Walker (In the Company of Snipers #21) - Irish Winters Page 0,154

spine and blast one helluva hole through his throat. His twelve-gauge lay on the deck beside his foot.

“Stand up. Slow and easy. Don’t even—”

“Like hell!” Goff slammed the throttle forward.

Lurching backward, Walker landed on his butt, but maintained possession of his weapons.

Goff crouched, scrambling for his double-gauge.

“Fuck!” Walker cursed, on his back now, the yacht’s powerful engines screaming, and all that forward momentum holding him down.

Goff’s fingers curled around the shotgun’s barrel as he lifted it off the deck.

No fuckin’ way! Fighting Mother Nature’s law of physics, Walker pulled himself up onto one elbow, tipped forward, gripped his SIG, aimed and—

The yacht bucked, sending both men bouncing.

Goff lost control of the shotgun.

Walker rolled to his knees, clawing his way forward.

Too late. Goff already had the double-barrel staring down at Walker. There was no time to aim. Goff had the drop on him.

No try. Just do! Walker stabbed that hypo of Special K into Goff’s meaty thigh. And—

B-BOOM! Holy Jesus, two weapons fired simultaneously.

Walker ducked and cringed, sure he was dead. Only nothing hit him. Not a single buckshot. No impact. Lifting his chin from his chest, he looked to Goff. A dark red hole blossomed in his left shoulder. He sagged to the deck, his knees folded under him, and his head lolled back on his shoulders. The man was going down.

Walker glanced up at the bulky shadow blocking the cockpit hatch. “Brim!” he bellowed as he clawed his way to his knees, then stretched forward around Goff’s body and throttled back. Instantly the yacht settled, the backwash of her wake lifting her high on the billowing waves.

“Hey,” Brim growled. “Looks like I got here just in time.”

He was the one who’d shot Goff. But the pistol in his grip and that killer look on his face… So. Damned. Beautiful.

“Sure… good to… see you,” Walker huffed, the adrenaline pounding through his head like a sledgehammer on a rampage.

Brim lowered his piece to his thigh, the barrel pointed safely down. “Always figured it was better to be seen than viewed. What’d you stab him with?”

“Special K. Same crap I got stabbed with a couple months back. Damn…” Walker breathed, shaken and stirred, by hell. Stirred to his soul that this old warrior had only ever had his back. Like Alex and McQueen. Like Adam and Smoke and… and… Trevor and Julio and… Zack and Eric and… And every single last one of them. He ran the back of his hand over his eyes, more emotional than he imagined he’d be when this nightmare ended.

“Son,” Brimley said evenly. “You’re okay, you know that?”

Walker didn’t want to break down in front of his friend. But he’d been running on empty so long. Fighting lies and slander. Always alone. Looking over his shoulder, until… Persia! He had to get to Persia. She was his anchor. One touch from her and he’d settle down. He’d be okay.

“Go git your woman,” Brim said softly. “She needs you, son, and by the looks of you, you need her.”

Walker could only nod, his throat too tight for words. His heart was so damned full.

“’S okay. I’ll take care of this jackass. You want me to toss him overboard?”

“Ah…” Yes! “No. Bandage him up. He’s got to go back to the States. People need to see. People need to know.”

Brim set his hand on Walker’s shoulder. “Trust me. The only people that matter already know.”

That did it. One minute Walker was on his way to Persia, the next, he was wrapped in one helluva bear hug, his eyes watering, and his man card in question.

“Thanks,” he ground out, back slapping Brim.

“Aw, git,” Brim growled, shoving Walker away from him as if he couldn’t tolerate emotional displays when Walker knew damned well he could. “Go on, git. Give that sleeping beauty a kiss. Not me. I got a mess to clean up. Don’t need you tracking anything up on deck.”

“Where’s Rover?” Walker had to know.

“Locked up below. Why? You need another snuggle?”

Walker had to smile at that teasing insult. “Man, I’m glad I stopped in São Miguel.”

The left side of Brim’s thick, gray, street-sweeper mustache twitched. A twinkle lit the dark of his eye. “Me too, son. Me too.”

Chapter Forty-Five

Persia couldn’t remember ever feeling so bad and so good at the same time. Heck, she couldn’t remember much of anything. Not where she was or how she’d gotten here. Her poor head pounded like she’d just come off a week-long drunk, while the rest of her aching self was deliciously