Walker (In the Company of Snipers #21) - Irish Winters Page 0,144
folks in any more danger. Stay here and—”
“Bull to the shit,” Ryder growled. “I’m going with you, Chief. Wherever you go, I go. You oughta know that by now.”
“Thanks, but no, I—”
“Shut the fuck up. What’s the damned plan?”
Walker knew there was no denying his best friend. “I’m going to dig up a body. I need to get there before anyone else does. You up for that?”
Ryder was taller than Walker by about six inches and brown as dark chocolate with shoulders as wide as a Notre Dame fullback. He was light on his feet and could personally pack more gear and ammo than any guy Walker had ever worked alongside. He not only had the vocal range of Michael Clarke Duncan, he was as kind and as humble. Had never let Walker down or questioned a single order. Just did what had to be done. Quickly. Expertly.
“How do you propose digging up a grave?” he asked now.
“With a shovel and Grave Finder,” Walker replied. “I know right where the bastard’s supposed to be. He’d better damned well be in the casket under that marker.”
“Wasn’t he interred at Fort Rosecrans?” The National Cemetery on Point Loma, the peninsula due west of San Diego, across from Coronado Island.
“Yes.”
“How are you going to prove it’s him? Won’t you need a DNA test?”
“Embalmed bodies don’t decay quickly. I’m pretty sure we’ll both recognize the bastard once I pop the lid off his coffin, if he’s even there. You can bet your ass he’ll be in his best dress uniform and decked out with every last medal he never earned. You with me?”
“Yes, sir,” Ryder replied quickly, “but that Stewart guy’s going to be pissed when he comes back and finds us gone.”
“Not worried about Stewart.” Alex would be pissed, but he’d understand. And if he didn’t? Didn’t matter. Walker wouldn’t risk getting anyone else hurt in the upcoming confrontation. Not Stewart or Sullivan. Yes, they were professionals, and they all had his back. Well, he had theirs, too. But leaving Persia would break her heart. That was the real problem, and why Walker hadn’t already left.
He stared at the teeming throngs of visitors on the dock. Between the magnificent palm trees standing like sentinels along the hotels across the street and the revelry, there was a definite Rio Carnival feeling in the air. Street performers danced, mimed, or did magic tricks everywhere. Costumed vendors in kiosks hawked ice cream cones and aguas frescas, a non-alcoholic fruit drink. Others offered frosty beer and iced coffees. Further down, farmers’ tents and EZ-Ups lined the way.
Two cruise lines currently docked took up the entire dock ahead of Persia Smiles. A fishing boat had just sidled in behind him. It had gotten a little closer to the yacht than Walker would’ve liked, but this was Mexico, where anything went. People were everywhere. Vendors. Tourists. Some coming. Some going. All distracted or causing distractions.
The longer he watched the sea of people, the more Walker wasn’t sure he had it in him to walk away from Persia like he had before. Thinking about it was bad enough, but talking and planning another betrayal with Ryder made it real. And doing it—
The deck jerked forward, forcing Walker to grab the rail to keep from falling.
“Shit,” Ryder hissed as he leaned hard to his left.
Walker looked at the fishing boat behind him. Its captain was swearing a blue streak, waving his hands and yelling at the yacht that had come in too quickly behind him.
“You see that asshat?” Ryder asked. “Probably some rich son of a bitch.”
“It takes all kinds,” Walker replied wearily. Which explained the sickening state of the world these days. It took a second for him to zero in on the elegant watercraft that had bumped the boat behind Persia Smiles, which in turn, caused the fishing boat to bump her aft deck. “Probably drunk. He’d better think twice before he hits my yacht again—”
Son of a bitch! That yacht’s captain was Admiral Peckering. Dressed in pristine white slacks, a crisp navy-blue cotton polo, and boat shoes, he dashed off the gangplank, his head up, as if he were looking for someone. He threw a few bills at the kid he’d nearly run over on the dock. Must’ve ordered him to secure the yacht’s lines, because the kid did just that.
“You seeing what I’m seeing?” Ryder asked.
“It’s Peckering.” The hairs on the back of Walker’s neck were on end. The Admiral looked like he was in a hurry.