Walker (In the Company of Snipers #21) - Irish Winters Page 0,43
not always on missions.”
Which was not the brightest thing she could’ve led with. The work bay was empty. Everyone else was on a mission.
Which made Zack grin. “Get your gear, Junior Agent. You’re with me today. We’re escorting Frank Gibson to USP, Lee.” As in the high-security federal prison for male inmates in southwestern Virginia.
“Doesn’t that fall under US Marshal’s purview?”
“Yes, ma’am, it does, but they’ve asked for our support, and we’re giving it. Seems Gibson’s buddies are making enough noise to be taken seriously.”
Persia’s instincts flashed on alert. “They’re dumb enough to think they can highjack Federal Marshals?”
“That’s the word on the streets. You in?”
Finally. Real work. “Yes, sir, I am.”
“Good, then wipe that make-up off your face and change into real work clothes. That dress is a no-go where we’re headed. We’ll leave in ten.”
Ten minutes? Persia almost opened her mouth to argue she could never be ready in that short amount of time, but by hell. This time, she would.
Chapter Fifteen
Walker, Brimley, and Rover were on a lazy tour of the Azores, tying up wherever and whenever the need struck. After dashing down a nearby alley back on São Miguel, Brimley’d returned with a small roller suitcase, an armful of canvasses, a tote bag of dog food, bowls, and other important dog stuff. He’d been excited, if all his grumping and groaning could be construed as such. Yet Walker knew a hard man when he saw one, and hard men tended to disguise their feelings.
This morning, Brimley and Rover exited the guest stateroom below deck, with Brim dressed in a colorful red-flowered Hawaiian shirt that draped over his threadbare denims and dusty loafers, the sides broken in and broken down. Rover still wore his faded black collar. No tags. But plenty of happy barks.
Since the yacht came equipped with brand new, top of the line, commercial deep-sea fishing poles, including Shimano reels with one hundred thirty-pound lines, it seemed the perfect way to start the day. Fishing from the upper aft deck, aka the lounge, it wasn’t long before they’d each snagged a few small tuna, mostly Blue Fish.
Everything was going smooth and easy until... Zipppppppp! Brimley’s line raced off his reel and the tip of that sturdy pole curled into the water. Jumping to his feet, he pulled it out of the rod cradle before it got away. “I got me a fighter. Hang on, Rover. Don’t let this beast get away from us!”
“Way to go, Brim. You land it, I’ll clean it,” Walker said as he stowed his pole alongside the rail and grabbed one of the two brand new gaffs. He’d already tightened his line and secured the hook inside the reel. They’d already caught enough fish to last a couple days. Whatever Brimley was hauling up now would be lunch.
Rover barked encouragingly, most likely because he’d eaten his fill of roasted tilapia the night before, and he wanted more. The goofy dog’s paws were on the first rung up from the deck, and he was looking at the water where nothing had yet surfaced. Still wagging his tail and wiggling his backside, his tongue was a long, wet, red carpet. He was excited, because his buddy was excited.
“Hot damn. Think I mighta caught me a marlin,” Brim muttered as, at last, a flash of silver broke the surface. “Wouldn’t that be something?” he asked as he glanced at his dog. “I could get it stuffed. Maybe hang it on our wall.” For some reason that soured his mood. “If we had a wall.”
But Walker had seen the dorsal fin on that flash of silver. This fish wasn’t going up on anyone’s wall. “You ever do any trophy fishing?” he asked as he clapped a hand to Brim’s shoulder and watched the pole dip again below the sea.
“Nah,” the older man growled, tipping back on his heels, urging the monster fighting on the other end of his rod forward, reeling in a few more inches of line to make it so. “Don’t even have windows.”
“You’ve got no windows?” Walker couldn’t imagine anything worse.
“So what?” Brimley jerked his pole to the side, the muscles in his tanned forearms tight and bulging. “’S all I can afford, damn it. I’m on Social Security, kid, not disability.”
Which meant Brimley was living from paycheck to paycheck, hence the threadbare clothes, etc. Social Security didn’t amount to a hill of beans, except maybe here in the Azores where US dollars stretched further, but where nobody cared about an ex-pat.