Walker (In the Company of Snipers #21) - Irish Winters Page 0,98

Coltrane,” he murmured as he eased his fingers from her grip, then shook his hand as if she’d squeezed too tight. Which she had. She’d meant him to know he could count on her and Izza.

Hans Koning turned on his heel and walked out the door without looking back.

It was time to track down the man who owned that ring.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Walker faded in and out of darkness, not sure of the day or where he was. Sometimes, the ever-present floating sensation beneath told him he was back on his yacht. Other times, he just felt like warmed-over crap. But then, out of the murky darkness he seemed stuck in, Persia’s pretty face would smile down on him like a tender ray of sunshine. She’d coax him to drink more than he wanted. Sometimes cool, cool water. Other times, a nasty tasting tea, or whatever that stuff was. Probably one of those Soylent Green concoctions health nuts raved about, that was made in a blender with spinach, okra, and that tasted like pee.

Persia was also the one who’d manhandled him into boxers and a t-shirt. She’d helped him the few times he’d struggled to his feet and staggered to the head like a drunk, desperately needing something to hold onto while he did his business. Which caused Walker buckets of regret for not having been there when she’d needed him. Not once.

Yet she’d been here every time he’d needed her, her shoulder snuggled up under his arm, making sure he didn’t fall. She’d stand him in front of the head and make sure he wasn’t weaving back and forth before she’d let him go. Then she’d step away and give him privacy. He’d palm the wall over the head and try like hell not to fall into it, while he waited for his body to allow relief. Which it did. Eventually. Then more easily, but still pink. Then… finally… clear and free-flowing and… Ahh… He was going to live.

It should’ve embarrassed him, her in the same room, waiting while he dropped his boxers and did what he had to do. Her possibly watching, maybe to make sure he didn’t fall over. Or maybe just to sneak a peek. Some ladies would do that. But if Persia did, it didn’t embarrass Walker. He had more to worry about than someone seeing his bare ass or his package. A sick man instinctively developed a uniquely primal focus on survival. Tunnel vision came with it. He was willing to do anything if it got him better.

Mostly, Walker wasn’t worried because he knew Persia cared, and because she did, he’d put his trust in her. His body, too. Maybe even his soul. During this time, he’d transitioned from one raging body-ache that seemed lodged primarily in his head, to a general overall weakness that left him shivering one minute, sweating the next.

But tonight was different. He’d heard something. In the middle of a dead sleep, he’d jolted upright and palmed his chest and thighs for weapons that weren’t there. In the space of a heartbeat, adrenaline had him up and on his feet. His head pounded while he waited for—something—to happen. Anything.

He cocked his head, sure he’d heard a noise. Inside or outside? He couldn’t tell. Didn’t know if he’d dreamed it or not.

Dizzy, he swayed, then sat back on the edge of his bed, not sure he hadn’t woken himself. The safe house felt quiet. Safe. Yet he sat there breathing hard, needing to make sure before he dropped back onto his pillow. Safe houses had been breached before. He couldn’t take the chance that whoever was behind his being railroaded and condemned at every turn, hadn’t also sent assassins to hunt him down. Mostly, he needed to make sure Persia and her prickly friend Izza were protected.

Now he felt stupid. No noise. No anything. He’d had enough nightmarish dreams these past few days, or nights or hours, it could’ve been him. But all was quiet now. So quiet, he could hear his adrenaline-fueled heart pounding like a drum. Damned thing felt like it meant to climb up his throat. Must’ve been a dream. Good deal.

Swallowing hard, he ran his hands over his head and through his hair, then sat there, wondering where he could get his hands on a pistol. At least a knife. Did Stewart maintain weapon vaults in his safe houses? And who the hell was the guy that he owned a safe house in a foreign country, the Netherlands for