Steel Vengeance (Blackthorn Security #6)

Chapter 11

CHAPTER 11

W hy hadn’t Matthew told her Omari was a drug lord?

Now that she knew, it all made sense. Her mission made sense.

Of course they’d want to keep tabs on him and see who he was working with. That way they could stop the shipment from getting into the United States.

Didn’t he trust her?

She’d read about plausible deniability. Maybe that was it. He was trying to protect her. What she didn’t know, she couldn’t spill.

That’s if she got caught.

And she almost had been. If it weren’t for Stitch...

She’d emailed Jeremy the video clip, like she was supposed to. As of this morning, no reply. So she figured it was business as usual.

Omari seemed different today, almost like he had a spring in his step. He was laughing with his bodyguards, chatting more than usual with the local shopkeepers.

Yesterday’s meeting had gone well. He was happy with the result.

If only she knew what was discussed. If she had details about the shipment, she’d finally have something solid to pass on to Jeremy. And to Matthew.

Matthew.

The man who’d been such a big part of her life six months ago was now just a shadow in her dreams. She missed him, missed his company. He used to show up at her door after work with a bottle of wine. They’d cook together and spend the night wrapped up in each other.

But it didn’t feel as sharp as it used to. Time and distance had dulled the memory of his scent, the feel of him.

And it didn’t help that she hadn’t heard his voice. She’d been here for almost a month, and not a single phone call. Not one text asking if she was okay.

Yeah, he’d insisted on no contact.

But come on, really?

She was out here on her own. The only connection she had was an email address. What good would that do if she got into real trouble?

If Matthew didn’t want to use his personal phone, he could’ve gotten a burner. Everybody else did. Even the sailor had one.

If you need help, call me.

Omari went into the coffee shop with a man she’d seen a few times before. Middle-aged, bearded, and sporting a belly that stuck out like he never missed a meal. Nothing about him seemed out of the ordinary.

The teahouse was across the street, and she took a seat outside, ordering a sweet green tea. She’d wait. Maybe Stitch would show up again like he had yesterday.

But honestly, it was probably better if he didn’t. Omari’s guard had already spotted them together once. Twice would definitely raise suspicions.

She couldn’t play the lost wife act again.

That had been quick thinking on his part, though. He’d sounded so natural, so convincing. The guard hadn’t given her a second thought, just a clueless local woman who’d wandered off where she wasn’t supposed to.

And then there was the ride home. His chest firm and solid against her back, his thighs pressing against hers as they rode. She’d never admit it out loud, but for that brief moment, she’d felt safe. Like nothing could touch her with him around. His body had been a shield, surrounding her.

And that feeling... it was addictive.

When the ride ended, she’d been oddly disappointed. More so when he jumped off the scooter like he couldn’t get away from her fast enough.

For a man built like a tank, his hands had been unexpectedly gentle on her waist.

And now, she couldn’t stop thinking about him in a totally different light.

Not as an enemy. Not even as a partner.

But as a man.

A hulking, rugged, broad-shouldered, hard-as-hell man.

The ride to the community center took less than fifteen minutes.

Sloane parked outside, nodded to the security guard who recognized her, and headed inside. The moment she stepped in, something felt off. It was too quiet. The hallway was empty.

Then she heard a woman’s cry echoing from down the corridor.

Her heart raced as she sprinted toward the sound. It was coming from the classroom where she taught English.

She burst through the open door to find a small group of women gathered around one of the desks.

“What’s going on?”

Aaliyah, the woman who ran the center, looked up, her face tense.

“Fatima’s not well.”

Sloane recognized Fatima immediately. She was one of the regulars in her class. The young woman sat hunched over a desk, clutching her stomach, her face twisted in pain.

“Fatima, what’s wrong?” Sloane asked in Pashto, crouching beside her. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

Fatima shook her head, her skin pale and slick with sweat.

Sloane shot a glance at Aaliyah. “Was it something she ate? Or something she took?”

Fatima let out another agonizing cry, her fingers gripping the desk like a lifeline.

