Walker (In the Company of Snipers #21) - Irish Winters Page 0,134

sure don’t understand it. But what Julio said is right. You’re family. What’d he call us—familia? That’s why we’re here. For you, you idiot.”

Walker didn’t know what to say. Not even when Trevor crushed him in a monster bro hug, then slapped his back, stepped away, and growled, “Don’t let Meg down, damn it. And you owe me one Blackhawk, you bastard.”

Walker let that one slide. He had been at the stick the night Trevor’s fancy experimental Blackhawk fell out of the sky and landed on that sandbar. Kind of. He’d actually been unconscious and drooling, after the Russian spy on board had stuck him with a hypo filled with Special K.

Trevor was the one who’d landed the high-tech bird—by remote control, no less—all the way from Fort Campbell, Kentucky. Walker’d been out cold, and Julio’d been about to have a heart attack.

By then, the room was nearly empty. “That does it,” Stewart said.

“Brim and his dog are coming, too,” Walker added.

“Can that yacht sleep eight?”

“It’s a forty-five-foot Meridian, what do you think?”

Stewart’s hard blue eyes skewered Walker once again, but Walker stood firm. It was his damned yacht. Well, not really. But he wasn’t military anymore, and he was done taking orders and blindly following anyone.

After a few tense seconds, Stewart lifted his sat phone to his ear and turned away. He commenced making travel arrangements with someone he called Mother, and the stand-off was over. Walker shot Persia a look that meant ‘join me in my room.’

He had her in his arms as soon as she closed his door behind her. “Damn, your boss is an arrogant ass,” Walker breathed as he captured her face between his palms and peppered her cheeks, nose, and mouth with tiny, moist kisses.

“I think he likes you,” she murmured as her fingers roamed under his shirt, lighting him up like she always did.

“Soon…” he told her, needing her skin to skin. “We are going to be together again soon.”

“Promise?”

He kissed her thoroughly. “Oh, yeah…”

The next day was a clear, sunny day for flying. Stewart had arranged transport to a private airstrip outside Cashel, and from there, they flew by private plane to Shannon Airport on Ireland’s west coast. This multi-legged trip to Portugal had to have cost a pretty penny. Yet Stewart had provided for everyone, even had a crate for Rover. Once again, Walker wondered just who the man was that he could afford to move so many people and a dog by private plane. Transferring this small army was no small thing.

They landed at a private airstrip outside Lisbon. Then everyone climbed into the two vans waiting for them, while two male attendants loaded their luggage and gear, all without batting an eye. Since Persia had claimed the driver’s seat of the nearest van, Walker took shotgun. Brimley, Rover, and Ryder joined him. Stewart commandeered the other van, with Senator Sullivan at his side, Izza in the back.

“You know where we’re going, young lady?” Brimley asked once Persia pulled away from the airport and into traffic.

“Actually, no. I’m headed south on the highway that’ll get us across the Ponte 25 de Abril bridge. I figured we’d find more boats and docks along the river.” Ponte 25 de Abril was the suspension bridge across the mighty Tagus River, linking the cities of Lisbon and Almada.

“Smart thinking. I’ll tell you when to turn.”

Walker leaned back, content to bask in the sun pouring in his open window, since Persia and Brim had everything under control. He closed his eyes, taking in the smells of the nearby river and ocean. It’d be good to get back on the water again.

Persia was a capable driver. In short order, Brim told her where to exit. She turned off the highway and approached the docks.

“Turn at the metal gate up ahead, young lady,” Brimley instructed, as he handed a ticket stub forward. “Here. This’ll get you in. The storage number’s 18B, right next to the hoist that’ll put her back in the water.”

“Good thinking.” Walker peered over his shoulder. “How much do I owe you for storage?”

Brim waved it off. “Don’t worry.”

“We’ll discuss this later.”

“We’ll see…”

Like hell, we’ll see. Drydocking a forty-five-foot Meridian Motoryacht was no small thing. It required storage as big as a barn. She’d be on blocks or dollies, possibly suspended on industrial-strength belts designed to hold her tonnage. Yet Walker wasn’t going to argue about money now. That would embarrass Brimley, who’d probably hocked his life’s savings to store the yacht. But wasn’t