Walker (In the Company of Snipers #21) - Irish Winters Page 0,28

apart, she told Mark, “But I called him sir again.”

Mark tipped his face to the ceiling and laughed. The guy had the nerve! “You have no idea how much Alex looks forward to jerking your chain. Hell, I had to be Santa after I called him sir. Consider it a rite of initiation. You passed. Now you’re officially TEAM property.”

That actually helped. TEAM property, huh? Precisely what she’d wanted to be when she’d signed on. Persia took another steadying breath. The knot in her chest that had seemed like a rock a moment ago, vanished. She might’ve shed a tear or two, but she hadn’t made a complete fool of herself. That was Mark’s unique talent. He made people feel important and safe. Like they could tell him anything.

Just not anything about that flask or Hotrod. Ever.

Chapter Nine

Instead of moseying around the Caribbean, Walker made it to San Juan, Puerto Rico, the next day, without being caught. By then, he’d disabled the yacht’s GPS and hard-broke the onboard computer to suit his needs. It took a minute or two, but SEALs were trained to cover all bases. That was when he discovered the hard drive had been wiped clean. No records. No apps. Which didn’t stop Walker. Rebooting the computer, he focused on what little programming language he knew from college to access the internet. From there, he bought and downloaded everything he needed. Which was smart in the long run. Now, he was untraceable and, for the most part, untouchable.

Just outside of San Juan’s busy harbor, he idled down and searched California’s online motor vehicles database, hoping to locate Coronado’s Sea Nymph’s former registration, and change its status to salvage. Once he also altered the ID stuck on the yacht’s prow, it shouldn’t ring any bells if the Coast Guard came calling. Goff’s Motoryacht would be just one of many forty-five-footers traveling south. It wasn’t unique, and it hadn’t been modified to stand out like larger watercraft were. If anything, it looked like any other intermediate size yacht. It looked ordinary, especially berthed alongside million-dollar toys.

At last, he located its current registration. Shit. His heart stuttered to a full stop. Owner was still: Wallace E. Goff. Address: Saratoga Avenue, Ocean Beach, CA.

Walker suddenly lost the ability to swallow. Even his tongue had gone bone-dry. It was as if the bastard he’d been accused of murdering were alive and breathing over his shoulder, when Walker knew damned well Goff wasn’t. He wouldn’t have been tried for murder unless there’d been a dead body, would he?

Sure, he truly wished he’d been the one who’d ended Goff. The man had deserved to die, a thousand times over, for all the ways he’d demeaned and abused his men. Problem was, Walker wasn’t the guy who’d killed him. Neither did he know who’d had the balls to go after Goff and break his neck. Or who’d been smart enough to leave no fingerprints or other forensic evidence behind. Not that he’d seen the actual body, but he’d seen the morgue photos the San Diego Medical Examiner had presented at Walker’s trial. Walker knew it to be true. Goff was dead. He couldn’t hurt anyone anymore.

Or could he?

The oddest sensation slithered up Walker’s spine and curled around his neck like an invisible, slimy noose. His lungs stopped working because his heart had suddenly gone gangbusters loud. Was Goff deceased or not, damn it? Walker had seen the medical examiner’s photographic evidence. He had! That was Commander Goff’s ugly gray face in the morgue shot. Walker was certain. Wasn’t he?

Yet doubt niggled, like a drug under a twitchy addict’s skin. Why hadn’t the Nymph’s new owner updated the registration? Was California DMV simply behind updating their records, or was more going on here than met the eye? For sure, NCIS, the Naval Criminal Investigation Service, had failed to defend Walker, had, in fact, crucified him in the press during his court-martial. Hell, instead of defending him, they’d produced a neighbor and two sailors who’d willingly put their lying hands on the Bible and sworn they’d seen him at the scene of the crime.

But those two sailors and Goff’s supposed neighbor had outright lied. Walker hadn’t been anywhere near Goff’s house the night of the murder, that much was absolute fact. He’d actually just returned to San Diego from seven days personal leave, which the Navy prosecutor should have known from the get-go. Yet, that lawyer had twisted the argument, denying any record of leave existed. Then,