Walker (In the Company of Snipers #21) - Irish Winters Page 0,148
need to. He had the one and only golden ticket out of there. He had Persia.
And suddenly, God bless her, there was Izza. Out of breath and red-faced, but fierce and sweaty and deadly at the other end of the alley. Her pistol was up and aimed at the back of Peckering’s head.
“Move it, people!” she ordered as she stalked through the crowd. “Get the hell out of here! Vamanos!” Izza let out a string of Spanish invective, and the alley emptied.
He cast a casual glance over his shoulder.
“Let her go, asshole!” Izza demanded next, “or so help me, I’ll splatter your brains all over that pretty brick wall behind you. I know who you are, Peckering. Soon the whole world will know.”
“No,” he said clearly. “Drop your gun and shut the fuck up.”
Which only pissed Izza off more. “Give me a reason not to fill your head with lead.”
“Because if you do,” he drawled like a man who held the winning cards, “I won’t give this bitch the antidote.”
“You poisoned her?” Izza hissed.
“I poison all of them. It’s the only way to keep them coming back for more.”
Walker didn’t think. Just acted. His pistol leaped up from the cold, hard ground, and—
BLAM! A single, deep-red rose blossomed dead center of Peckering’s massive ego.
Rodrigo’s eyes widened. By the time he dropped the hypo, Izza had her pistol pressed to his temple, her knee in his back, and Walker had Persia in his arms.
Izza punched Rodrigo’s face. “Where’s the fuckin’ antidote?”
“I… I… I…” he stuttered, the whites of his eyes showing. What a troll.
Sirens were closer now. Walker grabbed the hypo, then gathered Persia and lifted to his feet. “We gotta go. Bring him with us.”
Izza dragged Rodrigo to his feet. “You make one whimper, one sound, and I swear you’re dead meat.”
They’d no more than stepped out of the alley and into the light, when Alex and McQueen appeared out of nowhere like two pissed off guardian angels. Walker could’ve sworn they’d been sent by God. The sirens were up close and personal now, so close he could hear tires screeching and doors slamming. Time was up.
“Peckering’s body’s back there,” he told Alex. “You might want to bring it with us.”
“You end him?” Alex asked.
“Yes, I did. He poisoned Persia. Boss, we need to hurry.”
“Back to the yacht,” Alex ordered even as he lifted his sat phone to his mouth and ordered the person on the other end to secure Peckering’s body. He’d no more than ended that terse call, when he took hold of Rodrigo’s left arm. McQueen took the right. Together, they left Peckering behind and cleared a path for Walker and Persia.
They’d just cleared the gangplank. Alex and McQueen had released Rodrigo into Ryder’s custody, when Izza pistol-whipped him. “Where’s the antidote?” she bellowed, her weapon stuck in the back of Rodrigo’s head. “What poison did you give her? Tell me!”
Ryder waved Walker to the nearest recliner. “You and your girlfriend, over there. Izza and I will take care of this idiot. You take care of her.”
Gently, Walker settled Persia onto the cushion. Her beautiful olive complexion had turned pale, and she was clammy all over. Her fingers fluttered like she was losing control. “I need to know what kind of poison he gave her.”
“We’ll have that info in a minute,” Ryder replied. “Stay with your lady, Boss.”
Alex disappeared below deck, then reappeared with a first-aid kit the size of a monstrous ice chest. Slapping the cover up and open, he revealed an array of pharmaceutical supplies and medical equipment.
“Upper left arm,” he ordered Walker, handing him a blood pressure cuff and stethoscope. “McQueen, I need you here.”
“Copy that,” McQueen replied obediently.
Alex tossed a clip-on oximeter, an IV set-up, and sterile wipes to him. “Prepare her right hand. She needs to be ready the second we know what poison we’re dealing with. Start a saline drip until then.”
Walker had the cuff in place by then, the stethoscope in his ears. “She’s one-fifty over ninety-four,” he reported. That high pressure put her in the hypertension range. On her way to hypertensive crisis. A stroke or heart attack.
Hurriedly, Alex tore open several packs of sterile cloth, doused his hands with alcohol, then used one of the cloths to pat them dry. Tossing the used cloth aside, he donned surgical gloves next and told Walker to do the same. “Step on it.”
While Walker disinfected his hands and gloved up, McQueen swiped