Walker (In the Company of Snipers #21) - Irish Winters Page 0,121
side window of the SUV he was quarantined in. By then he’d met an associate of Stewart’s, Senior Agent Murphy Finnegan. He owned the farm where Walker was now headed. It was Murphy who sat with Walker now. Not Persia.
She’d slipped out of his bed sometime this morning before two male nurses had arrived to get him ready to travel. He knew he had a concussion. Jesus Christ, what next? He hadn’t yet recovered from that beat down inside the ICC, and the bullet hole in his shoulder was nothing to sneeze at.
Yet he was glad for the company. Murphy reminded him of Brimley. Damn, it had been good to see the old fart yesterday and to finally know what had happened, that Rover and Persia Smiles were safe. The first chance he could, Walker meant to get back on that yacht. He needed a better look at the evidence he’d found. He was sure it led back to someone Goff had known before his demise.
“How are you feeling, son?” Murphy asked from the driver’s seat.
Walker was stretched out in the back seat, one boot on the seat, the other on the floor, and his head tipped back against a cushion, facing Murph. “I’m good.”
Murphy grunted, his grin reflected from the rearview mirror. “I used to lie, too. Then I married my current wife, and Moira’s a pediatrician. She’s got no problem calling me a liar to my face. So be honest. I’ve got meds if you need them.”
“I could use a couple aspirin.”
Murphy tossed a prescription bottle over the seat. Then handed a bottle of water back. “Figured as much. You’re looking a might green. You need me to pull over?”
“Nah,” Walker said as he popped the cap off the water and swallowed the prescribed dose of little white pills. Pain pills were a necessary evil. Like now. But he’d watched too many guys fall to opioid addiction. He handed the bottle back to Murphy. “Thanks.”
“Your head pounding, or is pain just tap-dancing up your spine?”
Murphy was one of those grandfatherly types who seemed to know how to talk to people, even hard-nosed SEALs. Which Walker surely wasn’t at the moment. “Tap-dancing,” he admitted as he leaned back and closed his eyes, shutting the bright, cheery sunlight out of his throbbing head. He’d never been carsick. Sure as hell didn’t want to initiate Murphy’s SUV by tossing his cookies. Walker swallowed hard and told his gut to man up. “How much farther?”
“Two clicks. You need anything else? I’ve got chips, crackers, beef jerky.”
Yes, Persia. “No. I’m good.”
“She’s waiting at my place,” Murphy replied as if he’d read Walker’s mind. “Agent Coltrane. Alex is there, too. They went on ahead to get everything ready.”
“That’s nice,” Walker murmured, the pain meds taking over what little resistance he had left.
When the SUV came to a gentle stop, whoever opened the back doors did it quietly. He vaguely remembered being laid on a gurney, then a smooth ride into a stone cottage that was as big as a barn. Then someone fussing over him, settling him into bed, wiping a cool cloth over his face and brow. Caring about him. “Persia?”
“Shush,” she whispered. “Sleep, Walker. No worries. The Irish Guarda is onsite, along with several TEAM agents. They won’t let anyone onto this property, not like people know where we are anyway. Alex will explain everything when he gets back.”
That’d sure be nice. “Thought he was already here?”
“He’s a busy man,” Persia murmured into Walker’s ear.
Walker let the soothing darkness take him.
A while later, he woke to quiet conversation coming from beyond his darkened room. Walker rolled to the side of the bed and put both bare feet to the hardwood floor, testing his head for dizziness and his gut for nausea. The side effects of concussion. When he felt neither, he inhaled a full cleansing breath. The tantalizing aroma of grilled meat filled his nostrils. Then… tacos?
It was time to get moving. Cautiously, he lifted to his feet, then used the en suite head, a nice touch with American-style toiletries. Once he’d showered and finished with the necessities, he took a look at his reflection in the mirror over the sink. Not too bad. He needed a shave and a haircut, but his skull wasn’t pounding and his eyes were clear. He passed a damp, cool towel over his face, and folded it over the rack. After brushing his teeth, he made for the ongoing conversation outside his door. It stilled the