Walker (In the Company of Snipers Book 21)

by Irish Winters

  Quietly, he crossed the room. Would’ve made it all the way to her side, if she hadn’t suddenly sat up like a crazy dead woman with her eyes bugging out of her pretty face. She raised her hands, turned her head to the side in front of her face, and whimpered, “No, no, no! Don’t make me! I c-c-can’t hurt him! He’sssss sssso ssssmaaall.”

  Walker stopped dead in his tracks. Hurt him, who?

  “Persia, sugar,” he whispered, his palms forward to placate her as he took another step closer. “It’s me, Hotrod. I’m here now. You’re going to be okay.”

  Her head turned in his direction, but her eyes were blank and unseeing. Sweat darkened the center line of her pink tank top. The poor thing’s chest heaved, as if she’d just run a marathon. Tears streamed down her face. She shook her head. “Pleasssse, I… I… I can’t. I can’t do it. Not to a b-b-baby. Don’t make me…”

  Thankfully, he was at the foot of her bed by then. Shaking like a damned pansy from his short stroll, Walker sat his ass down with an ungracious thump. He was out of breath, sweating, and dizzy, but he was here for her. He knew that he stunk. He hadn’t showered in who knew how many days. But a man didn’t have to smell sweet or look good to rescue a person. He just had to show up.

  Walker placed a trembling hand over the mussed covers on Persia’s ankle. Thank goodness, she didn’t jerk away. “It’s just a nightmare,” he told her quietly, then pursed his lips to keep from panting like a beast and frightening her. “Wherever you are now isn’t real. But I am. Come back to me. No one can hurt you, sugar. Give me your hand. Just reach out. Let me help.”

  Her nostrils flared, but her eyes were still bright black and wide. Her breaths came in hard, short pants. So much terror etched her sweet face that he hurt for her. Wherever she was, it had to be an ungodly place for her to be so frightened. Persia was not a fainting violet. The woman had grit and grace, and somewhere close nearby, a loaded Smith and Wesson, .380 auto.

  “He’s h-h-here,” she murmured huskily, then licked her lips, her gaze darting back and forth, over Walker’s shoulder and around the room. But who else did she think was here?

  There was no sense telling Persia that what she was reliving in her mind, wasn’t real. To her, right now, the monster she faced was alive and breathing. So, Walker held onto that delicate ankle. He rubbed his hand up her blanketed leg, then back down, again and again. Warming her. Pulling her gradually back from whatever edge she was standing on, taking her back from the demon threatening her. Had to have been that rat bastard, Domingo Zapata. She’d surely seen hell on earth while working with him.

  Silently, Walker cursed the Bureau and Agency for sending a lone woman into Zapata’s filthy lair. For ever—ever!—thinking a single woman should be sent to do a man’s job. Just because no man had been able to do the impossible, did not make sacrificing a female a smart or good decision. Who cared that she’d been outstandingly successful where others had not? Who cared that, in the end, she’d brought Zapata down? Walker sure as hell didn’t. Success was beside the point. Damn them all to hell. The mission had cost her, not them. And it had cost her too much. She might never recover from all she’d seen or been forced to do. Couldn’t they understand?

  But now was not the time to go off on what had happened in the past. She didn’t work for the Bureau or the Agency anymore. Only Alex Stewart, and she seemed to like him.

  Walker set his angst aside and coaxed her quietly. “Sugar, I’m here, and I’m not leaving without you. Wherever you are right now, I’m there too. You’re not alone, okay? Feel the hand on your ankle? That’s me, Hotrod. I’ve got you, Persia, and I won’t let you fall. No one’s getting past me. You’re safe. Come on, let’s get out of here. Let’s go home.”

  She blinked as if she’d finally heard him. Those lovely thick butterfly lashes fluttered. But her eyes were still wide and unseeing. Trembling from the crown of her head to her toes, she bowed her chin to her heaving chest. Even the ends of her long hair had curled under her breasts as if trying to comfort her.

  Taking a chance and hoping bodily contact would help her reconnect with reality, Walker shifted to sit beside her. She inhaled what sounded like a deep cleansing breath, but might’ve been panic. Slowly, carefully, he lifted one arm and circled her shoulder, then tipped her into his side. He used just one arm. Not two. Not yet. Frightening her, holding on too tightly when she was still in a nightmare’s clutches, might make everything worse. Walker didn’t want to force or fight her. The next step was up to Persia.

