Walker (In the Company of Snipers #21) - Irish Winters Page 0,65

under his sore, puffy eye. “Goff was a typical officer. Educated. Book smart. Overpaid and over-appreciated. Sponsored and groomed and some Admiral’s pretty boy. Yet untried where it counted. Inexperienced when it mattered. The man didn’t have a clue what it meant to stand and fight. To lose the man fighting beside you. To bleed or cry or curse or die. Always a REMF. Never a warrior.”

Alex had just made Persia’s problem with him crystal clear. It wasn’t that he disliked her or was dissatisfied with her job performance. He just didn’t respect officers. The way he’d said REMF, proved it. REMF stood for Rear Echelon Motherf-er, a crude term for guys who’d stayed in the rear, as opposed to those who’d fought on front lines. In some cases, it also stood for coward, yellow-belly, and chicken-shit, especially among the men who’d done all the bleeding and dying. ‘Sir-ing’ had Alex put him in the same category as the officers he despised. There had to be a story behind his strong emotional response, but Persia had no intention of asking about it today.

“What are you telling me, Boss?” Okay, he’d earned that one.

“I want you in The Hague, at the ICC, before sunset tomorrow. Bring Judge home. No one is to know. If you run into reporters, shoot the sons of bitches.”

She nearly laughed out loud. “Yeah, I don’t think that’s legal. How do you want me to travel, and who am I traveling with?” Zack would be nice. Or Beau. He needed a good stiff mission after playing computer geek, didn’t he?

“Might not be legal, but The Hague Invasion Act allows you to use any means necessary to free our SEAL. You’re on an express flight from Reagan National into JFK at 1500 hours today. There you’ll connect with a flight into Amsterdam. Grab a train from there to The Hague. That gives you five hours to get ready. Pack light. Izza Maher’s going with you. I briefed her earlier. She knows what else you’ll need, and who you’ll talk to once you arrive. Whatever happens, do not take no for an answer and don’t come back without Judge.”

Persia nodded, just once to acknowledge her implied ‘yes, sir!’ Finally. A real mission. But first… “I’m sure you’ve already vetted this through President—”

No one but the President dealt with ICC matters concerning US service members. Before she went anywhere, Persia needed official permission, preferably date-stamped and signed in crisp, blue ink with President Adams’ John Hancock on it.

Alex snapped his fingers. “Adams is very much involved. I asked. He approved us bringing Judge home. Check with Ember on your way out. She’ll have the file on Judge and all the paperwork you’ll need. Anything else?”

“No, Boss,” Persia easily replied as she lifted to her feet. Addressing him was going to be easier now that she knew what made him tick.

“Be safe,” he ordered, as if she had to be reminded.

“Always. See you the day after tomorrow.” Or sooner, she thought, as she shut his door behind her. Escorting an alleged war criminal back to the States was an easy job. This wouldn’t take long.

Chapter Twenty-One

Walker stared at the bright orange, too small, and flimsy as hell tennis shoes on his feet. No socks. Just cheap footwear with no support. No cushion. Hopefully, they hadn’t been used before. Or if they had, at least they’d been washed, sanitized, maybe disinfected. But he doubted it.

They did match his jumpsuit nicely, though. Nearly matched the color of his swollen left eye, too. Only it was more black, blue, and yellow than orange. Although the broken blood vessels in the sclera did lend a definite crazy red-eyed, Frankenstein-ish vibe. As did the neat row of butterfly bandages taped over that same tender eyeball. Trick or treat, anyone?

He didn’t remember who’d doctored him or which dumbass had thrown the first punch back on Persia Smiles. But there’d be hell to pay when he caught up with the jerk. At the moment, Walker didn’t know where Brimley was, if he was okay, injured, or dead. He didn’t know anything about Rover. Hadn’t yet been able to get a straight answer out of the burly guard with the assault rifle standing outside his cell.

At this point, he figured some know-it-all must’ve recognized him on the dock in São Miguel the day he’d run into Brimley. Of all the stupid luck. No doubt, the jerk had followed Walker back to the yacht, then tattled to the local authorities