Walker (In the Company of Snipers #21) - Irish Winters Page 0,31
in Somewhere, Virginia. Forever. Amen.”
With his heart on fire for the woman he’d left behind, Walker knelt, facing the fancy script at the rear of the yacht’s hull, just above the ladder that led to the upper deck.
One by one, the letters that had spelled out Coronado’s Sea Nymph fell to the deck. As before, he rolled the sticky mess into a ball and stuffed it in his pocket. Then, tenderly, he blessed the stolen yacht with the name of the woman he’d left behind.
“Please forgive me,” he whispered to her, there in the dark. “I hurt you by running out on you. I know I did. But if we’re meant to be, I know we’ll meet again. If and when we do, please let me make it up to you. Don’t hate me. Until then…” He smoothed his fingers over the vinyl lettering of the name that had come to mean something to him. “Help her to forgive herself, Father. Heal her. Keep her safe. Thanks again. Amen.”
Walker lifted to his feet, tired yet exhilarated. Back at the front of the yacht, he leaned under the railing, and struck the yacht with that pricey bottle of champagne, declaring loudly and proudly, “I christen thee Persia Smiles!”
The bottle shattered, and the golden, foaming champagne splashed into the sea, a just and holy offering. It was customary to toast newly christened ships, even if they’d just been renamed. It was a time for celebration, but Walker hadn’t brought a third bottle with him, and he hated drinking alone. Instead, he walked to the cockpit and checked his bearings. Throttling the engine down to zero knots, he secured the stolen craft for the night.
He’d stopped worrying about the Coast Guard hours ago. Figured they had bigger fish to fry. Drug smugglers. Human-traffickers. Despicable miscreants like that. Besides, he was in international waters now, and the currents were calm.
Walker headed back to the upper aft deck, grabbed a woven blanket off one of the plush recliners there, made himself comfortable, and settled in for the night. He planned to fully investigate all drawers and cubbyholes of Goff’s yacht come morning. But for tonight, he’d done all he could. For the first time since he’d left Persia behind, he was content. Well, semi-content. He’d accomplished a few things since he’d absconded with Goff’s yacht. A hard day’s work always felt good.
Staring up at the same stars that daring ancient voyagers had studied while they’d searched what they’d then thought was a flat Earth, Walker crossed his arms behind his head and took a deep breath. Being at sea had always soothed his soul. A man like him couldn’t ask for more than the gentle give and take of waves slapping against the hull of a good ship. He knew better, but out here on the ocean, it was easy to believe he could live like this—forever free.
It had been a long day. He was emotionally, as well as physically, spent. Yet he cast one last thought to the myriad of benign stars twinkling in the dark night sky. “Forgive me for hurting her, Father. Thanks for keeping her safe.”
It’d been a long time since he’d prayed as much as he had today. He just hoped he’d prayed enough.
Chapter Ten
The Queen of England. The reigning monarch of all Commonwealth realms. An awesome, frighteningly powerful title that, frankly, stole Persia’s breath, as well as robbed her companion agent’s nerves. Izza Maher was close to hyperventilating. Not her usual reaction in times of stress. The battle-hardened Hispanic had a reputation for being tougher than most of the guys on The TEAM, probably meaner, too. But this morning, she’d morphed into a silly fangirl about to meet her all-time teen idol.
“Should I kiss the back of her hand or her knuckles? Her ring?” Izza whispered out of the side of her nervous mouth. “What do you think? Should I bow? Curtsy? Man, I hate looking stupid. I don’t want to look stupid. Help me out here.”
Persia couldn’t keep from smiling. Just a little, though. Izza didn’t usually reveal nervousness. To tease her now would surely land Persia’s ass on the floor. Not how she wanted to be introduced to Her Majesty. Both had dressed in formal TEAMwear: black pencil skirts, crisp white blouses beneath pressed black blazers, The TEAM’s golden logo high on their left lapels. They waited. And, apparently, Izza worried.
For the moment, they were still in the hallway outside the Queen’s posh suite at one of