  He took a quick time-out to smooth his other hand under her blankets, searching for that handgun. Ah, there it was, alongside her other thigh. He moved it to her nightstand.

  When he turned back around, Persia was staring straight into his eyes. The muscles in her neck worked hard as if she were struggling to swallow. “I… I…”

  “Hey there, beautiful,” he said quietly. She was so damned gorgeous this close-up. Exotic didn’t begin to describe her. Rare did. Rare and incredibly beautiful and strong and one-in-a-million. “Remember me? The idiot who swam all the way from Cuba just to kiss the woman of his dreams?”

  She didn’t answer, and the pulse spot in her neck still pounded. But she seemed to be pulling out of her nightmare.

  Walker tipped her head under his chin, then took hold of her hand and held it loosely. So many men and women coming back from the sandbox hated to be touched, and he respected that fear-driven need for physical distance. But he and Persia had already come together with enough heat and passion for him to know she was not suffering from that kind of PTSD. If only there were just one type of post-traumatic stress, life for every returned soldier, Marine, sailor, and airman—and their families— would be so much easier.

  “Did I ever tell you about my baby brother?” he asked quietly, needing her to come all the way back to him. “No? Guess it’s time then. The dumb butt’s name was, err, is, Kenny. Yes, ma’am, USMC Corporal Kenny Judge. He was eleven months younger than me, you know, one of those baby brothers you want to hug one moment, smack the shit out of the next. Every summer, my folks went north to visit my grandparents in Ontario, Canada. Gramps owned a few hundred acres. Farmed wheat. Acres and acres of gold, he used to tell us boys. Kept a hundred head of beef cattle. Called them his hamburger herd. Always took us boys shooting varmints and squirrels and such. Sometimes, if we went up north over Christmas break, we might come across a snowshoe rabbit or a winter goose while we were traipsing around with Gramps. I never minded eating squirrel or rabbit for dinner, but you can keep those geese. Too tough. Greasy as hell. Not worth the trouble of plucking them.”

  “I had a brother,” Izza murmured from the doorway.

  Walker glanced up at his unexpected visitor, standing half-in, half-out of the room, dressed in running pants and some guy’s blue shirt with USMC emblazoned in black stencils over her chest. The shirt hung to her knees.

  Izza had made it quite clear she didn’t trust him, and Walker couldn’t blame her. Not with the conviction on his record, and all those other accusations hanging over his head. But here she was, come to save Persia, too.

  “Come on in,” he whispered, then let go of Persia long enough to wave her friend to join the party. Persia had settled down by then, but she wasn’t fully awake. So he kept her right where she was, at his side, his voice low and steady.

  “Older brother or younger?” he asked as Izza took his place at the foot of the bed.

  Izza Maher was a tiny thing, six or eight inches shorter than Persia. Instead of an uptight ponytail, her hair hung in lazy black spirals over her shoulders and down her back tonight, making her look more like a little girl than a grown woman. Or maybe it was that too-big shirt that made her look smaller than she’d seemed before. Of course, she’d had a weapon in her hands then. That definitely would’ve made her seem bigger than life.

  “Younger,” she answered, her voice soft and quiet, as her coal-black eyes scrolled appraisingly over him holding onto her fri
end. “I heard what you said. You know, when you asked Persia to come back. That was… nice.”

  He shrugged, needing Izza to trust Persia more than him. “Baby brothers are the worst,” he murmured, forever wishing he could have his back.

  “Jamie,” Izza whispered. “Jamie Ramos. That was his name.”

  “Army?”

  She shook her head. “No, USMC, like me. Dumb butt never took anything seriously, though. Not his career. Not getting ahead. Not until” —she blew out a breath between pursed lips— “it was too late.”

  Walker knew all about eternally too late. “If you don’t mind me asking, when did you lose him?”

  “A couple years ago.” She was biting her bottom lip by then, her eyes focused on the blanket not him. “Firefight. Twenty miles outside Camp Baharia. Iraq. You?”

