Walker (In the Company of Snipers #21) - Irish Winters Page 0,44

Disability would’ve put a few more dollars in his pocket, but some vets were too proud to take what they considered was a handout. But that no windows comment...

Walker had to know. “Do you live in a tent?”

“Nope,” Brim shot over his shoulder. “Basement apartment. One room. One door. Four walls. Don’t need anything more, do we, Dog?”

Of course, Rover enthusiastically agreed with everything his best buddy said.

Walker kept his hand where it had landed on Brim’s hefty, warm shoulder. For as old as he was, the man was no lightweight, yet he wasn’t fat, either. Every muscle strained against the fish on the end of his line. Walker wished, for Brimley’s sake, it had been a trophy marlin. That would’ve been cool.

But in the end, Brimley pulled a thirty-pound dogfish, complete with row-upon-row of razor-sharp teeth and plenty of fight, alongside the yacht. Walker stuck the yacht’s gaff into the beast’s gills and jerked it aboard. Sharks may not be trophies, but they put up one helluva fight, and Walker meant to celebrate the battle Brim had just won.

“Shit. That’s all I got for working my ass off? A stupid shark?” Brim dropped the pole and sank onto the nearest recliner. “Rover. No. Get back from that bugger before the damned thing snaps your nose off.”

Rover was dancing all over the deck by then, jumping up on the recliners only to jump back down and bark at the scary intruder. By then, Walker had a foot on the shark’s angular head, holding the terror of the sea fast to the cedar planking while its vicious tail thrashed from side to side.

“What do you think?” he asked. “Keep it or toss it back? Your call.” After all, it wasn’t a marlin.

Brim’s face was red and sweaty. He yawned even as he swiped a quick hand over his mustache, then over his damp hair, now matted over his skull like a wet towel. “Hell, keep it, I guess. Shark meat’s as good as cod. You’re still going to clean it, aren’t you?”

Walker couldn’t miss the hope in his buddy’s tone. “You bet.”

With that settled, he unsheathed the blade from his hip holster and deftly separated the shark’s head from its wiggling body with one slice. While the body rolled over the enclosed deck, Walker dropped the toothy head into the sea, where smaller predators would soon pick it clean. Mother Nature had some amazing garbage handlers at her disposal.

Rover was still plenty excited, but out of danger of being bitten then. Walker made quick work of gutting the shark, then skinned its sandpaper-tough hide from the meat. In minutes, two hearty shark fillets glistened in the sun, ready for the spotless grill. He dumped the waste over the side, where seagulls screamed for more, more, more.

Satisfied at how this impromptu arrangement was working, Walker took a seat opposite Brimley and let Rover nose the carcass. Inviting Brim aboard had been a rash decision at first, but Walker was glad the old guy was there.

The best thing had happened after Walker’d told him to stow his gear in the guest room. The grumpy old fart hadn’t been able to hide his delight. Nearly brought a tear to Walker’s eye. Because the stateroom had portholes, where a guy could watch the rising sun spread over the whole damned ocean if he wanted. The room also accessed Persia Smiles’ small forward deck. Brim and his dog could sit out there anytime they wanted. That was all Brim needed, by hell. Fresh air and the freedom to live like a man, instead of someone’s poor relative.

Plus, the guest room came with a full shower, plenty of counter space for Brim’s easel and paints, and a queen-sized bed. The cabinetry was polished cherry, and Walker doubted his basement apartment could compare on its best day.

“Thought you said you were Navy?”

That softly phrased question ricocheted Walker back to where he sat on the upper aft deck. And there it was. The dead giveaway. Dripping wet in his palm. Walker’s brother’s fixed-blade, six-inch knife, complete with USMC Corporal Kenny Judge’s name stamped with pride on the leather-wrapped handle.

Once more, his lungs filled with bitter regret, remembering the day he’d received word that Kenny had been KIA in Yemen. Walker’d been on the other side of the world then, tracking a known terrorist in Somewhere, South America. Yet the pain of that soul-sucking personal loss stole his breath,as if it had just happened. He was a kid again, and