Walker (In the Company of Snipers #21) - Irish Winters Page 0,29

going one slanderous step further, he’d stated—for the record—that even if Walker had been on leave or out of the country, he could’ve easily returned and killed Goff. He’d had plenty of time. As a SEAL, he certainly had the skills. Why look for anyone else when the SEAL they had in prison was the obvious perpetrator?

Yet some Navy asshat had definitely tampered with his official Navy records. It was as if that leave request had never been granted, as if his written request hadn’t been submitted. Since his Commanding Officer, CDR Wallace Goff, was dead, and since Walker had refused to explain where he’d been or why, he’d ended with nothing to substantiate his claim. Not even a receipt while he’d been undercover, albeit on personal business, in Guatemala. That would’ve betrayed a good friend’s confidence and trust, something he’d never do.

Walker had simply set out on that unplanned trip to do a dirty job for his friend. He’d never revealed to anyone where he was going, what he’d done while in South America, or who he’d done it for. That man’s little girl didn’t need to become fodder for this country’s vile, rapacious media. They would’ve turned her into a spectacle the minute they knew. A three-year-old kid, for hell’s sake. So, they’d never, ever find out. Even if Walker had to spend the rest of his days in Leavenworth, he’d gladly bear the burden, rather than turn sweet little Emily Dooley over to media sharks for their predictable circus. Just for the fame and glory of hyping a story, true or not. Assholes, every last one of them.

Walker never understood what the nation’s press corps had become. Not one of them were honest brokers anymore, neither were they held accountable when proof of their lies, slander, and contrived ‘facts’ surfaced. No, the bastards just spun their lies faster, turned on the next unwitting victim in sight, and started another feeding frenzy.

He would know. They’d pretty much trashed his twenty-year USN career and pristine reputation during his trial. They’d lied and invented salacious versions of a crime that had never happened, at least not the way they’d said. America’s press was no longer about freedom of speech. They somehow twisted inalienable rights into weapons they readily wielded, to verbally assassinate anyone who spoke out against them, or got in their way. Hardworking people like him. Innocents like Emily. Hell, anyone they wanted to smear for the sake of sensationalism, they did it. Daily. Hourly! Hell, minute by minute!

So, yes. He’d take the hit for that sweet little blonde girl and her family. The Dooleys deserved his utmost respect, and they had it in spades. The press? They deserved to be held accountable. But that was another fight, and Walker had enough on his plate for now. Like what was really going on? Who was behind this nightmare? And why was Goff’s yacht in Florida, when it should’ve been docked in San Diego?

Walker’s brain pinged from simple questions to crazier, more ridiculous ideas until Common Sense screamed, “Time out!”

Which made… sense.

For the moment, hw was a free man, and he had possession of Goff’s yacht. A full tank. All the beer, wine, and food he needed were in the galley below. He knew how to fish, and he could survive on his own. Time was on his side.

Okay then. He settled down and changed the yacht’s current DMV registration record from active to salvage like he’d planned. Then he changed the current owner from Wallace Goff to Ruby Hatfield. Don’t ask where that name came from. Walker honestly had no idea. The only thing he knew was that it was past time to right the wrongs done against him. He meant to do that without outing Emily, her family, or what she’d lived through.

Feeling lucky, he took a chance and docked the Coronado’s Sea Nymph at one of San Juan’s busiest wharves. Donning his Ray-Bans with reflective lenses, Walker retrieved several large bills from his bag, ran to the nearest office supply store, and bought a couple sets of large, black, stick-on stencils. Only when he was back on board and had steered the Nymph south toward Venezuela, did he lose the sensation of being watched.

The criminal everyone thought Walker Judge was, for the moment, remained unseen and untouchable. Goff’s yacht was off official records. Standing in the cockpit with his hand on the wheel, Walker took a long deep breath of freedom, even as he left the land