Walker (In the Company of Snipers #21) - Irish Winters Page 0,60
common.
Yet they told a story of every fuel stop it docked at along the Mexican Coast. And when. Several months ago, it had refueled outside San Diego, California, then again at Cabo San Lucas. Since then: Manzanillo, Acapulco, Salina Cruz, and—Monterrico, Guatemala. The same city where Quinn Dooley’s mother and father-in-law lived. Where that simple family picnic on the beach had gone horribly wrong.
Hurriedly, Walker pulled up a map of Guatemala on the computer to check distance and location. Holy shit. Whoever had bought Goff’s yacht had refueled within thirty miles of Renzo’s beach hideaway. Had to be the son of a bitch running these sex-traffickers. The fat cat from Cuba, whom Walker was still convinced was an American, probably the same person who’d bought Goff’s yacht after he’d died.
A dizzying wave of déjà vu slapped Walker upside his head. Stiffening his legs, he shoved back into the chair, the dominoes falling. Goff’s yacht in Monterrico, Guatemala, where Emily’s grandparents still lived. Goff’s pricey house in Ocean Beach, CA. Some guy who lived in Cuba. Some guy who’d been delayed because of a business transaction gone wrong. Say… for instance… a desperate father who’d sent a trained SEAL with expert sniping skills, among others, into Guatemala to find his daughter...
Plunk. The last domino—what Walker’s inner sniper had been trying to tell him for months—fell. Everything pointed to a dead man. Goff.
But those morgue shots... Could it be true?
Yes.
An uneasy chill shivered up Walker’s spine, tap, tap, tapping at each vertebra with its long, twisted icicle finger. Not only could it be true. It was true. It had to be true. Goff had to have been behind all this human suffering before his death. So who was the son of a bitch running the show now? Whose credit card was that? Why Monterrico again? Was Renzo back in business? Lastly, who’d owned Coronado’s Sea Nymph before Walker had turned her into Persia Smiles?
He lined up the black-and-white photos alongside their color versions. Both versions were of the same girls and women, but taken at different times. The B&Ws were grainy, as if shot from a distance. In them, the victims were still carefree, some taken with friends, some taken inside grocery stores or malls. The color versions were close-ups, after they’d been kidnapped. There was nothing carefree about frightened, crying females.
Walker flipped the spiral-bound tablet open to the first tabbed entry. Shit. Dates of surveillance and time of day each picture was taken. Location: schools. Location: homes. Location: girlfriends’ or boyfriends’ addresses. This pervert had known who each of these women and girls were, and where they lived, before he’d lured them away from their families.
The second tab revealed estimated delivery dates for each ‘asset.’ Names of buyers behind each ‘order’. Details of precisely what they wanted, from age to hair color to nationality to status of virginity and...
No! Trembling with rage, Walker could barely go on. Yet he had to. He rolled his shoulder to keep his temper at bay. But the urge to avenge every last one of the hapless females in this disgusting inventory, burned hot and low in his gut. These women and girls were someone’s children, sisters, mothers!
It took seconds to line up each matching set of photos with its originating order. Simple. Each order matched the three-digit tattoos on the poor women’s and kids’ feet. Whoever this bastard was, he was behind Emily’s kidnapping. He was one of Renzo’s bosses. What a deplorable supply chain these bastards had going.
In the end, it all came back to three-year-old Emily, and the one man Walker knew he could trust. Well, maybe two, counting Senator Sullivan. Make that four. Charlie Brown and Julio Juarez were honest brokers, too. But they were both Sullivan’s assets, and Walker couldn’t ask more from Senator Sullivan. He’d already risked his career and reputation plenty.
Instead, Walker elected to contact the captain of the USS amphibious assault ship, the Iwo Jima. Wasp-class. Aircraft carrier. Currently on maneuvers off the coast of Brazil. Its CO Captain Quinn Dooley. It didn’t take long to locate the secure chatroom Dooley had set up during Walker’s previous foray into Guatemala. Thankfully, the site was operational. Dooley’s last entry was still there.
Walker sent a quick: I’m aboard Coronado’s Sea Nymph. Nothing too informative about that.
Instantly, Dooley came back with: Wondered where she went.
Ah, so he already knew the Nymph was no longer docked in San Diego. Good.
Walker replied: She’s been through the Canal. All the way to Cuba.