Steel Vengeance (Blackthorn Security #6)

Chapter 8

CHAPTER 8

S titch felt an almost magnetic pull as she stared up at him, her lips parted like she’d been about to say something but changed her mind. Her pale skin glowed in the dim light, dark hair messy and tangled around her face.

And that damn nightgown.

Jesus.

He’d have to come earlier next time. He couldn’t handle seeing her in that slinky thing, barely covering her, her breasts practically spilling out, nipples hard under the gold fabric. It was screwing with his head.

A few inches forward, and he could kiss her. Feel her soft body melt into his.

Shocked by his own thoughts, he took a step back.

“Where are you staying?” she asked.

He hesitated. “Not far. I’ve got a contact here.”

“Do you know Peshawar well?”

She wasn’t looking at him with fear anymore—just curiosity. He’d lost his edge. That’s what happened when you went soft. The damsel-in-distress thing had gotten to him.

“I’ve been here before,” he said, not offering more. She didn’t need to know the details.

But what if she gave his number to her handler? They could track him.

Shit. He hadn’t thought that through. He blamed that gold nightgown and what was underneath it.

It was a burner phone, anyway. Easy to ditch if needed. No way it could be traced back to him.

On the plus side, if Omari or his goons figured her out, she’d let him know. Made sense to have a way to contact him.

But that wasn’t the real reason he’d done it.

She was alone. Totally alone. Her handler didn’t give a damn about her, that much was obvious. Her boss probably didn’t either. Hell, maybe not even her lover , whoever the hell that was. How could they send her out here on her own with no backup? No support. Just a damn email address.

A naive teacher plucked straight out of a school—or maybe seduced—given a crash course in weapons and surveillance, then dropped into a volatile part of Pakistan to follow a potential terrorist on a CIA watchlist.

No way in hell.

Something else was going on here. Something they hadn’t told her. And he was damn sure going to find out what it was.

The next day, Stitch watched as Sloane sat at a teahouse across the road from the restaurant Omari and his crew had disappeared into. Same place as yesterday. Same time. Noon.

He blended into a crowd of men by a fruit stall, but his eyes were locked on the restaurant. Something was about to go down.

The "Closed" sign was up on the restaurant door—he’d seen it earlier. Two of Omari’s men stood outside, hands behind their backs, probably gripping weapons. Their heads moved back and forth like radar, scanning for any incoming trouble.

He frowned when he spotted Sloane. She was right across the street, smack in the line of fire.

He didn’t want her to know he was watching her, but if things got ugly, he couldn’t let her get caught in the crossfire. So, he left the stall and headed to the teahouse.

Her eyes widened when she saw him.

“What are you doing here?”

“Mind if I join you?”

She shrugged. “Sure, but it’s my watch.”

“I know. Did you notice the ‘Closed’ sign and the guards?”

She nodded. “Yeah. I think they’re expecting someone.”

Almost certainly.

“Do you have your weapon with you?” he asked.

She shook her head. “No, I don’t carry it on surveillance. It’s just for protection at the apartment. Why?”

He glanced at the two men guarding the door.

“I think something’s about to go down.”

She stared at him. “What makes you say that?”

“I don’t know. Call it a gut feeling.”

Just then, three black SUVs rolled down the street, windows tinted, and dust covered.

“Here we go,” he muttered. “Showtime.”

Sloane stiffened beside him.

The convoy pulled up in front of the restaurant, blocking their view of the entrance. Four men jumped out of the first vehicle, guns in hand, making no effort to hide them. Any nearby shoppers scattered.

The armed men set up a perimeter around the convoy.

“Holy shit,” Sloane whispered, reaching for her phone, but he clamped a hand on her arm.

“Not now.”

The back doors of the second and third SUVs opened, and two men with turbans stepped out of each, flanked by bodyguards.

“I can’t get a visual,” Stitch murmured, trying not to make it obvious by craning his neck.

“Me neither,” Sloane whispered back.

Moments later, the four VIPs were ushered into the restaurant, along with a few guards. The rest stayed outside, watching over the SUVs.

“Who are they?”