Sloane pressed the back of her hand against Fatima’s forehead—it was burning up. She stood, looking around at the other women. “We have to do something. Does anyone know what’s wrong with her?”

One woman, dressed in a full burqa, stepped forward. “She made a terrible mistake.”

Sloane frowned. “What kind of mistake? Did she take something?”

The woman shook her head, her voice barely a whisper. “No... she tried to get rid of something.”

Fatima let out a pained moan, shaking her head, “No!”

“You need help,” her friend said softly. She glanced up at Sloane. “She’s bleeding. She needs a doctor. Please?—”

Sloane’s gaze dropped to the floor, where a thin line of blood trickled down the leg of the chair. Everything clicked into place.

“You’re pregnant?” Her voice was hushed. “You tried to terminate it?”

The woman in the burqa nodded, tears filling her eyes.

“He wasn’t a real doctor,” her friend said. “He hurt her. I made him stop, but... I didn’t know what else to do. She can’t go home. Her husband will kill her.”

Sloane’s stomach twisted. Surely her husband wasn’t that cruel. “Why will he be upset?” Then she got it. “It’s not his baby?”

Fatima shook her head, her face crumpling in pain.

Shit. In that case, he might really kill her.

The bleeding was getting worse. She needed medical help, and fast.

“We have to call an ambulance.” Sloane stood up. “She needs a hospital.”

Fatima grabbed her hand, her grip weak but desperate. “Please, no.”

Her friend’s voice cracked. “If we take her to the hospital, they’ll notify her husband. So will any real doctor.”

Sloane bit her lip. They couldn’t leave her like this. She’d bleed out, and the baby—if it wasn’t already gone—would be next.

The women looked at each other helplessly, the room filling with whispers. Fatima’s cries grew louder, and more women gathered at the door. The lesson was supposed to start soon.

Sloane’s heart raced. She jumped to her feet.

“I know a medic,” She blurted the words without thinking.

Everyone turned to look at her.

“He’s... a friend,” she continued, even though that wasn’t at all what they were. “An American. He won’t tell anyone.”

Aaliyah gave a quick nod. “Can you call him?”

“I think so.”

Her fingers shook as she pulled out her phone and dialed Stitch’s number.

Please, pick up, she prayed.

After a few rings, he did.

“Sloane? You okay?” How did he know it was her?

“Hi, Stitch.” His name sounded strange on her lips. She’d never actually said it to his face, only in her head when she thought about him. “There’s a medical emergency at the center. I need your expertise.”

There was a pause. “What happened? Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine. It’s not me.” She took a deep breath, glancing at Fatima, who looked even paler now. “There’s a woman here who really needs your help.”

“What’s wrong with her?” His voice had shifted into something sharp, focused.

Sloane exhaled, relieved he wasn’t saying no. “She tried to terminate an unwanted pregnancy, but he wasn’t qualified, and now she’s bleeding out. I don’t think she has much time.”

There was no hesitation. “I’ll be there as soon as I can. I need to pick up some supplies first. Give me twenty minutes.”

The line went dead.

“He’s coming,” Sloane told the other women. She just hoped twenty minutes wouldn’t be too late.

When Stitch arrived, Fatima was drenched in sweat, moaning and barely coherent.

It didn’t look good.

“Thank God you’re here,” Sloane said as he strode into the room. “She’s in a bad way.”

They’d eased Fatima onto the floor, but it was clear she was in serious pain.

“Everyone back,” Stitch barked, dropping to his knees. The women quickly scattered.

“Can you get them out of here?” he asked Sloane without looking up.

She nodded and ushered the women out of the room. As soon as they were gone, Stitch opened his rucksack, pulling out a military-grade medical kit, a bottle of disinfectant, and other supplies she didn’t recognize.

With the room clear, he got to work.

“What’s her name?”

“Fatima,” Sloane replied, standing at the side, feeling helpless.

“Fatima, can you hear me?” he asked, his voice calm.

Fatima nodded weakly, her tear-filled eyes half-closed.

“I’m going to help you. I’ll give you something for the pain, alright?”

