Steel Vengeance (Blackthorn Security #6)

Chapter 7

CHAPTER 7

S loane smiled at her class, a lively group of women eager to improve their language skills. Some arrived quietly, wrapped in full burqas, while others wore modern clothes paired with headscarves. Not everyone had permission from their husbands or families to attend.

The Women’s Empowerment Group provided the classes for free, knowing many of the women couldn’t afford to pay—or wouldn’t be allowed to, even if they could. Aaliyah, the American-Pakistani woman who ran the center, had told her about a recent incident when an angry man stormed in and dragged his young wife out of class by her hair. “Right in front of everyone,” she’d said, shaking her head.

Since then, they’d hired a security guard, with strict orders not to let anyone in who wasn’t on the list or working at the center. His presence gave the women a sense of security they hadn’t had before.

The lesson began, but as she taught, Sloane’s mind drifted to the wild-looking American soldier who’d broken into her apartment the night before. He’d held her at gunpoint, but what should’ve been a terrifying experience had somehow turned into an unexpected partnership. She had nothing new to report to him yet, but the thought of seeing him later made her shiver in a way she couldn’t explain.

It was crazy. He was pushy, demanding, arrogant—and dangerous. The simmering anger he carried around, the kind that could explode at any moment, should have made her wary. He wasn’t in control of it, no matter how much he thought he was. She’d seen that flash of obsession in his eyes when he’d talked about Omari.

He was as much a prisoner of his hatred as she was of their arrangement. He might be controlling her now, but his own demons controlled him, making him unpredictable.

So why did the thought of seeing him again send goosebumps across her skin?

Matthew didn’t have that effect on her, and she was crazy about him. Although, she had to admit, Matthew had started to feel more distant in her mind. Blurred around the edges. She hadn’t even spoken to him in the three weeks she’d been here.

“We have to maintain absolute radio silence,” he’d told her before she left. “All communication goes through Jeremy, and it has to be via email.”

She still didn’t understand why. No one was bugging her phone. No one even knew she was here. What harm would one phone call do? But orders were orders, so she hadn’t argued.

The rough-edged soldier, however, kept creeping into her thoughts, uninvited.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Could you repeat that?” she asked, flashing an apologetic smile at a woman in the front row who had asked a question.

Focus, she told herself. She could think about him later.

It was midsummer, and by the time she got home around six, there were still a couple of hours of daylight left. Two hours until he arrived.

On her way back, she’d stopped at a small grocery store to pick up bread, vegetables, and spices for a stew. Cooking always grounded her, reminding her of her grandmother, who had taught her the basics after her father had passed away.

Her grandmother had also been the one to teach her Urdu, a language that had been passed down through the generations. Her great-grandmother had been born here, and Sloane had always been told she looked like her—a resemblance she’d noticed in the grainy black-and-white photo that had sat on her grandmother’s mantle. Now, three generations later, Sloane found herself in the country of her great-grandmother’s birth.

She’d expected to feel some sort of connection when she arrived, but it hadn’t happened. The land still felt foreign to her, despite the language. But that’s why Matthew had recruited her—because she spoke it fluently.

Her thoughts wandered back to the day her life had changed. She’d been standing in the school playground, waiting with Freddy, one of her students, whose father had not arrived to collect him. Another teacher had been chatting with her in Urdu when Freddy’s father had swept in, full of apologies.

Apologies. A business meeting had run long.

She remembered the way he’d smiled, charming and self-assured, his tailored suit and expensive cologne making it clear he wasn’t just any businessman. She hadn’t known it at the time but meeting him would set off a chain of events that would change everything.

Normally, it was his wife who dropped off their son—a coiffed blonde who drove a flashy red convertible, always perfectly put together. After school, it was a younger woman, dark hair pulled back in a bun, who picked Freddy up. The au pair, maybe? A nanny? Either way, both parents were obviously too busy, too important, to be deeply involved.

She had no idea that Friday afternoon how much her life was about to shift.

Sloane let herself into her apartment. Damn, it was stifling hot. She opened a window, but it didn’t help much. It just let in the metallic meat smell from below.

A cool bath would help wash off the sweat of the day and cool her flushed cheeks. It had absolutely nothing to do with wanting to look nice for him.

After bathing and washing the dust out of her hair, she got dressed. Appropriately, this time. That gold nightgown…Ugh. She’d practically been falling out of it, but it had been preferrable to sitting naked in front of him.

Luckily, he’d been too caught up in his simmering rage to notice what she’d been wearing. Or not wearing, as it turned out.

Cringing, she selected a safe, black skirt and a strappy top. If it was this hot back home, she’d be flouncing around in a bikini, but that clearly wasn’t an option here.

The one-bed apartment was a mess. She cleared up, putting her dirty clothes in a bag to wash, and moving the small table and two chairs from the kitchen to the bedroom. At least that way she’d have somewhere to sit, other than the bed.

