Steel Vengeance (Blackthorn Security #6)

Chapter 6

CHAPTER 6

S titch hovered in a narrow alleyway, the shadows providing just enough cover as he watched Sloane hurry past. She carried the same canvas bag slung casually over her shoulder, her pace quick and deliberate. He was practically invisible in the loose-fitting men’s robes he wore, the folds of the fabric helping to obscure his bulk. A turban wrapped tightly around his head further masked his identity. To blend in better, he hunched his tall frame, pulling inward to disguise his height and broad shoulders.

The air was thick with dust and the distant hum of traffic, but he barely noticed, too focused on the sight of her. Even with the black scarf covering her head and wrapping around her neck, there was no mistaking the sensual sway of her hips.

Hips he’d seen naked, curving into a waist so small his hands could easily wrap around it, flaring into that soft, perfect bottom. His pulse quickened as the image flashed in his mind—her bending over to pull something out of the closet, her skin illuminated in the morning light.

Fuck.

He blinked hard, shaking the thought, forcing himself to focus on the task at hand.

Omari was a hundred meters ahead of Sloane, his usual entourage surrounding him like a wall. He chatted with a shopkeeper, laughing as he patted the man’s shoulder, before disappearing into a restaurant. It was noon—maybe he was grabbing an early lunch.

Sloane lingered in the market, browsing stalls, trying on sunglasses, and pretending to admire jewelry. But when it became clear Omari was dining alone, she made her way back to the scooter she’d left parked a few blocks away.

This time, Stitch was ready. He had wheels of his own—a beat-up Vespa that was perfect for navigating the chaotic streets. He’d scouted a rental place earlier that morning, making sure he had a way to keep up with her without standing out.

Sloane started up her scooter, merging effortlessly into the thick stream of traffic. Taxis, rickshaws, and worn-out vehicles jostled for position on the pothole-riddled roads. He followed at a careful distance, not too close, but there were so many bikes and scooters she’d never notice him.

Two miles down, she turned off the busy main road, weaving through a series of side streets until she reached a broad, squat building.

Peshawar Community Center, read the sign in bold Arabic lettering. A security guard stood at the entrance, cradling a shiny black assault rifle. Next to him, a Western woman in jeans and a loose shirt puffed on a cigarette.

Stitch frowned. A guard like that for a community center? Something didn’t add up.

The building itself was plain, nothing special. Tattered awnings covered the wide windows, and the corrugated iron roof looked as if it had been slapped on without much care. The concrete walls were rough and unfinished, like so many others in the border town. Everything here felt temporary, as if people didn’t expect it to last.

The streets were quieter out here, fewer distractions, so he stayed back, out of sight. Sloane parked by the front door, exchanged a few words with the smoking woman, then tucked her helmet under her arm and went inside.

Stitch parked his Vespa a block away, near a school. Through the wrought-iron gates, children played in a dusty courtyard, their voices ringing out over the barren landscape. There wasn’t much to absorb the sound around here—just dry roads, a few low concrete buildings, and, in the distance, parched fields that had long since been abandoned.

For a moment, he just listened. Schools sounded the same everywhere, from Pakistan to the States. Laughter, shouts of joy, innocence—before the world sank its claws into them, burdening them with the weight of culture, expectation, and survival.

He turned back to the community center. It was another blistering day, sweat trickling down his back, dampening the fabric of his robes. The woman had finished her cigarette and disappeared inside, but the guard remained, eyes alert, rifle in hand.

Stitch stayed put, watching. He could see shadows moving behind the wide windows. Class was about to begin. There was no need to risk getting closer. Now he knew where she worked, and at least that part of her cover story checked out.

He headed back toward town. It was his turn to tail Omari, who’d be finishing his lunch soon. As it turned out, the Taliban official wasn’t in any rush. An hour later, Omari finally emerged from the restaurant, patting his stomach like a satisfied man.

Stitch followed at a distance as Omari was driven home in a bulletproof SUV, two bodyguards flanking him in the back seat. When the vehicle turned into a gated neighborhood, Stitch knew there’d be no new intel today.

He turned back, heading toward Mrs. Bhatti’s. In this upscale neighborhood, a man rumbling past on a battered Vespa would raise too many questions.

Mrs. Bhatti smiled when he let himself in. “It’s good to have you back, Stitch.”

Hearing his old nickname tugged at something in his chest. It had been a while since anyone called him that. Back in his SEAL unit, it was all he ever heard. The guys had been like brothers. The life-or-death missions, the adrenaline, the camaraderie—it felt like another life now.

He’d been halfway through med school when he decided the Navy was where he belonged. The guys used to joke he’d swapped saving lives in the OR for saving them on the battlefield. Funny thing was, he’d stitched up more people in combat than he ever had in a hospital.

“It’s good to see you too, Mrs. Bhatti. What’s for dinner?”

The rich scent of spices floated in from the kitchen. He remembered how much she loved to cook—and how she always insisted on feeding him.

“You can’t fight on an empty stomach,” she’d say, wagging her finger.

Stitch retreated to his room, collapsing onto the bed. The afternoon light filtered through the blinds, casting stripes across the floor. The house was quiet, but his mind wasn’t.

He’d come here to rest, to clear his head, but instead, Sloane kept creeping into his thoughts. The image of her in that slip—the one that clung to her like a second skin—kept flashing through his mind. He could still see the way it molded to her hips, the soft curve of her waist. It stirred something in him, something he hadn’t felt in a long time.

And that’s what bothered him most.

It had been over a year since Soraya’s death, and not once had he looked at another woman. Not like this. The guilt hit him hard, twisting his gut. His late wife’s face flickered through his mind—the way she used to laugh, the warmth of her touch. She’d been everything to him, and he’d lost her. Now, he was thinking about someone else, feeling something for someone else.

He clenched his fists, closing his eyes to block it out, but Sloane’s face lingered, that spark in her eyes pulling him in. How could he be attracted to another woman? Not now. Not yet. It felt wrong.

But no matter how hard he fought it, the pull toward her was undeniable. And that scared the fuck out of him.