Walker (In the Company of Snipers #21) - Irish Winters Page 0,59
Color-coordinated, today in a dark charcoal linen suit, crisp white shirt, blue tie with a perfect Windsor knot at his throat. Always clean-shaven, his dark hair was perfectly trimmed and his nails were clean. But he was built like a brick shithouse, square and angular with wide shoulders that made him look more like a day laborer in a fancy suit, instead of the savvy businessman Persia knew he was. Blue as icicles in the dead of an Arctic winter, his eyes could turn into glacier-sharp knives in a heartbeat.
Zack’s palm came up into her face. “Nothing to worry about. Boss told Everest not only no, but hell no.”
“Well, gee, thanks, Boss.” Persia let her sarcasm stab straight to the heart of her problem. For added emphasis, and just because he’d made her mad, she gave Alex her classic eyebrow finger salute. “I get a job offer—me, just me—but you turn it down before I even hear about it? What the hell?”
Those ice-blue lasers ratcheted up to killer high-beams. “You want off The TEAM? Fine with me, just say the word.”
“I didn’t say that,” she replied tartly. Man, he was always so abrasive. “But the decision wasn’t yours to make, was it?” She leaned into the space between the seats, forcing the issue.
Alex tipped forward, more than meeting her halfway. “Anything that diminishes my TEAM is my call,” he breathed, his tone chilled with a hint of spearmint she wished she hadn’t noticed. On a good day, Alex was GQ material. But today? He was just another egotistical handler who thought he knew better than she did.
Persia cocked her head. “What am I? Your property? Nothing more than government issue? GI Jane?”
Darned if Zack didn’t grin at her word choice. “To all us former Marines, hell yeah. You oughta know that by now, girlfriend. Us guys don’t ever let a good thing slip away. Go on, Boss. Tell her the rest.”
Persia felt like she was in a tennis match with Alex, only the ball was a grenade, and it was now in his court. Which would it be? An open stance forehand slam in her face or a killer lob that blew her out of her shoes? With Alex, probably a TKO, if he played tennis the same heavy-handed way he ran his TEAM.
“Hmmpf,” he snorted. “Everest is an idiot. He offered you a fifty-K bonus, and he’ll be calling you later today, because he sure as hell wouldn’t accept my answer. But he can’t top the benefits I offer or the raise I’m giving you.”
Okay… That was new. “What raise?”
TEAM benefits were already unbelievably generous. Full coverage health plan. A life insurance policy to die for, no pun intended. Plus an employer-matched investment plan, on top of one heck of a lucrative retirement plan.
There went Zack’s face again, cracking into another wide-open smile. “You’re staying with us, Persia. No one takes better care of his agents than your boss.”
My boss, huh? Again she asked, “What raise?”
Alex leaned back into his seat, closed his eyes, and replied, “The one I give every agent who measures up.”
“Measures up to what?”
“My TEAM, my standards. You pass. Welcome aboard.”
Persia hadn’t seen the end of this tennis match coming so quickly. No killer lob. No hard-driven volley. Just a gentle drop shot with enough backspin that it whizzed over the net and landed like a feather in her court. She’d missed his intent, hadn’t kept up with him at all. Damn. Alex was an excellent strategist.
“Well, err, okay,” was all she could come up with. “Thanks.”
Zack just kept grinning.
Chapter Nineteen
Walker didn’t share what he’d found with Brimley during lunch or dinner. Didn’t see any reason to say anything. As far as Brimley knew, he was just some former SEAL out to see the world. No harm; no foul. It wasn’t until the sun set into the west, and after Walker secured the yacht for the night, that he settled down in the master suite to investigate what he now knew was criminal activity.
From there, he could hear Brim’s gruff voice as he talked with Rover in the room below. Walker locked himself in, then spread everything across the desk. At his left, he set the paper tablets and flash drives. The receipts went into a stack at his right. Most were fuel related, and all were date-stamped over the past year. Yet none were signed. The same last four digits of an x’d out credit card number were the only things they had in