Steel Vengeance (Blackthorn Security #6)

Chapter 9

CHAPTER 9

S loane’s heart pounded like one of the submachine guns the guards were carrying. Every step she took brought her closer to the restaurant. Two of the security team stepped out, scanning the street. Omari and his associates would be coming out any second now.

She hugged the wall, staying out of their line of sight. Finally, she reached the rack of scarves. Pulling out her phone, she huddled behind the soft fabric, keeping herself hidden.

Through a small gap, she could see the men exit the restaurant—four of them, dressed in long shalwar kameez with turbans and thick beards. They had to be important, judging by the eight heavily armed guards surrounding them. Each guard gripped a semi-automatic rifle, fingers twitching near the triggers.

Oh, hell. She tried not to think about what those guns could do if they caught her.

Her hands were shaking so badly she had to steady the phone with her other hand. She managed to position it through the scarves, so the lens was clear. It was set on video mode, which was better anyway—you could capture more that way.

Using the screen as a guide, she tracked the four men as they made their way to the waiting vehicles. She got a good look at their faces as they passed, barely two meters from her.

Their bodyguards opened the car doors, and the men slipped inside, disappearing from view. Turning the camera back toward the restaurant, she spotted Omari standing in the shadows. He didn’t come out. Zooming in on his face, she could see the smug expression. The meeting must’ve gone well.

Who were these guys? They looked like they’d crossed the border from Afghanistan, just like the ones she’d seen the other day. Could they be Taliban officials, like Omari? Were they planning something?

A chill ran through her, and she quickly stashed the phone. Maybe Stitch could fill in the blanks.

The vehicles sped off in a cloud of dust, kicking up pebbles as they went. Sloane stayed pressed against the wall, hidden behind the scarves.

Thank God. They were gone, and she was still alive. She was about to head back to Stitch when she heard a shout behind her.

“You! Stop!” The guard yelled in Urdu.

She froze.

Crap. Crap. Crap.

Omari’s men had spotted her.

One of the guards stomped over, his heavy boots clomping on the sidewalk. “What are you doing here?” he barked.

She stared at the ground, too scared to meet his eyes.

This was bad. Really bad. Time to play the helpless woman card.

He repeated the question.

“Shopping,” she whispered, motioning toward the scarves.

The guard eyed her suspiciously, then grabbed her arm. She gasped, trying to pull away, but his grip tightened.

A deep voice behind her said, “There you are! Stupid woman.”

Stitch!

And he was speaking in Urdu. That was a surprise—and damn, he’d nailed the dialect.

The guard whipped around.

“My wife,” Stitch growled. “She’s always wandering off.” He grabbed her other arm, yanking her roughly toward him. The guard released her.

“Apologies,” Stitch muttered, giving a respectful half-bow.

The guard hesitated, looking like he wasn’t entirely sure if he should let her go. But after a moment, he gave a sharp nod and walked away.

Sloane exhaled shakily.

“Come on,” Stitch muttered under his breath. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

“Oh my God.” Sloane leaned against the wall as soon as they rounded the corner, out of sight. “That was close.”

“It was,” Stitch agreed, scanning the street before looking at her. “You okay?”

She took a few shaky breaths, trying to slow her racing heart, then nodded. “Yeah, I think so. Thank you. I thought it was game over.”

“Did you get the shots?”

“Yes.”

“Let me see.”

He didn’t give her much time to recover—just like him. He was all business, all focus, while she was still trying to catch her breath.

“Yeah,” she said, fumbling with her phone before handing it over.

He scrolled straight to the video, his expression unreadable as he watched. His eyes darkened, his jaw tightening with each passing frame. No sign of nerves or hesitation. Just that same quiet intensity he always had, like everything else in the world didn’t exist for him.

Only the mission.

She couldn’t shake the image of the guards with their AK-47s. She’d seen them before during training, but seeing them in the flesh? Different story. Her hands were still shaking from it.

His eyes darkened when the four men came into view. There was something in his expression—recognition, yes, but also something else. Anger. Pain.

“Who are they?” she whispered.

Stitch didn’t answer right away. He watched the video through to the end before speaking, his voice rougher now. “I’m gonna send this to myself, okay?”

She nodded, but that wasn’t good enough anymore. She had to know.

“You know them, don’t you?” she pressed. “You know who they are.”

His jaw clenched, the muscles ticking under his skin. He glanced at her, and for the first time, she saw something raw flicker in his eyes—something he’d been keeping buried deep. “Yeah. I know one of them.”

She waited, sensing there was more.

“He’s a local Taliban drug lord,” he said, but his voice was tight, like the words were knives in his throat.

“Drug lord?” she gasped.

“Yeah,” he ground out. “They control the poppy fields in Helmand Province. Each one’s got a district, taxes the farmers, moves the drugs to labs on the Pakistani border. They’ve got stakes in the distribution network too. It’s big business.”

“In Afghanistan?”

He gave a sharp nod, his gaze flicking away like he didn’t want to look her in the eyes. “Omari handles the distribution to the ports. Ships the heroin and opium out. Most of it heads to the West.”

Sloane blinked, trying to piece it all together. “So... this is about drugs, not terrorism.”

He was silent for a beat, then gave a bitter laugh. “It’s always about both. The drugs fund their operations. It’s all part of the same dirty web.”

Sloane swallowed hard, feeling the weight of his words sink in. Before she could respond, two policemen walked by, heading for the restaurant.

“They’re conveniently late,” Stitch muttered.

He straightened, shaking off the moment, his walls going back up. “Come on, let’s go,” he said, his voice steady again. “We’ll talk back at your place.”