Steel Vengeance (Blackthorn Security #6)

Chapter 10

CHAPTER 10

H is place was closer, but Stitch wasn’t about to compromise the Peshawar safehouse—or Mrs. Bhatti—by bringing a CIA agent there.

He was on foot, having decided against renting a motorbike that morning. The plan had been simple: finish his surveillance detail, head home, then meet up with Sloane for their evening briefing.

“You want a ride?” she asked when they reached her scooter.

“Sure,” he said. Beats walking in this heat—and they needed to talk anyway.

Sloane pulled off her hijab and slipped on her helmet, fastening it under her chin. Her dark hair spilled down her back. She stuffed the headscarf into her bag and straddled the scooter.

He caught himself staring at the way her ass filled the seat.

“You coming?”

He hesitated a moment, then climbed on behind her.

The little 50cc Honda sank under his weight but fired up without a problem. He rested his hands on her waist, feeling the dip of her curves, the way her hips flared out beneath his fingers.

Lord help him.

They chugged the four blocks to her place, and every single meter was torture. Every bump sent her sliding back against him, her ass pressing into his thighs. He prayed to God he wouldn’t pop a hard-on.

Her hair whipped in the wind, brushing softly across his face. He could have leaned back, given her some space, but he didn’t.

It had been so damn long since he’d held a woman that he’d forgotten what it felt like. Just for a moment, the anger and grief he carried with him everywhere faded, replaced by the feel of her body against his.

Desire crept in, and by the time they reached her apartment, he was uncomfortably hard. He hadn’t thought that part of him still worked.

“Thanks for the ride,” he said quickly, hopping off the back of the scooter before she even killed the ignition. Hopefully, she hadn’t noticed.

She took off her helmet and smiled, shaking her hair loose. Now that he knew how soft it was, he had this urge to bury his hands in it. What the hell was wrong with him? One ride on a moped, and this woman had him all twisted up. He shouldn’t be feeling this way. It wasn’t right.

But his body didn’t seem to agree.

“I didn’t think we were gonna make it at one point,” she said, grinning. “You’re not exactly a light passenger.”

He snorted. “These machines are built to last.”

She wheeled the scooter into an open-fronted butcher shop. “The owner lets me park it here,” she explained.

Stitch did a quick scan of the street. The butcher was busy with a customer, slicing meat. Shoppers, mostly men, moved up and down the street with purpose. A truck was parked further up, outside what looked like a hardware store.

No one was watching them. Just two locals on a bike in a busy part of town. Satisfied, he followed her inside.

Her apartment was on the second floor. The wooden staircase groaned as they climbed, passing several closed doors. The only light came from the windows on each landing, the glass long gone.

“Come on in.” She pushed the door open.

He stepped inside and went straight to the window, checking the street again. Still clear.

“Are you always this paranoid?” she asked, tossing her bag on the bed.

“Occupational hazard,” he grunted.

She smiled, and for a split second, everything felt okay. Like the world wasn’t a mess. But it was.

“I guess so. Maybe I’m not paranoid enough yet, but I’m still learning this whole undercover gig. Want some tea?”

He nodded. Tea would be perfect.

While she headed into the kitchen, he sat down at the table and looked around. This was the first time he’d seen the place in daylight. It was spacious, but empty. The bed was just a mattress on a low wooden frame. There was a small table, a couple of chairs, and a wardrobe. No pictures, no decorations. Just the essentials.

“Did Jeremy find this place?” he called. “Or did you?”

“Jeremy,” she replied over the sound of boiling water.

Definitely needed to keep an eye on that.

She came back with two cups of tea and sat across from him. The feel of her body against his was fading, and as it did, the anger resurfaced. His muscles tensed as he thought about Omari and the others.

Rasul Ghani.

That was the guy he recognized. Ruthless Taliban leader and all-around piece of shit.

He’d have loved to take them both out today, but the timing wasn’t right. He wouldn’t have gotten away clean, and Sloane would’ve been caught in the crossfire.

“Where’d you learn to speak Urdu?” she asked, studying him from over her cup, her dark eyes watching him carefully.

