Walker (In the Company of Snipers #21) - Irish Winters Page 0,53

took over the scene.

While he commenced reading the kid his Miranda rights, Persia straightened and scanned the mayhem these guys had caused, in case there were other active shooters. From where she stood, she could see straight through the Marshals’ van, since most of the windshield was gone. The armed officer inside was still in control of his prisoner. No trouble coming from there, well, except for Frank cursing his head off from inside his barred cage.

Except for the smoking sedan on its side, no other traffic cluttered this narrow stretch of road. A thick copse of scrawny, half-dead trees lined the far side of the plowed field to the north. No one there. On the south, another newly plowed field stretched for miles in all directions. No cover there, either. The confrontation was over.

Meanwhile, Zack moved silently from one downed shooter to the next, divesting them of weapons and knives, and checking for life even as he kept watch over his shoulder as well.

“I’ve already called this in,” Goodwin said. “Help’s coming from the prison. Sheriff and paramedics will be here soon.”

“Thanks,” Persia replied as she turned to Zack and said, “Alex is on his way.”

Zack nodded. “I heard. Good thinking. Stay here while I check whoever’s in that sedan.”

“Copy that,” Persia replied, but she couldn’t reconcile what had just happened. It seemed inconceivable that these kids thought they could ambush federal Marshals. Yes, they’d packed some stout firepower, but this was not TV land, and there was nothing glamorous about having to shoot teenagers, even dumb-assed ones with guns. Because that was what Persia was looking at. Three still alive, uninjured kids. Four down, soon to be sporting toe-tags. And one arrogant son of a bitch, manacled and bellowing from his caged bench seat in the rear of the Marshals’ van. “You bastards killed ’em! You killed my brothers!”

Well, yeah. Self-defense worked like that. You shoot at me, you can be sure I’ll shoot back. Persia shook her head at the twisted mindset of murderers, rapists, and warlords the world over. Yes, she’d killed these armed and dangerous children. When it came down to them or her TEAM, she’d do it again.

Zack waved from the red sedan. “One driver. He’s alive and conscious. Just scared.”

Nothing boring about this day.

Chapter Seventeen

True confession time. “I knew it. You’re a damned Navy SEAL!”

“Was. USN Lieutenant Walker Judge. I commanded SEAL Team 18, and I’m damned proud of it.” Former military members often raised salutes or used active duty rank designations as signs of respect, long after a warrior retired. Walker wasn’t about to correct Brimley.

Still on the upper aft deck with the lockbox out of its hidey-hole, but as yet unopened, Walker nodded from the recliner, where he sat with his hands loose between his knees. He’d figured it would be a matter of time before Brimley connected the name on Kenny’s knife to the man with the yacht. He just hoped Brim took the revelation in stride when he did.

Like a wise old man who’d seen war up close and personal, Brimley touched two fingers to his brow and answered smartly, “Proud to meet you, LT. US Army Sergeant Brimley D. Scott at your service, sir. Tell me what you need, and I’ll make it happen. I may look old, but I’ve still got plenty of fight in me. Just ask. You’ll see.”

Goose-flesh rippled up Walker’s arms and across his shoulders at that undeserved respect and unearned devotion. Instead of recrimination, he’d been idolized. Which made him wonder if Brimley had even heard of his trial in far-off America. Not that it mattered. Walker certainly wasn’t going to out himself. But it would’ve been nice if everything were out in the open. Brim seemed trustworthy. Walker just couldn’t take the chance.

He decided to go with partial truths that would afford his friend a healthy dose of plausible deniability if the day came he needed an out. Friends didn’t betray their friends, but should Brimley choose to turn Walker in, he intended to do all he could to protect his buddy. Regardless. Call him a fool. Call him a bastard. That was how Walker was made.

“First of all, I don’t believe there are gems, diamonds, or gold in this lockbox,” he stated quietly. There probably weren’t any receipts, registration papers, or grocery lists, either. Not as well-hidden as this lockbox had been. “No treasure maps. No stock or bonds.”

Brimley never batted an eye. “’Course not, it’s too small and too flat