbed onto the swim deck to, ahem, sun himself.

  Bobbing there in the water with only his head showing, Walker took everything in. Black canvas roof on the cockpit. Black fenders kept the hull from scraping against the dock. Polished wooden rails from bow to stern. But the kicker? The godawful name stenciled in black vinyl lettering at the stern, just above the aft ladder. Coronado’s Sea Nymph. Son of a bitch, this was Commander Goff’s rig. Goff, as in the naval officer Walker had been convicted of murdering with his bare hands.

  He glanced over his shoulder, feeling as if someone had just stepped on his grave—with six-foot-long, spiked cleats. H-h-holy shit. How could Goff’s yacht be here?

  Walker sucked in a slow deliberate breath. The upside? This craft was perfect for what he needed. Cummins engine. A fuel tank that held at least one hundred fifty gallons of diesel. He guessed it could top-out at seven hundred fifty horsepower, give or take a couple ponies. Didn’t require a crew, not even a co-pilot. One man could handle it, easy. Bow and stern thrusters. Two decks, one upper—probably the master stateroom since it also sported an enclosed patio aft. One lower level, undoubtedly the forward galley and maybe a guestroom. Upper aft deck for lounging and watching the have-not’s world go by. Then the swim deck and ladder, where swimmers could come and go, or where a guy could stand and fish from.

  The up-top cockpit offered a full three-hundred-sixty-degree view. And this yacht was new. At least, fairly new. The damned thing glistened like a waxed, iridescent black-and-white pearl in the sun, which meant it hadn’t seen much saltwater. Or use. It’d been stored, as in protected in dry-dock, when it wasn’t being used.

  The downside? Walker dipped his chin below water, blowing bubbles, trying to come up with any reason not to slip up and onto this craft, then set it and himself adrift. Except for getting caught and put in Leavenworth. That was a good reason not to abscond with a deceased man’s yacht. But Goff was dead. How could fifty years hard time in Leavenworth get any worse? Walker was already in his late-thirties. He’d be eighty if he lived long enough to serve his sentence. There was no hope of being exonerated or pardoned. What did he have to lose?

  Not. A. Damned. Thing.

  Decision made. He closed the distance and climbed aboard. Next stop? Top off his tank at Key Largo. Spend a few days moseying south to Puerto Rico, then onto Barbados. Maybe refuel at Georgetown, Guyana. Contrary to popular belief, the straightest way across the Atlantic was not as the crow flew. Smart sailors took the longer route, down to the eastern most tip of South America to the westernmost tip of Africa. Fewer miles. Less chance of running out of fuel or encountering US Coastguard. He might run into a few pirates, but Walker had no fear of pond scum. Not with the firepower in his bag.

  He meant to leave the States in his rear view as fast as he could. To eventually end up in Europe where nobody knew his name, face, or what he’d been accused of. Might stop somewhere along the coast of Africa and linger. Maybe at Sierra Leone. Senegal. Or Western Sahara. From there, Morocco was a mere day’s sail away, then Gibraltar, Portugal, and Spain. He knew a few people in most countries he’d deployed to. All except Ireland, England, and Scotland. He’d never been to the United Kingdom. Hell, now he had time. He might even make it all the way north to Denmark and Norway. The Baltic Sea and the Gulf of Bothnia. That’d be interesting. Cold, but interesting.

  His heart rate quickened at the adventures still ahead. His life wasn’t over, not by a long shot. NCIS might’ve thought they’d ruined him, but he wouldn’t go down without a fight. If he had time, he might investigate them for a change. Wouldn’t they be surprised if he uncovered a way to beat those dirtbags at their own lying game? If he found out who was behind this well-orchestrated plot to assassinate his character? That’d be even better.

  His fingers curled into fists thinking of the day of comeuppance in his future. Truth did prevail, damn it, and he meant to make sure it did. Hopefully.

  Chapter Eight

  It was the day after her hasty exit from the Keys, and Persia couldn’t keep her mind on the briefing. Or her boss. Or on the upcoming, important powwow at the United Nations, New York City, her reason for hurrying back to Alexandria, Virginia.

  Every president, prime minister, king, queen, and despot was coming together in NYC to discuss the ever-polarizing concept of climate change and the world’s imminent demise. Environmentalists had become the doomsday prophets of the twenty-first century, all clamoring for governments the world over to shut down any and all manufacturing that relied on carbon fuels. To prohibit air travel, the use of natural gas, coal mining, blah, blah, blah. In other words, to stop living, producing, manufacturing, and go back to the stone ages.