“I’ve spent some time in the Middle East.”

Ten years, but who’s counting?

“You speak it well,” she murmured. “Like a local.”

He reached for his tea, hoping she’d drop it.

“Are you going to tell me about the drug smuggling?”

“It’s how the Taliban fund their militia.”

“I’ve heard that. I just didn’t expect Omari to be involved.”

He was more than involved.

“At first, they taxed the poppy farmers. Now they’re a full-blown cartel, handling everything from production to distribution. Afghanistan supplies most of the world’s heroin.”

She was hanging on every word. “And Omari?”

“He’s the logistics guy. Runs the distribution network, the labs on the border, and the trafficking of raw opium and heroin. The guys he met with today are regional leaders, in charge of production and taxing in their areas.”

“How do you know so much about it?” she asked. “Is the military involved?”

He shook his head. “No. I’m not military anymore. Haven’t been for a while.”

She frowned. “So, how do you know all this?”

Sunlight streamed through the window. It was stifling hot and sweat gathered on his brow. He wiped it away with his sleeve.

“I’ve been researching the network... ever since...” He trailed off, unable to finish the sentence.

“Ever since?” she pressed gently.

“It’s personal.” He wasn’t going to explain it to her. But one thing was for sure—he recognized one of those men. He’d been after him for months. Him and Omari.

The silence stretched. She watched him carefully. He took a sip of tea, not wanting to meet her eyes.

“Are you going to kill them?” she asked, her voice quiet but direct.

He choked on his tea, coughing. “What makes you say that?”

“I saw it in your eyes the first time we talked about Omari.”

He frowned. “What did you see in my eyes?”

She set her cup down. “I’m good at reading people. When we met, I saw the way you reacted to his name. You hate him. He’s done something to hurt you. I could see the anger in your eyes.” She paused, searching his face. “And something else. Grief, maybe?”

His head snapped up. “I didn’t realize it was that obvious.”

He was usually good at hiding his emotions. But this woman, a novice, had seen through him from the start.

Not. Good.

“So, are you?” she whispered.

“Am I what?”

“Going to kill him?” She held his gaze. “I know you want to.”

Damn. He couldn’t hide it from her.

“Maybe,” he admitted, his voice low.

Without a fucking doubt.

He stared down into his cup. “If I can get him alone. He’s always surrounded by guards.”

The silence stretched again.

“What did he do to you?” she asked softly.

He didn’t answer.

Killed my wife. My wife’s family. My village.

How could he explain that to her? He hadn’t even told his brothers in arms. Fellow SEAL operators he’d trusted with his life didn’t know the whole story.

The silence hung heavy between them. Finally, she changed the subject.

“What about the drugs?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Not my problem.”

“Don’t you care that they’re shipping heroin to the West? Kids are gonna get hooked. Some of them will die.”

“If I take out Omari and Ghani, it’ll slow things down.”

“Until they get replaced,” she pointed out. “Guys like that always have deputies waiting to step up.”

She was right. He knew it. And yeah, the drugs mattered. But not enough to stop him from pulling the trigger when the time came.

“They’re gearing up to move a shipment, aren’t they? That’s why those men met with Omari today,” she said.

He didn’t respond. But she was right about that too.

She might be a rookie, but he could see why her boss had recruited her. The language skills coupled with her natural intuitiveness were valuable assets in any field agent.

“Yeah, those men were here to talk logistics. I’d say there’s a deal going down. A new shipment.”

“Maybe the Agency is trying to stop it?” Her eyes lit up. “Perhaps that’s why they have me watching Omari.”

“Could be.”

Sure, why not? Let her feed them intel on Omari’s agenda, find out when things are happening and swoop in and bust the shipment. That was more the DEA’s remit, mind you, but what did he know? The internal workings of the CIA were a mystery to him.

“I just don’t know why they couldn’t have told me that in the first place?” Hurt flashed across her face.

She was thinking about her boss, the man who’d recruited her. Matthew.

“Perhaps they will now,” he said. “Once you show them what you’ve got.”

She nodded, but he could see she wasn’t convinced.

