Walker (In the Company of Snipers #21) - Irish Winters Page 0,75

SEAL, must’ve done things just as difficult, maybe even harder. Yet not once had she gotten an unsettling vibe or an ugly feeling from Hotrod, err, Judge. Damn it. He was Walker Judge. Walker, Walker, Walker!

If anything, he’d impressed the hell out of her that one night. He’d been sweet and gentle and… okay, he’d also been too tired to perform, which might explain why he’d left before dawn. Maybe he hadn’t been able to face her? No. Uh uh. Not Walker. Tough, confident guys like him weren’t afraid to face their mistakes. And they didn’t usually have performance issues—not unless they’d just swum a hundred freakin’ miles to get back to the land they—he—loved.

Yes. Loved. Guys like Judge didn’t kiss just any stretch of sand. And they didn’t leave the kind of impression behind that he had left with her.

Lieutenant Judge sure cut a handsome profile in those crisply pressed dress whites in this official photo. Persia had always been a sucker for a man in uniform, but knowing what lay beneath this particular uniform, and knowing this guy… Ahh. Persia wanted to eat him up all over again. For breakfast, lunch, dinner, and a tasty, lip-smacking midnight snack.

On his left chest, above the placard of six rows of campaign and various USN ribbons, rested the proud, gold Trident that declared the Navy SEAL’s creed: ‘In times of war or uncertainty there is a special breed of warrior ready to answer our nation’s call. A common man with an uncommon desire to succeed.’

Only this common man had made the tenderest, sweetest love to her—before he’d walked away. How many weeks ago had that been? She couldn’t think. Only wanted to sit here and breathe the essence of this damned troublemaker back into her life. If that were even possible. If only she could go back in time and—

“What’s up? Is it dinnertime yet? You okay?”

“No! I mean, yes! I mean, no, it’s not dinner yet, and of course I’m okay. Why wouldn’t I be okay?” Wow, how insincere was that? Persia slammed the folder shut, rattled at what Izza might’ve seen. That she might’ve been watching the whole time.

“Oh, okay. No worries,” Izza mumbled sleepily. “I’ve already read that jerk’s file, so you don’t have to if you don’t want to. He’s a Class A ass, and according to Alex, ICC’s got him cuffed and shackled. If he tries anything, we’ll just taser his ass and take him down like the dog he is. Right?”

“Umm, yeah. Sure.” Take him down. All the ways Persia had taken Hotrod down, in her bed and in her shower, stormed her poor flustered heart. It fluttered like a giant butterfly with B-52 wings stuck in her chest. Who would’ve ever guessed Hotrod was Walker Judge?!

“Go back to sleep,” Persia urged her friend as calmly as she could. “S-s-sorry I disturbed you.”

“You didn’t. Just had a funny feeling. You ever get one of those?”

Persia nodded, but Izza’s eyes were already closed, so she lied and said, “No. Never.”

And then she cracked that file and began reading every single page again. Persia didn’t just have a funny feeling. She had a full-blown premonition. Walker Judge would yet prove his innocence. And by hell, she’d help him do it.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Morning came too early when a guy had to pee, but couldn’t. Walker stood over the hard-water-stained steel toilet bowl, poised for action, but getting nowhere fast. Massaging his aching lower back while cuffed had proven miserably impossible. Didn’t help that his cuffs were in front of him with a chain running to his shackles, or that the current guard on duty watched every move he made.

But it’d sure be nice if someone turned the thermostat down. Better yet, off. It was early summer, for hell’s sake, and Walker was sweating like a pig in this cramped, airless cell. But there was no relief. Not from the oppressive heat, nor from his kidneys.

When it became obvious he’d had a total failure to launch, Walker closed up the Velcro fly on his ridiculous clown suit, and did a quick two-step shuffle back to the board in the wall called his bed. The shackles on his ankles seemed heavier this morning, and he was frustrated with the unnecessary restraints while he was behind bars. Everything was too damned much.

Still dizzy, he leaned his aching head onto the flat pillow on his bed. It was strange how simple things like pillowcases mattered to a guy with no future. But the