Stitch clenched his jaw. He had a good idea but wasn’t about to tell her. “No clue. Maybe Afghans. I didn’t get a look at their faces.”

“I need a photo,” Sloane whispered. “This is huge.”

“It’s too risky from here,” he said. “We’ll have to wait for them to come out.”

“But I won’t get a clear shot with the cars in the way,” she complained.

He thought for a second. “Over there.” He nodded toward a shop next to the restaurant. It sold all kinds of cheap stuff, with racks of scarves, hats, and sunglasses out on the sidewalk. “If you can get behind the scarves, you might be able to snap a few shots without drawing attention. I doubt they’ll notice.”

“That’s risky,” she breathed.

Stitch met her gaze. “Yeah, but if you want the shot…”

He needed that shot too. It was the only way he could confirm his hunch about who they were.

She hesitated, eyes darting between him and the shop.

“Okay,” she finally said.

Forty minutes had passed, and still no one had come out. Other than the guards, the street was deserted. No one was dumb enough to walk anywhere near that restaurant.

“We’d better move.” Stitch stood up. “Time to get into position.”

She slung her bag over her shoulder. “They could be in there for a while.”

“Yeah, but we’re too exposed sitting out here. Let’s head toward the fruit stalls. More cover, and we can still see the restaurant.”

She followed, and he was glad to see she didn’t glance back at the guards watching them.

“Got another scarf or something in your bag to change your appearance?” he asked.

“You mean because they’ve already seen us?”

He nodded. “Yeah. Don’t want them recognizing you if you walk back this way again.”

“I can buy one from the store.” She nodded toward a shop selling tunics, burqas, and headscarves.

He watched as she bought a midnight blue hijab and slipped it on in front of a mirror. It covered her dark hair and made her skin look even paler, more translucent.

“Good.” He looked away before his thoughts could go further.

They crossed the street and sat down on a wooden bench near the fruit sellers. Her thigh brushed against his, and he jolted like he’d been shocked.

“Sorry,” she murmured, giving him an odd look.

Shit, he had to get a grip. She had him on edge, through no fault of her own.

He shifted to give her more space. Physical contact wasn’t something he was used to anymore. It had been too long, and he’d forgotten what it felt like to have a woman touch him—even accidentally.

He leaned back, keeping the restaurant in his peripheral vision. The minutes dragged by. He could feel the tension coming off her in waves as she shifted, crossing and uncrossing her legs.

“You don’t have to be here,” he said quietly.

She shook her head. “We need that photo, right?”

He couldn’t argue with that. “It would help.”

She took a deep breath. “I’ll do it. I’m the only one who can. That’s why I’m here—to watch and report.” She was brave, holding it together despite her obvious fear.

“It’ll be fine,” he reassured her. “I’ve got your back.”

She exhaled softly. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

Silence fell again. The waiting was always the worst part.

“What made you join the Army?” Her voice was soft, breaking the tension. He could tell she needed to talk, needed something to keep the nerves at bay. “I mean, if you were studying to be a doctor.”

He hesitated. Normally, he wouldn’t talk about personal stuff—especially not with a foreign operative. Anything he said could be twisted, used as leverage down the line. But Sloane didn’t give off that vibe. She wasn’t playing games.

“It was the Navy, not the Army,” he corrected, but not unkindly. “I always wanted to be an operator, but I was interested in medicine too. Both my parents were doctors, so there was pressure to follow in their footsteps.” He paused, then added, “I dropped out of med school and signed up. Figured I could have the best of both worlds.”

“And did you?” Her eyes searched his face.

He shrugged. “Yeah. They gave me medical training, but not your typical stuff—trauma medicine, the kind you use when the bullets start flying and there’s no hospital around. It was the best decision I ever made.”

“Why are you here?” she whispered. “Are you keeping Omari under surveillance too?”

He grimaced. “Something like that.”

Just then, the door to the restaurant opened.

“That’s your cue,” he muttered.

She stood and casually walked up the road toward the scarf stall. Stitch slid his hand into his pocket, fingers brushing his Glock. He hoped to hell he wouldn’t have to use it.