Walker (In the Company of Snipers #21) - Irish Winters Page 0,22
large, roomy cockpit sat high and proud above what was undoubtedly a lavish master stateroom on this white and black, all-polished, albeit much smaller, watercraft. Tinted windows lined the deck level. Security cameras blinked along each topside window frame. But Walker was willing to bet those were merely part of an onboard security system, that there was no one sitting in an office somewhere, actively watching this yacht twenty-four-seven, ready to spring into action and call the police if a seagull happened to sit on the yacht’s rail. Or if a seal, pun intended, climbed onto the swim deck to, ahem, sun himself.
Bobbing there in the water with only his head showing, Walker took everything in. Black canvas roof on the cockpit. Black fenders kept the hull from scraping against the dock. Polished wooden rails from bow to stern. But the kicker? The godawful name stenciled in black vinyl lettering at the stern, just above the aft ladder. Coronado’s Sea Nymph. Son of a bitch, this was Commander Goff’s rig. Goff, as in the naval officer Walker had been convicted of murdering with his bare hands.
He glanced over his shoulder, feeling as if someone had just stepped on his grave—with six-foot-long, spiked cleats. H-h-holy shit. How could Goff’s yacht be here?
Walker sucked in a slow deliberate breath. The upside? This craft was perfect for what he needed. Cummins engine. A fuel tank that held at least one hundred fifty gallons of diesel. He guessed it could top-out at seven hundred fifty horsepower, give or take a couple ponies. Didn’t require a crew, not even a co-pilot. One man could handle it, easy. Bow and stern thrusters. Two decks, one upper—probably the master stateroom since it also sported an enclosed patio aft. One lower level, undoubtedly the forward galley and maybe a guestroom. Upper aft deck for lounging and watching the have-not’s world go by. Then the swim deck and ladder, where swimmers could come and go, or where a guy could stand and fish from.
The up-top cockpit offered a full three-hundred-sixty-degree view. And this yacht was new. At least, fairly new. The damned thing glistened like a waxed, iridescent black-and-white pearl in the sun, which meant it hadn’t seen much saltwater. Or use. It’d been stored, as in protected in dry-dock, when it wasn’t being used.
The downside? Walker dipped his chin below water, blowing bubbles, trying to come up with any reason not to slip up and onto this craft, then set it and himself adrift. Except for getting caught and put in Leavenworth. That was a good reason not to abscond with a deceased man’s yacht. But Goff was dead. How could fifty years hard time in Leavenworth get any worse? Walker was already in his late-thirties. He’d be eighty if he lived long enough to serve his sentence. There was no hope of being exonerated or pardoned. What did he have to lose?
Not. A. Damned. Thing.
Decision made. He closed the distance and climbed aboard. Next stop? Top off his tank at Key Largo. Spend a few days moseying south to Puerto Rico, then onto Barbados. Maybe refuel at Georgetown, Guyana. Contrary to popular belief, the straightest way across the Atlantic was not as the crow flew. Smart sailors took the longer route, down to the eastern most tip of South America to the westernmost tip of Africa. Fewer miles. Less chance of running out of fuel or encountering US Coastguard. He might run into a few pirates, but Walker had no fear of pond scum. Not with the firepower in his bag.
He meant to leave the States in his rear view as fast as he could. To eventually end up in Europe where nobody knew his name, face, or what he’d been accused of. Might stop somewhere along the coast of Africa and linger. Maybe at Sierra Leone. Senegal. Or Western Sahara. From there, Morocco was a mere day’s sail away, then Gibraltar, Portugal, and Spain. He knew a few people in most countries he’d deployed to. All except Ireland, England, and Scotland. He’d never been to the United Kingdom. Hell, now he had time. He might even make it all the way north to Denmark and Norway. The Baltic Sea and the Gulf of Bothnia. That’d be interesting. Cold, but interesting.
His heart rate quickened at the adventures still ahead. His life wasn’t over, not by a long shot. NCIS might’ve thought they’d ruined him, but he wouldn’t go down without a fight. If he had time, he