Walker (In the Company of Snipers #21) - Irish Winters Page 0,100

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