Walker (In the Company of Snipers #21) - Irish Winters Page 0,109
long? None. Well, okay, maybe one or two, but the point is, boys play rougher than girls. They take more chances, more risks, and they do a ton of stupid shit before they grow brains. But girls—”
“Exactly! Girls are born with brains. Boys aren’t. It takes years for their gray matter to develop. Sometimes, it never does. Bottom line, males were made to complement females. Take your parents, for instance. What on earth did an Iranian scientist ever see in a Mississippi cotton farmer?”
Thinking of Mom and Dad made her smile wider. “Mom always said it was love at first sight.”
“Does she drive the tractor, or does he?”
“He does, but I can, too.”
Hotrod breathed into her hair. “I have no doubt you can, sugar. But your dad must think working the fields is his job, not your mom’s, that’s all I’m saying. Go easy on yourself. You did what you had to do, what most men couldn’t have done, and you did it because you’re female. You fooled one of the worst murderers in Brazil. Don’t spread yourself too thin. Talk to me. Let me—”
Izza rapped on the closed door. “Hey, guys. Wake up! Hans is back. We’ve got trouble.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Walker rolled off one side of Persia’s bed while she rolled off the other. Still weak but not going to admit it, he staggered back to his room, tore open the closet, and selected the first pair of jeans hanging there. Measuring it against his body for size, he guesstimated it was close enough. After grabbing one of the clean t-shirts hanging next to the jeans, he crossed the room, yanked a dresser drawer open, and took out a pair of socks and boxers. He dressed hurriedly, still needing a weapon or two.
He’d just located a decent pair of boots—this safe house literally had everything in his size—when Izza slammed his door open and tossed him a rifle. “You’ll need this.”
Walker caught it easily. Checking the weight, he slid the breech open, made sure the weapon was loaded. Bolt-action, .308-caliber rifle with a full magazine. Sweet. “How many rounds does this mag hold?”
“Ten. More ammo and mags are on the dining room table. Pistols, if you don’t like a rifle. Take your pick.”
“What are we looking at?”
“Ask Hans,” she barked, already out in the hall on her way to somewhere else. She’d dressed for battle. Cammie pants, black wife-beater, and her hair tied back ruthlessly in a ponytail.
Persia stopped at his door, tucking a black shirt into her black jeans. “Are you sure you’re up for this?” She looked like Izza’s twin. Same outfit. Same hairstyle. Same hard glint in her eye.
“Never felt better. Tell me about this house.”
“Walk with me,” she ordered, that ponytail swinging as she led the way. “I’m only going to say it once.”
Walker fell in line. It was hard to know who was in charge, Izza or Persia. She’d changed back into a domineering fighting woman, but Izza had, too. Out in the front room, Hans stood over the table loaded with enough weaponry to make a SEAL smile. He’d changed into jeans and a plain white t-shirt since Walker last saw him. A loaded ammo belt draped his shoulder. He carried another custom rifle in his hand, as unlikely a warrior as ever could be.
But that table was a SEAL’s wet dream come true. Not only were there more rifles lined on it, but also a half dozen SIG Sauer P226 pistols. Designed for extreme military use, it had long ago set the standard for combat pistols the world over. Single, double, and thigh holsters lay stretched alongside the pistols. Then an array of six and eight-inch blades, complete with sheaths and holsters. Large ammo cans and wooden crates were stacked beside the table. And Christ, a tank killer, as in an over the shoulder M72 LAW, one-shot, 66-millimeter, lay at the far end. Izza had been busy.
Walker helped himself to an over-shoulder double holster, two P226’s, and as many mags as he could stuff in his pocket. Strapping on a thigh holster, he added a six-inch blade, instantly regretting that he’d lost Kenny’s. Another pistol got tucked into his waistband behind his back.
“People,” Persia snapped as she stepped to the edge of the table. “This building was built to withstand everything but a 120-millimeter round. Two points of egress” —she pointed to the front and the back doors of the structure— “with steel doors like the