She shook her head. Why was she bothering?

He wasn’t a guest. He was an enemy. An American soldier using her to get information about Omari. So, why was she so nervous?

To take her mind off his imminent arrival, she unpacked the groceries and set about making a stew. Working over the stove made her hot again, so she splashed some water on her face and took a few deep breaths.

Where was he?

The sun had almost set, yet there was no sign of him.

She switched on the bedside lamp and the room was cast in a rosy glow, enhanced by the red electric signage on the building opposite. Too anxious to eat, she saved the stew for later and paced up and down the dimly lit room, waiting for his broad shadow to appear at the window.

An hour later.

It was pitch dark outside now, save for the flickering red light. Her handler would be expecting her surveillance update. She picked up her laptop and placed it on the table. It was fully charged, as was her phone. Connecting to the internet, she sent off a quick message. Nothing new to report.

He hadn’t replied to last night’s email, which had included the photographs of the three Afghan men. She wondered what her superiors would make of the three men from across the border.

Jeremy never responded. His job was to forward anything of interest on to his boss. Was that Matthew? She wasn’t sure. The man who’d recruited her had been vague about his position at the agency.

Another excruciating hour passed, and Sloane’s stomach growled. It was getting late, and she was tired and hungry. Well, she wasn’t waiting any longer.

Perhaps he’d changed his mind and wasn’t coming?

She ignored the pang of regret that flashed over her. That was a hunger pang. Nothing more. It was better for her if he didn’t come. She could go back to doing her job without having to report to him anymore.

Sloane helped herself to some vegetable stew, eating quickly in case he arrived while she was busy, but she needn’t have worried. He didn’t show.

After supper, she washed up, made herself a cup of peppermint tea, and settled down to read. But the words floated in front of her. Still no soldier.

She frowned. Maybe something had happened to him. Perhaps he’d been called away. It struck her how little she actually knew about him. He’d been tight-lipped, while she’d sung like a canary. It was embarrassing!

Who did he work for? The U.S. government? Or did he have his own agenda? There was something rogue and untamed about him. He didn’t strike her as a man adhering to the rules.

Sloane yawned. It was now nearly ten o’clock and she was battling to keep her eyes open. Should she even try? He wouldn’t come now, would he? Not at this late hour.

At half past ten she turned out the light. If he couldn't stick to their arrangement, neither would she. It didn’t matter to her. What did she care if she didn’t see the broad-shouldered, wild-haired, grizzly bear of a man again?

Yet, it was with this image in her head that she drifted off to sleep.

A soft scraping sound woke her, followed by a low creak and a cool breeze. Someone was in the room! Before she had time to react, a giant hand clamped down over her mouth.

She cried out in fright, but it came out as a muffled murmur. Panicking, she tossed her head from side to side, but the hand held firm. She lashed out, trying to push her attacker away, but it was like shoving against a brick wall. Solid and unyielding.

Her heart raced as all kinds of horrors rushed through her mind. Was she being attacked? Was it Omari’s men? Had they found out who she was?

“Shh…” a deep voice hissed.

She recognized that low, growling baritone. It was him .

Thank God.

She quieted down, and he slowly removed his hand.

“Didn’t mean to startle you,” he grunted. “But I had to be sure you didn’t have anyone waiting for me.”

“Who would I have waiting?” she asked, her confused mind still on Omari. Then she blinked. Duh. The CIA, of course.

“No,” she said quickly. “Nobody’s here but me.”

“I know. I checked.”

He stood back, giving her space, and she scrambled into a sitting position. The thin strap of her gold nightgown had slipped off her shoulder, the silky material barely covering her left breast. Hastily, she pulled it up. Thankfully, it was dark in the room, except for the annoying red flicker from the building across the street that the gauzy curtains did nothing to block.

“What time is it?” she muttered.

“Half past eleven.”

“I didn’t think you were coming.”

No reply. Instead, he backtracked to the small wooden table and sat down. The outline of his hulking frame pulsed red, in time with her pounding heart.

Leaning over, she turned on the bedside lamp. The amber glow replaced the pulsing red light.

She ran a hand through her hair, fully aware she must look like a wreck, but he was staring at her with a heated intensity that took her breath away. She cleared her throat, and the heat vanished, replaced by the cool, distant look she was used to.

“Anything interesting to report?” he growled.

“No, nothing unusual today.”

“Tell me where he went.”

She sat up, the sheets tangled around her.

Great. Exposed, vulnerable, and unprepared. This was becoming a pattern.

Still, if she got up to get dressed, she’d have to walk around in front of him in her nightgown. Again. Why did he always catch her off-guard like this?

“Do you think we could arrange a time for these meetings in the future?” she asked, pulling the sheets around her waist. “So I can be prepared?”

“I like to keep things unpredictable,” he said. “Less chance of an ambush.”