  He took a deep breath. With his parents already gone, he hadn’t shared anything about Kenny’s death with anyone. There’d been no one to tell. Guys were like that. Hiding behind false bravado. Holding back. Carrying on as if working were the only thing that mattered. Had to be some kind of primal defense mechanism, an instinctual need to never show weakness. To always be the baddest Neanderthal in the fight.

  Truth was, when Kenny’d been killed in action, Walker had buried his pain so deep, most days he didn’t feel or acknowledge it. He’d relegated those personal pains to history. He’d had men to lead and missions to fulfill. But night times…? All that buried shit floated back to the surface, like Halloween ghosts gasping and groaning out of a sticky black tar pit of lost dreams and grief. Memories. Who needed them?

  “Yemen,” he admitted, his arm tightening around Persia’s waist. She’d relaxed, and he’d tipped back to the headboard with her. “Province of Marib. He was there supporting a UN Special Envoy. Drone attack by Houthi rebels, Iran’s buddies. Took out Kenny and three others.”

  “Navy SEAL like you?”

  He shook his head. “Nope. Kenny was dumb like you and Jamie. Had to be a Marine.”

  “The USA’s involved in too many other countries’ civil wars,” she said, still talking to the blanket.

  “True, but in most cases, we’re the only support some of those smaller, weaker countries have. If it wasn’t for us, Iran would’ve taken over that part of the world by now. The latest Khomeini in power already kills anyone who gets in his way. His own people included. Women and children alike.” Which was true. One Khomeini was as bad as the next in Walker’s book.

  “I know, but…” Izza let that hang.

  “Tell me about him,” Walker urged gently. He didn’t want to fight this impetuous woman. Hell, he didn’t want to fight anyone. He just wished women didn’t think they had to prove they were as tough or tougher than men. But the world had changed, hadn’t it? To get ahead in any career, a woman had to work harder, fight longer, and run faster. He knew that. In most cases, she had to be willing to stand against slander, backstabbing friends, and continual character assassination whenever she pulled ahead of the pack and proved she was, in fact, a helluva lot better. Walker had certainly seen how hard men and other women were on any gal who stepped up and succeeded where they’d failed. Or where they hadn’t even tried to go.

  So… Izza was a jarhead, huh? As soft and pretty as she looked in the dim glow of that nightlight? Nah. He couldn’t imagine her geared up like a guy, toting a hundred pounds of ammo, her face painted, and marching off to battle. Just didn’t sit right with him.

  Walker tried not to be sexist. He just didn’t want women to have to fight to the death, not if he was around. That was a man’s job, to protect home and hearth. To do the dirty jobs, so women could live gently and in peace.

  Her shoulders lifted, but Izza seemed intent on smoothing the wrinkles out of the covers instead of looking at him. “He was all I had,” she whispered to that blanket.

  “And you miss him.”

  She nodded. “Yeah. I do. As big a pain in the ass as Jamie could be, as much as he liked to tease, that shithead was my brother, and he always stood up for me.”

  “That’s what brothers do.” All at once, Walker knew where Jamie was. Yet he asked, “Where’s he buried in Arlington?”

  “Section 60. With all the others.”

  Arlington’s Section 60 was where many of those killed in Afghanistan and Iraq now lay in honored glory. Or so the poets said. Walker had found it a sad, wretched place where too many ghosts still walked and talked... and cried.

  “Kenny’s there, too,” he admitted softly. Speaking his brother’s name still felt somehow irreverent. But with Izza, someone who’d lost as much as he had, it felt okay. Maybe even good. “Want to bet those two boys are still telling lies and taking dares?” Kenny never could resist a dare.

  Finally, Izza’s chin lifted and her dark eyes zeroed on him. “You’re not so bad, you know.”

  What could he say? Nothing. So Walker shrugged, content to be on her good side for now.

  “Please take care of my girlfriend, Walker Judge. Like you said before, I mean. Don’t let anyone take her. Persia thinks she’s tougher than she is, but she’s not, you know? Not really. Keep her safe. I don’t know why but she likes you, and she thinks you’re worth saving. I’m not convinced, but she is, so make damned sure you are what she thinks you are. Promise me.”

