Walker (In the Company of Snipers #21) - Irish Winters Page 0,137
pretty, in her way, but she carried herself like she was always ready to pick a fight. Her husband had to be one pussy-whipped weakling if the rule about opposites attracting held true. Walker wondered who Mr. Maher was. An insurance salesman or some other pencil pusher? A wuss?
Not that it mattered. Walker needed to get this next meeting over with. The sooner, the better. Once he’d disclosed everything on those flash drives, he hoped to have the name of who was behind all those sad women’s faces, and every last one of his false accusations. He’d know what to do next then. Even if there were no names on those flash drives, at least he now had a helluva lot of help. It didn’t hurt that Senator Sullivan had stood up for him. Sullivan and Stewart seemed like two head-butting mountain goats, ready to run over anything in their paths, including each other.
Walker stroked Persia’s shoulder. “Wake up, sugar. I need you in on this meeting.”
“You got yourself a winner there, son,” Brimley muttered softly. “Hope you know that.”
“I do. You’re invited to join us. We’re headed below deck to my room, and you absolutely need to be in on what you and I found.”
“Guess me and Rover’ll be there then.”
“Guess you’d better.”
Persia shook herself awake. “Sorry, I drifted off,” she said sleepily.
“Come on. Brim and I have something to show you.” Walker tugged her out of her recliner and onto her feet.
Back in the master stateroom, he left the door open, so Rover could come and go. Senator Sullivan had taken the seat next to the desk. Dressed casually in jeans and a simple white t-shirt, his eyes sparkled out of his tanned, weathered face. This Texan carried himself with authority and pride. His trimmed, salt-and-pepper mustache wasn’t the length and thickness of Brim’s, yet it gave him the same distinguished vibe. He was older, yet still what women would call movie-star handsome.
Walker only knew him as the cowboy senator from Texas who’d tamed the wild Sinclair brothers of Montana—the Sin Boys. Former SEALs, Sullivan had enlisted the rowdy threesome into his team of covert operators. The SOBs were funded with dollars so black, they were redacted even on federal budgets. The man seemed to have complete power over his presidential assignment, a rare thing in DC these days.
It was Kruze Sinclair who’d come to San Diego the day before Walker’s sentencing. By some miracle, Kruze had been allowed into the brig. Their conversation was quick, to the point. Kruze had simply shaken Walker’s hand, then told him to keep the faith. He’d written a phone number in black ink on the inside of Walker’s wrist and said, “You’ll need this.”
Then he’d walked away. Walker had quickly committed the number to memory, then scrubbed his hands and wrist clean. After he’d ditched the wretchedly sick guards taking him to Leavenworth, that phone number had taken him straight to Senator Sullivan’s desk in Washington, DC. From Nowhere, Kansas, Sullivan had whisked him across country to Fort Campbell, Kentucky, where Walker’d met shit-eating, grinning Chief Warrant Officer Trevor Duncan. The rest was history.
Duncan taught Walker to fly the one-of-a-kind, experimental Blackhawk helo. Also taught him not to worry if the helo ever failed to perform. All he’d had to do, if or when that happened, was call Trevor and turn over the controls.
It was the wave of the future, where even big birds were unmanned drones. Where loss of life was, supposedly, taken out of the equation that had heretofore built massive federal defense budgets.
But Walker knew better. He’d lost his faith in elected officials long ago. Those pretty boys and girls didn’t really care about the men they put in harm’s way. If they did, they’d take better care of them once they’d returned home. There’d be no homeless vets on street corners, begging for scraps and loose change. There’d be no more suicide from untreated PTSD. No need for vets to fight for decent medical care. Besides, nothing provided accurate intel better than boots on the ground. End of that fairytale.
Stewart stood behind Sullivan, with Ryder seated on the easy chair to his left. Persia, Izza, and Brim sat on the bed to Walker’s left. It was time. Swallowing hard, he retrieved the accordion-pleated file. Undoing the elastics, he moved the laptop aside and spread the incriminating photos across the desk. Made him sick to see them again.
Stewart was at his side by then, already had his sat