Walker (In the Company of Snipers #21) - Irish Winters Page 0,34
doubled, from the recliners on the upper aft deck to the umbrellas stationed beside those recliners, to this queen bed. A long mirror lined one entire wall in the head. The shower was another masterpiece all together, with two split showerheads, one on either side of the tiled-bench facing the sliding, double-glass doors.
Yet, there was no sign a woman had ever been aboard. There were no blouses, swimsuits, slacks, or dresses hanging in the closets or folded in the drawers. No flipflops, boat shoes, or heels. No sexy nightgowns, panties, or bras in any drawers. No make-up, perfumes, or other feminine items in the head.
Walker hadn’t found a single file that might identify the yacht’s owner. Which might simply mean that the owner had left California, and was on his way to somewhere else. Maybe he’d decided to sail around the world. New owners did stupid stuff like that. They thought they knew it all, when, many times, they didn’t know a damned thing about the yacht they’d just bought. And this was the age where newer generations didn’t rely on paper receipts. But there should still be some sort of written evidence of preparations for that voyage. Of purchases for extra foodstuffs. Additional tanks of fuel. Something!
With that lame what-if scenario in his head, Walker pushed up and left the master stateroom behind. The sun had been up for hours, and it was too damned bright. Pulling his Ray-Bans up from his shirt pocket, he protected his tired eyes.
The uniform of the day was exactly what he’d worn yesterday, and the day before that. Wrinkled khaki cargo shorts, the kind that came with extra pockets. A dull, gray, short-sleeve shirt. Nothing flashy. Nothing bright. No hat. He’d lost his ball cap somewhere in South America, and he wasn’t about to wear anything he’d found on the yacht. He wasn’t desperate, and guys just didn’t do stuff like that.
His swim trunks were draped over one of the recliners on the aft deck where he’d tried to sleep last night, along with a towel. Right now, he needed coffee, maybe a breakfast of eggs and bacon from the galley. His brain ought to work better then.
Even if it didn’t, he had time. He planned on docking somewhere along the coast of Guyana, then French Guinea in West Africa. Today’s weather was perfect, and he’d been blessed with following seas. If these conditions held, before he headed to Africa, he planned to fill his tanks at a little fishing village out of Recife, Brazil, in a week or so. He had friends there. Not that he’d look them up, not on this trip. It was too soon to reconnect with people from his past. Better to cross the Atlantic, and stay ahead of the game. From Recife? Full steam across the Atlantic to the coast of Western Africa.
Someday, he’d like to visit Ascension Island, that tiny speck stuck in the middle of the Atlantic between South America and Africa, just south of the equator. Discovered by the Portuguese in the fifteen-hundreds, it was a barren, inhospitable wayside. Yet it was also rich with history. In the early nineteenth century, the Brits had garrisoned the island. Then, during World War II, they’d allowed the United States to build and man Wideawake Airbase there. It had been a strategic location during the Falklands War of 1982 as well. Walker could refuel there. Might even find a local shop to buy a few decent clothes. A cap.
He had enough cash to finance his current lifestyle, or lack thereof, hidden deep in the waterproof lining of his gear bag. If he needed more, he’d have no problem getting it. Out of sheer dumb luck, the inheritance he’d received when his grandfather passed years ago was safely out of NCIS’s reach. He’d been smart enough to open an offshore account before he’d gone to Guatemala. Ironically, the same morning he’d returned from South America, NCIS had stormed his house and taken him into custody. They’d marched him into the street in shackles and cuffs. Like an already condemned criminal, instead of an innocent man under investigation.
You’d think under the umbrella of the United States Constitution, that everyone was innocent before trial and judgment. Not so. The minute he stepped foot in the brig, Walker never stood a chance. Someone in Navy ranks had condemned him before he’d gone to trial, maybe even before he’d returned from Guatemala. And like the bastard that person was, they’d fed the