“What now?” She cradled the teacup. “Are we still working together on this, or have you got what you wanted?”

Now he knew what Omari and the CIA were up to, there was no reason to keep working with Sloane. But for reasons he wasn’t about to get into, he was reluctant to call it quits.

“It wouldn’t hurt to find out a bit more about this shipment,” he murmured, after a beat.

She exhaled, unable to hide her relief. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

His stomach did a funny twisty thing, and he hoped he wasn’t making the wrong decision. This wasn’t his fight. Omari and Ghani were going down no matter what.

It was late when Stitch finally made it back to the safehouse. He’d walked the four blocks from Sloane’s apartment to town, then all the way back to Mrs. Bhatti’s. His landlady was already in bed, so he made himself a quick snack, showered, and collapsed onto his mattress.

Had sticking with Sloane been a mistake?

He had what he came for. He knew who she was, who she worked for, and exactly what Omari and his cartel buddies were up to.

Another shipment was on the way.

Scum. That’s all they were. Drug dealers. The kind who’d burn entire villages to the ground just to keep their operation running smoothly. He clenched his fists, his entire body tensing with the rage that simmered just beneath the surface.

Breathe.

Let it go.

But he couldn’t. He never could. That anger was the only thing holding him together. Without it, he had nothing left. Soraya, his family, his home... all of it gone.

Revenge was his only companion now. The only thing driving him forward. Without it, who the hell was he?

But then, in the middle of the haze, Sloane’s face flashed in his mind. Her laughing brown eyes. Those soft, cherry-red lips—sensual, kissable.

He squeezed his eyes shut.

No.

Hell no.

He couldn’t be thinking about another woman. Not now.

It was too soon.

It’s been over a year, a voice whispered in the back of his mind. But he shut it down. Time didn’t matter. It was still too soon.

So why the hell was his body responding to her like that?

A year without sex will do that to you, he reasoned. It was biology, nothing more. When you’re face-to-face with a woman like Sloane, your body reacted. Simple as that.

Even if his body was ready, his heart sure as hell wasn’t. He needed to walk away. Let her handle her mission by herself.

Staying would only make things worse. It would complicate everything. She’d fail because of him. He already knew that much. In the end, he’d disappoint her like he disappointed everyone.

Omari would be dead.

Her mission would be over.

She’d get sent back to D.C.

Then what?

Not my problem.

He rolled over, pushing the sheets off. It was a hot, sticky night, and he was sweating again. All he seemed to do in this goddamn country was sweat.

Eventually, the exhaustion took over, and he sank into a restless sleep.

Soraya, laughing up at him. Her beautiful face framed by the sunlight, her kohled eyes sparkling with love and joy. Her hands cradled her swollen belly, glowing with life.

“I’m pregnant,” she whispered.

Then, without warning, flames erupted around them.

Blinding. Scorching.

The air turned to fire. Heat seared his skin. Smoke clawed its way into his lungs, choking him. He gasped for air, but the smoke filled him, suffocating him from the inside out. He spun around, desperate to find Soraya, but she was gone.

No. No! Where was she?

He yelled her name, but his voice was swallowed by the roar of the flames. The world burned around him. The walls of his home crumbled, turning to ash and embers. His heart pounded in his chest as panic gripped him.

Through the smoke, another face appeared. Sloane, untouched by the flames, smiling calmly as if the world wasn’t burning around them.

“You coming?” she asked, her hand outstretched, as if they weren’t surrounded by hell.

He hesitated, his body torn between running back into the fire to find Soraya or following Sloane into the unknown.

The heat blistered his skin, unbearable. The smoke seared his throat.

He reached for Sloane’s hand.

He woke up with a start.

What the fuck?

He was drenched in perspiration. The room was stuffy, oppressively so. He flung open the window and gasped in the warm, night air.

Please, no.

He couldn’t let Soraya’s memory fade. He had to hold onto it for all he was worth. She couldn’t leave him. He wasn’t ready.

As he whispered her name into the darkness, he knew he couldn’t wait any longer.

Tomorrow he would kill Omari.