Walker (In the Company of Snipers #21) - Irish Winters Page 0,145
But who was he looking for? Persia? His being here at this precise moment was no coincidence. Somehow, he knew losing her would destroy Walker. And if he was after her… shit. He was the bastard behind the human trafficking ring. It made perfect, scary sense.
“Stay with my yacht,” Walker ordered.
“But—”
“Stay here!” Walker snapped, his eyes tracking Peckering as he dashed into the crowd. “I won’t leave Persia again, damn it. Someone needs to be here when she comes back.”
“You sure about this?” Ryder asked, a kick-ass tone in his voice even as Walker cleared the gangplank.
“Keep your ears on. I’ll be right back.” And I’m bringing Persia with me.
Chapter Forty-Two
Izza went one way. Persia went the other. So many vendors clogged the winding streets and narrow alleys that she quickly lost sight of her friend. No matter. She tugged her sat phone out of her jeans pocket and dialed Izza. Hmmm. No answer. Just Izza’s cocky voicemail: “You want me, you got me. Leave a number.”
“Stop shopping like a mad woman and call me,” Persia teased. “I’ll wait for you at the fruit stand, the one with papayas and watermelon. You should see the size of these. I’m buying three. Don’t be long!”
Izza had wanted to grab some small trinkets for her two kids. Persia wanted a bottle of rum and fresh fruit. She was weary of the steady meat, fish, rice, and potatoes diet. Men might be able to live on that, but she needed fresh vegetables and fruit. And it’d been weeks since she’d had a decent drink. Normally, she wouldn’t mind going without while on an active operation. But after seeing that ugly video of Roland Montego’s prison, she’d been craving one good burning swallow. That was all. Just one.
Isn’t that what all alcoholics say?
“I’m not an alcoholic,” she told herself. Because, well, she wasn’t. One bottle did not an alcoholic make. But all the bottles lined up like prizes at the kiosk window ahead of her…
She pointed to the bottle of dark Jamaican rum, paid for it, then stashed it in the orange and pink cloth shopping bag she’d brought along for this precise reason. No one needed to know she was a closet drinker. She headed for the fruit stand beside the booze kiosk next.
“Three,” Persia told the kindly dark-eyed little girl running the stand, even as she scanned the crowds swelling around her, keeping an eye out for Izza. Seemed like fruit was a popular item among more than a few lady tourists.
“Persia!”
She whirled around, expecting to see Izza winding her way through the crowd. Even though the voice calling her name had sounded like a guy.
“Persia!” someone else called at her left.
“Over here!” she answered, not recognizing the voices. But honestly, how many Persias could there be?
“Persia!”
Okay, that voice was definitely male. Not Walker, though. Not Alex, either. The sun went behind a cloud, casting an instant chill over her sunburned skin. A creepy sense of foreboding slithered across her shoulders. It was time to get back to the yacht. Like most women on the street, she’d only worn cutoffs and a bikini top. This was Puerta Vallarta, for heaven’s sake. The vacation capitol of the world. But now she felt underdressed and exposed. She’d left her pistol behind to make room for the rum.
Concerned, she paid for the fruit, thanked the young girl, then turned in the direction she’d last seen Izza. Palming her sat phone, Persia hit redial. When she got Izza’s voicemail again, she glanced over her shoulder. Call it instinct. Call it whatever you wanted. She called it intuition, the one gift that had kept her alive all those months in Zapata’s lair. Someone was watching her.
Persia dialed Alex. He and Senator Sullivan had to be close. She’d no more than looked up from her sat phone, when a tall American male blocked her way. Gray hair. Impressive posture. Military bearing. Shifty eyes. He grabbed hold of her biceps as if he were simply making sure she didn’t fall.
Persia knew different. Jerking away, she was pissed he’d touch her at all. “Do you mind?” He reminded her of… of… Oh, shit. Admiral Peckering.
Automatically, the middle finger on her free hand lifted to her eyebrow. “Well, bless my heart. Admiral Peckering. What do you want?” she asked, unable to answer the questions Alex was firing in her ear, her brain too flushed with a prey’s instinctive need to run.
“You.” Reaching both hands out, Peckering shoved her backward.