  Persia was surprised breathing oxygen and spewing carbon dioxide weren’t on their hitlist of disgusting emissions. Cows were.

  She’d worn a light dress this morning, a powder blue sheath with a simple, white knitted shrug covering her shoulders, offering a touch of professionalism to her casual attire. The TEAM’s dress code was quite lenient. Unless they were on assigned operations, casual business was the rule of thumb, which meant most other agents wore black and their black TEAM polo shirts. But Persia was sick of looking like an FBI reject, and she hated black. After the fiasco in Brazil, she needed color in her life. Bright, airy colors. Any color combination other than red or black.

  After a few meetings with The TEAM’s physician on staff, Dr. McKenna Fitzgerald-Villanueva, Persia now realized she’d brought a couple triggers home with her from Brazil. It stood to reason, after working and living with a psychotic killer like Domingo Zapata. She wasn’t the innocent woman she’d been before. Far from it.

  Somedays, she suspected she bordered on the edge of a nervous breakdown. She dreamed of stepping right over that edge, by either screaming her heart out or drinking herself to death. Even now, a slim, easy-to-hide flask rested full and comfortably available in the over-the-shoulder crossbody bag beneath her desk. Because she, former FBI Special Agent Persia Coltrane, one of the Bureau’s finest undercover operators, was hanging on by the thinnest thread. And an occasional shot of whiskey helped, damn it.

  She should be high after the biggest, toughest success of her career. She had awards from the Bureau and the Agency. Fat lot of good paper certificates and bonus checks did. Instead, she was unraveling, blindsided by ghosts and monsters in the dark. By stupid Crayola colors!

  Her nightmares had become unbearable, and she detested tiny, cramped spaces. Like elevators, even her sporty Toyota sports car seemed suffocatingly close once she shut the door and turned the engine. Not that she’d ever been caged or trapped like so many of Domingo’s victims. But her empathy for those women and girls continued to replace them in her nightly dreams with—her. A night hadn’t yet gone by that she hadn’t woken up screaming, sure she was the one being assaulted or doing the assaulting. She was exhausted, reliving what she’d never lived through. Yet believing she’d indeed been tortured—or worse. That she’d killed…

  Doc Fitz called it post-traumatic stress, but Persia knew better. Her nightmares were her just reward for not having helped those women and girls escape when she could. For following CIA protocol, instead of blowing Domingo Zapata’s hairy ass to hell. Just for being there…

  Except for that one night with Hotrod, she hadn’t fallen asleep without a good stiff drink or two before bed, since she’d come home. Sometimes, she took the whole bottle with her. Which was worrisome, needing to numb her heart like she did. But as long as it worked, hey. She would self-medicate until the nightmares stopped. Or until Doc Fitz came
up with a way for Persia to get out of her head long enough to rest her soul. Really, truly rest. To fall asleep and dream, instead of having nightmares. That’d be nice.

  To be able to forgive herself. That’d be even better.

  Persia left her lights on at night now. All night. All of them. Even her oven light, and how ridiculous was that? It almost made her sound crazy. Well, crazier. But she’d learned the hard way that what you couldn’t see, would hurt you. Even something as small as that dark square place in her oven or microwave wasn’t safe, daytime or nighttime. More than once, Zapata had introduced snakes and tarantulas into narrow dark openings.

  So, yeah. Let there be light, damn it. Lots and lots of light.

  But reds and blacks? All shades of Domingo Zapata. He’d always worn black. Even decorated his skin with the most horrific black ink tattoos. And fresh, red blood.

  Her nostrils flared, remembering the septic stink of the wicked place she’d worked in for nearly a year. For a split second, Persia was back in Brazil again, fighting to keep her sanity, while she fooled Zapata into believing she wanted to work for him. Her heart pounded and she trembled. It was hard to swallow, much less think straight. Or listen to whatever Alex was rambling on and on… and on about.

  Needing the sunlight more than this drawn-out, waste-of-time meeting, she stared out the window. What’d they call it? Mindfulness? Staying in the present? Letting the past she couldn’t control, yet couldn’t forget, go? Easier said than done. Persia required bright sunshine, a ton more space, and a little more R&R to get her head back in the covert ops game. And she would, by hell. She certainly would. Because panic attacks were surmountable. One only had to believe—

  “You bet, Boss,” Senior Agent David Tao replied, breaking up her therapeutic reverie. “I can have that back to you by noon. Soon enough?”