Walker (In the Company of Snipers #21) - Irish Winters Page 0,77

key ring back onto his belt—Shit, it’s not rocket science!—Walker focused on staying upright. But gray on gray on gray didn’t have a soothing effect on his gut. Despite the weighted shackles at his ankles, his head seemed heavier, yet lighter at the same time. Try making sense out of that. He couldn’t. When the world tilted sideways, he slapped both palms to the wall beside his door to steady himself. It was that or fall down.

“Stop!” the guard bellowed as the business end of his rifle snapped to the center of Walker’s back, pressing hard between his shoulder blades. “I will kill you if you make another move!”

There was no way Walker would ever admit to this idiot that he might be sick. Comprehending that might take more brain cells than the guy had. So he sucked it up, nodded his compliance, and replied in a clear, subservient voice, “Sorry, sir. It won’t happen again.”

Bullies loved to be obeyed and made to feel important. Which was why the ‘sir.’ It worked like a charm.

Appeased, the big, tough guy with the only weapon in the hallway gave Walker his chin. “Turn around. We will go see your visitor now, but just one move…”

Yeah, yeah, yeah. Walker stopped listening. At the moment, he needed all the strength he had just to about-face and walk a straight line. Seemed like he and his handler walked for miles, but it was only down the hall and around the corner. By the time he stood at yet another closed door that had to be unlocked by the man with ten thumbs, Walker’d had it. He swallowed hard, which was difficult to do with a dry throat. But he did resist the urge to grab the wall again.

Finally! The freakin’ door opened to reveal an average interrogation room.

Metal table bolted to the concrete floor. Drain beneath the table. Rings in the concrete to lock shackles in place. More rings on the table for handcuffs. Two-way mirrors, one to the left of where Walker was obviously supposed to sit, since that was where the only metal chair in the room had been bolted to the floor. The other straight across from that same uncomfortable looking chair. Closed-circuit-TV cameras blinked from all four corners of the ceiling. Bright florescent light tubes glared down at him.

With all this concrete, you’d think this basement room would’ve been cold. But Walker felt as if he were walking into a square, gray sauna.

“No!” his personal moron bellowed the second Walker cleared the doorway.

What now? All he wanted to do was sit in that damned chair before he fell down.

“We wait out here. You will stand until I allow you to sit.”

Walker closed his eyes at the idiocy of yet another stupid command, even as he stepped back beside the guard. What did it matter if he sat in the chair or fell on the floor?

“Stay standing,” the guard threatened, “or I will exact swift discipline you will never forget.”

Which meant he’d use that bully club dangling off his belt alongside his key ring—if he could get it unclipped fast enough—on a prisoner he assumed wouldn’t fight back. Walker almost wished he’d try it, see how that went. Sick or not, he’d feed that club to this over-confident asshat in a heartbeat. Maybe two, given his current shaky condition.

“Yes, sir,” Walker replied, breathing shallowly through his mouth now. SEALs didn’t give in, or give up. He’d survived Hell Week. This was nothing. It was simply a matter of who would outlast the other. A step-by-step endurance test. Just. Keep. Going…

An hour later, which was probably really just five minutes, the steady drumbeat of soles on concrete headed his way. Thank God. Stiffening to attention, he prepared to look whoever this visitor was in the eye. It’d sure be good if it were Brimley. Then Walker could find out how Rover was.

Damn. It was Hans Koning rounding the corner. Business suit. White dress shirt. Black tie that matched his black shoes. The second he came into view, his head canted nearly to his shoulder. His entire forehead furrowed. “Why are you standing out here? Go inside. Now. Sit. Please sit,” he said, gesturing to the empty room. Then to the guard, he spoke a few tense, very short sentences in Dutch.

The guard grumbled back in the same language, but snorted at Walker to go in.

Not willing to admit weakness or defeat, Walker marched into the blistering hot room with his back straight and