  He bowed his head in humble submission, never more sure of any other order in his life. “Yes, ma’am, I promise to keep Persia safe, always. Goodnight, Izza. I’m real glad you’re here with us.”

  “Me, too,” she said as she lifted to her feet and padded from the room, leaving him alone with Persia still in his arms. Which told him that Izza trusted him more than she’d let on. She was a lot like him. Too tough to cry. Too broken to let her heart show. But he also sensed there was more to that story about Jamie than she’d ever admit. He’d always stood up for her. Against who?

  “You have a good friend in Izza Maher,” he told his sleeping beauty.

  “Drink. I need a… a drink.”

  “Of what?” he wondered out loud.

  “Wh-whisssss-key…” —she hissed like a tire going flat— “…helpssss…”

  That got his attention. Whiskey helps, huh? Also explained the hint of alcohol he’d detected on her breath the first night on the beach. “It helps what, sugar?”

  She huffed, hard little panting breaths through her nose. “Nightsssss. Dreamsssss. All that sh-sh-shit.”

  “Of Florida?” He doubted that, but he needed her to talk to him, at least verify what he suspected.

  Persia slapped one hand to his chest and pulled away. “No. Him. Poor, poor, babiesss…”

  Walker froze even as he kept hold of her waist. Babies? She’d tortured babies while she’d been undercover? No, not Persia. “What babies?”

  Another huff. Another hiss. Another sad, “Poor, poor babies…”

  “What did he make you do to them?” He cringed at what she might say next.

  “K-k-kill. I had to… h-had to...”

  Oh, shit. Zapata’d made her prove how bad she was, and to maintain her cover, she’d done as he’d demanded. Or had she? “No, Persia. Sugar, I know you, and you’d never hurt a baby.”

  She nodded adamantly. “Yeah. Had to. Baby lambsssss…”

  Oh, thank God! Lambs. Not children.

  “Did you eat lamb stew afterward?”

  “No. Never. The blood…” Whimpering, she rubbed a hand over her sternum. “So… much… blood. Babies bleed. It was everywhere. Too much…”

  This courageous woman might’ve been able to take down killers the world over, but hurting a tiny creature as pure as a lamb was the straw that had broken her.

  Walker pulled her against him and bowed his cheek to the top of her sweaty head, aware of how much she’d kept bottled up inside. No wonder she’d turned to alcohol. Sure explained her nightmares now. Stewart’s safe houses weren’t stocked with booze, and she desperately needed a drink.

  “It’s oka
y. It’s over. You’re with me now. Breathe, Persia. Wake up. Let the past go and just breathe. I’ve got your six.”

  “B-b-but… they c-c-cry when I hurt ’em,” she sobbed. “They cry!”

  “I know, sugar, I know,” he murmured, rocking her now and wishing he had a time machine to go back and end Zapata before she’d ever met the bastard. She’d be safe now, not haunted by the ghost of a lamb.

  Persia didn’t reply, just turned more fully into his arms. Her breasts flattened against his ribs, and her nose landed in the hollow of his neck. She moaned and her breathing evened out again. Every soft puff of her breath over his still feverish skin tickled and chilled. Once again, Walker was lost in the mystery of Persia Coltrane.

  Needing to be closer to her, he sank his nose into her smooth, sleek hair. It smelled of some kind of flower he’d never be able to name. Flowers weren’t his thing. Firearms, warheads, and gunpowder were. Fire any weapon, he could name the make and model of the pistol, rifle, tank, or missile that fired it, as well as the caliber. Months and years spent training ingrained those skills into every warrior’s head. Hyper-awareness only sharpened those details more. But death honed them laser-sharp.

  Watching other warriors die was the epitome of a refiner’s fire. Watching them give their all for an intangible belief as simple as freedom. Inalienable rights. All the things that made Americans different from so many other people in the world. To lose the warrior at your side honed your own instinct to survive. Made you a better, more deadly, killing machine. Also made damned sure you walked alone the rest of your days.

  Until this woman had burst into his life like a falling star, war had been Walker’s one true calling. But now? He was beginning to like flowers.

  Smoothing his free hand over her head, he brushed the tangled strands out of her eyes and away from her face. He curled both arms around her, leaned back, and stared at the ceiling. The road ahead that had once seemed so clear had grown unbearably difficult lately.