She sighed.

“You were saying?”

She gathered her thoughts. “Omari left home around eleven, as usual, and was driven into town by his bodyguards. He walked around, spoke to a shopkeeper and a few locals, then went into a restaurant for lunch around noon. I waited for about half an hour, but no one else showed up, so I left. I had to be at the community center by one.”

“Ah yes, your cover story.”

“Actually, I am a teacher,” she huffed. “Or I was before the CIA recruited me.”

He raised an eyebrow. “A teacher who speaks fluent Urdu. I can see why that would be appealing. When were you recruited?”

“Ten months ago.”

“For this assignment?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe. I did a crash course in D.C. and was assigned this mission.”

He nodded.

There was a pause before he said, “I looked into your handler, Jeremy. Couldn’t find anything on him. Do you know where he’s staying?”

“The Marriott,” she replied. “That’s where we stayed the first night I arrived.”

“Unlikely he’s still there.”

“Why would he leave?”

“Too easy to track him down, especially since you saw him there. And it’s expensive. If he’s the Agency’s point man in Pakistan, he’ll have cheaper, less conspicuous accommodation somewhere else. The hotel was for your benefit.”

Okay, that made sense.

“Do you have a phone number for him?”

“No, just an email address.”

“And if there was an emergency, if you didn’t have WiFi or access to your laptop or phone, how would you contact him?”

She fell silent. She wouldn’t be able to. If she didn’t have access to email, she’d be screwed. He hadn’t given her a backup plan.

“Nothing’s going to happen to me,” she grumbled, though she felt shaken. Just a few minutes ago, she thought Omari’s men had broken in. “I’m just observing.”

“Your cover could get blown. You could be kidnapped or held for ransom. It’s not uncommon around here.” He lowered his voice. “A woman traveling alone is especially vulnerable.”

She suddenly felt like a lamb being led to slaughter.

Matthew.

She brightened. She could call him.

“I have my boss’s personal number,” she told him. “I could call him in D.C.”

Strict radio silence.

Matthew’s voice echoed in her mind. But surely, in an emergency...

“You have your boss’s direct number?”

She flushed.

“Well, he’s not just my boss. We’re... friends. He was a father at the school where I taught.”

Too much information. Stitch didn’t need to know that. He had no right to know. But something about his solid, imposing presence made her want to trust him. Hell, she needed to trust him. She was alone out here.

“Did he recruit you?”

She nodded. “He overheard me speaking Urdu to another teacher and introduced himself. We became friends, and then he offered me a job.”

There was another long pause. He sat silently, studying her in the dim light. She knew what he was thinking, and it was true.

“He’s divorced, if you must know,” she said defensively.

He shrugged. “None of my business.”

That’s right. It wasn’t.

“How about you?” she asked, figuring it was time to turn the tables. She was tired of spilling her guts to him. This man had a way of getting information out of her without even trying. Either he was extremely good at his job, or she was terrible at hers. Probably the latter.

“What about me?”

“Omari?” She raised an eyebrow.

He grunted. “Nothing to report. Followed him home after the restaurant, but I had to turn back. Too conspicuous.”

She nodded. Omari’s neighborhood was a no-go zone for strangers. Anyone unfamiliar would stand out immediately.

“So that’s it, then? Nothing to report on either side.”

He got up. “I’m going to give you my number.” He picked up her phone from the table and handed it to her. “Unlock it.”

She held her thumb over the button until the screen lit up. He took it back. Since her bed was little more than a mattress on the floor, she was painfully aware that he could see right down her top, but his eyes stayed on the phone as he typed in his number.

He handed the phone back, and she saved the number under Stitch.

“Why do you call yourself Stitch?” she asked softly.

“I was a Navy medic, once upon a time.”

“Navy?” She’d been wrong, he was a sailor, not a soldier. Not that it mattered.

He gave a nod.

“But not anymore?”

He shook his head. “No, not anymore.”

He didn’t look much like a medic. The unruly hair, the grizzly beard, the hard, rugged features. There wasn’t an ounce of softness in him. And then there was his size. Medical professionals didn’t look like that. This guy could pass for a professional wrestler, with his massive frame, rock-hard body and broad shoulders. Even the loose men’s clothing couldn’t hide how muscular he was, his thick thighs filling out the baggy trousers.

Sailor? Yes. Medic? No.

“So, what are you now?” she asked.

He ignored the question. “If you need help, or you get into trouble, call me.”

“Okay.” She set the phone on the bed beside her.

How ironic that this rough, mercenary-like sailor was the closest thing to an ally she had. He was the only one who’d given her a contact number in case of emergencies. Not even Matthew had done that.

She looked up at him—his hard, angular face, his shadowy, towering presence, and those massive arms. One thing was certain: if she ever got into a tight spot, there was no one else she’d rather have on her side.