Walker (In the Company of Snipers #21) - Irish Winters Page 0,54

for all that. But whatever’s in it’s got you spooked. Spit it out, son. You think it’s worth opening now, or should we hand it over to the cops soon as we dock?”

We. Such a little word with such a wealth of consequence behind it.

If one hangs, we all hang…

“No cops. No authorities.” Walker licked the corners of his mouth and squared his jaw. He didn’t want to open the box with Brimley watching over his shoulder. Things would be easier if diamonds and jewels were in there. He’d gladly return that crap to the real owner, once he knew who that mystery person was. But he kept thinking of the name on the registration in California’s Department of Motor Vehicles’ database. The last registered owner. Wallace Goff.

Everything that man had ever touched had turned rancid and had gone just plain wrong. Goff had never been a worthy leader of warriors. As odd as it seemed, he’d also worn the Trident, which should’ve made him the best commander in the fleet. But not once had he served in any significant battle. Yet he’d never had a problem sending his teams into hell without proper intel, equipment, or sufficient manpower. The three friendly-fire incidents to his credit should’ve put him behind a desk long ago, but until the day he’d been murdered, he’d still controlled Team 18 with an iron fist.

It was as if he’d been Teflon-coated his entire Navy career. Walker wanted to know why that chicken shit had been promoted as far as he had. Commander, for hell’s sake. Who had he known? Which Admiral had covered his ass and paved his way? Or was he just one lucky son of a bitch?

Now this odd little aluminum lockbox showed up on Goff’s yacht. The width, length, and depth of the thing equaled the size of five, maybe six legal-size tablets. While the plank above it had been hollowed out to make room for it, the lockbox itself was just plain worrisome. Its locking mechanism looked simple, yet Walker worried it might be booby-trapped. That aerosolized ricin, or some other just as diabolical chemical weapon, might lurk behind one twist of his knife’s blade into the lock’s aperture.

It could very well happen. Anyone devious enough to hide something that well, had to have been desperate. And desperation made people nuts. But if that person was Commander Goff…?

Walker ran a quick hand over his beard at the ridiculous way his mind was working. No. Just. No. He’d seen the pictures. Goff was dead. Dead and buried. The body in those morgue shots was definitely his CO. There wouldn’t have been accusations or imprisonment, otherwise.

Yet pictures can be doctored. Witnesses can be bought. And anyone with a brain knows your trial was a sham.

Yeah, yeah, I know.

Walker’s imagination seemed to have developed a nagging voice that wouldn’t let up. Not about Persia, and now, not about the man Walker knew for certain was dead and buried in the National Cemetery in Point Loma, CA.

Or was he?

Yes. I saw the morgue shots with my own eyes, damn it. I was there.

But did you witness his burial? What do you really know?

Damned if his imagination didn’t make a good point. But shit! To further silence that nagging voice and all his suspicions, he leaned over the damnable box, took firm hold of the lid so it wouldn’t slip, and stuck the shiny tip of Kenny’s knife into the zig-zaggy aperture.

POP! The lid jack-knifed open—but only because its hinge was spring-loaded. There was no pressurized anthrax dust lurking inside. No whirling razor blades either.

“Well, that sure was anti-climactic,” Brimley grouched.

Glancing upward, Walker grinned at the older man’s dry wit. “What were you expecting? Jack-in-the-box? Freddy Krueger?”

“Hell, yeah. ’Least a midget ninja with a handful of Chinese stars, tense as you were.” When Rover barked, Brim smoothed one hand over his bristly head. “’S okay, Dog. Sorry I got you upset. Nothing scary here. So, what’s in it?”

“Nothing, just a bunch of maps, love letters, and—”

“Riiiiiight. And Romeo and Juliet kept a lockbox just like this one before they poisoned themselves in the name of looooove.” Brimley rolled his eyes and fluttered his fingers over his chest, which made Walker smile, considering all those gray chest hairs showing. “Quit your stalling. What’s in the damned thing?”

“All right, all right, keep your shirt on.” Walker removed the only thing in the box, an accordion-pleated cardboard wallet. Unsnapping the elastic cord that bound the thing, he peered into