Steel Vengeance (Blackthorn Security #6)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

P ESHAWAR, PAKISTAN

Stitch trailed Abdul Omari as he and his entourage moved toward the local coffee shop. They moved as a unit, Omari dead center, surrounded by his four muscle-bound bodyguards. His security team wore the traditional robes, hiding who knows what kind of firepower underneath. From the bulges, it was clear they were packing.

Omari had shaved off the beard he’d sported back home in Afghanistan, trying to change his appearance. He’d also cut his curly hair short and ditched the turban. A high-value target on the U.S. radar, he kept a low profile, which was why he’d holed up in this part of Pakistan.

But not low enough.

Peshawar was near the Afghan-Pakistan border and chaotic enough for the warlord to disappear in. The streets were crowded, markets buzzing, traffic non-stop. Recent bombings and political unrest made it a prime spot for someone looking to vanish.

Stitch stepped back as a rickshaw rattled by.

He glanced around, making sure no one had clocked him. Everything seemed normal—locals doing their thing, vendors barking deals, taxis and rickshaws dodging potholes, and women carrying shopping bags, their heads wrapped in hijabs or scarves.

Then, his eyes locked onto a woman in a dusky blue headscarf over a shalwar kameez. She carried a canvas shoulder bag, her dark hair mostly hidden beneath the scarf. Unlike the other women who were either talking quietly amongst themselves, this one moved solo, eyes dead ahead—right on the target.

Omari.

There was no mistaking it. Her gaze was uncovered, sharp, and locked in. She moved fluidly, stopping now and then to glance at the produce, casually picking up an item here or there, dropping it into her bag, but her attention kept snapping back to Omari, tracking him.

At first, Stitch chalked it up to coincidence. Maybe she was just headed in the same direction—these streets were always packed. But three days straight? No way. She was tailing Omari, same as him.

The HVT disappeared into the café. He grimaced. Dirty glass windows covered with Arabic script blocked his view.

Shit, now he’d have to move. He crossed the street, heading for a tea house with outdoor seating, which would give him a better vantage point.

Like the locals, he was dressed to blend. His beard and deep tan made him fit right in. Back in the Afghan mountains, people thought he was one of them. The only thing that could give him away was his eyes—icy, intense blue. But today, with the sun blazing, his shades took care of that.

He ordered tea, paid the waiter, and settled outside. The two men beside him were engrossed in a game of backgammon. He watched them roll the dice then move their pieces across the beat-up board.

The woman had the same idea. She strolled into the shop next door, scanning an array of colorful scarves. She took her sweet time, trying a few on, admiring herself in the mirror by the entrance. Stitch could see her reflection. Behind her, the shopkeeper hovered, ready to make the sale. After some haggling, she decided on a cream-colored scarf, bought it, and replaced the blue one.

Smart. Changing her look under the guise of trying on a new purchase. Anyone who saw her go in might think it was someone else coming out.

But not him.

Now, he kept tabs on both the woman and Omari, who was tucked away inside the café. She moved on to the next shop, passing directly in front of him, not even sparing him a second glance. With his head bowed over his cup of tea, sunglasses on, she probably wrote him off as just another local.

Behind the shades, he studied her closer. Her skin was lighter than he’d thought. She wasn’t from here, even if she’d nailed the look. Her clothes were perfect, obviously bought locally, and she wore the scarf like a pro. Her hair was a rich chocolate brown, he’d seen a flash of it when she’d swapped scarves.

Who the hell was she?

She could be one of Omari’s mistresses. The drug lord apparently had more than a few. Maybe she suspected Omari was messing around with another woman. Not a stretch, knowing his type. Then again, maybe she was playing a different game.

What if she was a foreign operative? CIA, maybe? MI6? Any number of intelligence services would be interested in Omari’s whereabouts.

Stitch listened as she spoke to the shopkeeper, asking about something.

Urdu.

He was impressed. She had it down pretty well, but a few words were off. Still, it would fool most people. He frowned. Whoever she was, she’d prepped for this.

A black SUV rolled to a stop outside of the café. Three men stepped out—two with beards and skull caps, the third clean-shaven with a military haircut. The woman pulled out her phone, pretending to snap a selfie while holding up a necklace to her chest.

Stitch wasn’t buying it. Her camera lens was pointed right at the men.

He took a sip of tea, his gaze pinned to the men who disappeared inside the café. A meeting, maybe?

The woman lingered for another few minutes, hopping between shops until it became obvious she was stalling. With one last look at the café, she headed off.

Making a split-second decision, Stitch got up and tailed her.

She moved with intent now, mission complete. No more playing the shopper. Twice, she checked over her shoulder, scanning for a tail. She’d had some training, no question. But she didn’t see him. Stitch had spent a lifetime blending into shadows.

Rounding a corner, she made her way to an old, beat-up Honda scooter. Stitch watched as she hopped on, slinging the shopping bag across her chest.

Damn. He was on foot.

He threw himself in front of a rickshaw, forcing the driver to slam the brakes. Jumping in, he barked, “Follow that scooter!”

The driver shot him a weird look but hit the gas, swerving around a delivery van coming straight at them.

She didn’t go far. Four streets later, she slowed, hopped the sidewalk, and parked in front of a butcher shop. Stitch looked around, then back at the shop. Dead carcasses hung from hooks inside.

A mile, if that. Barely worth the chase.

Stitch waited until she’d slipped into a plain door next to the butcher’s shop, then he paid the driver and got out.

Was this where she lived? Or was it some kind of safe house?

He studied the crumbling structure with its sagging balconies that looked ready to collapse. If it was a front, it was a damn good one. The smell of raw meat mixed with the thick exhaust fumes, while flies buzzed overhead.

This part of town was more industrial—leatherworkers, jewelers, and other trades. But it was still packed. Wires crisscrossed the narrow streets, draped with laundry and flags.

No way to tell which apartment she went into. He could’ve followed her in, but without knowing where she was headed, it’d be a waste of time.

He scanned the exterior. The building was climbable. Plenty of footholds. But broad daylight wasn’t the time for it.

Instead, he circled the block, taking in every angle.

Failing to plan is planning to fail, his special forces instructor used to say. Prep was key. That mentality had stuck with him long after he’d left the service. His wife used to tease him about it.

You need to be more spontaneous, she’d joke. But she had enough spontaneity for both of them.

Soraya.

He closed his eyes, letting the grief hit him, sharp and familiar. Then, he took a breath, shoving it back down.

Soon.

Omari was going to pay for what happened to her.

But first, he had to figure out who this mystery woman was and what she wanted with his target. He didn’t need any more complications.

After finishing his rounds, Stitch found a bench up the street and sat down to wait.