Another nod.

Sloane held her breath as he pulled out a syringe and small vial of medication. With practiced precision, he drew up the liquid and injected it into Fatima’s arm, all while murmuring reassurances in a calm, steady voice.

Sloane couldn’t look away. It was like watching a completely different man. The aggression, the barely contained rage that seemed to define him, was gone. In its place was someone calm, focused, and gentle. His hands moved with precision, his tone soft and controlled.

Fatima’s moans quieted, her body relaxing as the pain faded. Her eyes fluttered shut.

“Is she going to be okay?” Sloane whispered, afraid to hear the answer.

“Too soon to tell,” he said, his tone grim.

He lifted Fatima’s skirts, and Sloane quickly looked away, feeling the sudden awkwardness. “Should I wait outside?”

“Can you get me some warm water and a cloth for the blood?” he asked instead, his voice even.

Sloane nodded and hurried out. When she returned with the water and cloth, he was already working, bent over Fatima and stitching her up.

“Whoever did this was a butcher,” he muttered, his eyes focused on the task at hand.

Sloane set the water and cloth beside him. “Will she be okay?”

“She will now,” he said with a sharp nod, his focus never breaking.

“And the baby?” Sloane asked, almost afraid of the answer.

“The baby’s fine. He didn’t get that far, thank God. He just tore her up trying.” He sighed, wiping the blood away with the cloth. “I’ve stopped the bleeding. She’ll be sore, but she’s going to make it.”

Sloane let out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding. “That’s great.”

She watched as he cleaned the area, applied antiseptic, and covered the wounds with gauze dressings. “I’ve given her antibiotics to ward off infection, but she should recover fully.”

Sloane stared at him, feeling a wave of admiration. What he’d done was nothing short of amazing. He’d saved Fatima’s life—and her unborn child’s.

He pulled her skirt back down and packed up his medical supplies. “She needs rest. Someone should take her home.”

“She can’t go home,” Sloane whispered. “It wasn’t her husband’s baby.”

Stitch’s brows shot up in surprise. They both knew what that meant here. Infidelity could get her killed. Honor killings were a grim reality, and going home like this could be a death sentence.

“She can stay here until she’s well enough to move,” Aaliyah said, stepping into the room. She shook Stitch’s hand firmly. “Thank you so much, doctor.”

He gave a curt nod and stood up. “Let’s get her to a bed.”

“Can I help?” Sloane asked as he bent down to lift Fatima.

“No, just lead the way.”

Stitch scooped Fatima up effortlessly, as if she weighed nothing. He followed Sloane down the hallway to a small room at the end. Inside, there was a simple bed, a side table, and a thin wardrobe. A worn rug covered part of the floor.

He laid Fatima gently on the bed.

“Make sure she stays hydrated,” he told Aaliyah. “She’ll be sore for a few days, but as long as she stays off her feet, she’ll be fine.”

Aaliyah nodded, already moving to Fatima’s side. “We’ll take good care of her.”

“Thank you,” Fatima’s friend whispered, her eyes filled with tears as she grabbed Stitch’s hand. “Thank you for saving her.”

"Koi baat nahi," he replied in Urdu. "You’re welcome."

Sloane walked him to the door.

"That was an amazing thing you did," Sloane said, a little in awe.

He gave a small smile, the first she’d seen from him.

“Just happy I could help.”

“Sorry I pulled you away from Omari.”

The smile disappeared, and his eyes went cold. She instantly regretted bringing up the Afghan drug lord. She much preferred the calm, confident doctor with his steady hands over the grumpy, testosterone-fueled grizzly bear he usually was.

“No problem. He’s holed up at home anyway.”

“Will I see you tonight?” she asked softly.

He hesitated. “I don’t think there’s any need, do you?”

Reluctantly, she shook her head. “No, nothing out of the ordinary happened this morning.”

“Okay, then. I’ll catch you tomorrow.”

He didn’t say when.

“Okay.”

With a sinking heart, she watched him stride back to his motorcycle, rucksack slung over his back.