Steel Vengeance (Blackthorn Security #6)

Chapter 12

CHAPTER 12

S titch sat at the desk in his room, his Glock in hand. He double-checked that the chamber was clear, then popped out the magazine. Pulling back the slide, he released the lever and slid it off the front, disassembling the gun piece by piece. He laid the slide, barrel, recoil spring, and frame out in front of him.

Using a small brush and cleaning fluid, he worked methodically, cleaning each part before drying them with a rag. The motions were second nature—he’d done this so many times, he could probably do it in his sleep.

The weapon gleamed, clean and ready on the table.

He’d almost used it today. Before Sloane’s call.

How ironic was that?

Instead of taking a life, he’d saved one.

Two, actually. He thought of Fatima’s unborn child.

It felt good to help them. It had been a long time since he’d used his medical skills—since his village was destroyed. After that, there hadn’t been a reason. Not until today.

From village doctor to vigilante. His life had flipped in an instant.

His medical knowledge had been the only reason they let him stay when he left the military. They’d needed him—badly—in that isolated village.

That’s when he’d met Soraya.

He tensed, bracing for the wave of pain and grief that always followed thoughts of her. But this time, it didn’t hit as hard. The ache was still there, but it wasn’t as crushing.

Frowning, he reassembled the Glock. The familiar clunk of steel sliding into place steadied his mind.

Tomorrow, he wouldn’t be distracted. Omari had been granted one day’s grace, thanks to a woman who’d needed him.

One day.

Then it’d be Game Over for the drug lord.

Stitch met Sloane at the teahouse around midday.

She smiled when she saw him. He didn’t smile back. He was here to do a job, and nothing was going to get in his way.

Didn’t matter how good she looked in that copper scarf she’d picked up the other day, or how the color made her eyes flash with golden highlights.

“Omari inside?” he asked, his voice gruff.

“Yeah, they’ve been there since eleven.”

“They?” He raised an eyebrow.

“He brought the whole family today,” she said. “Wife and five kids.”

For fuck’s sake.

“Must be some kind of special occasion,” Sloane added. “His wife showed up with a bunch of balloons. Probably one of the kids’ birthdays.”

Stitch clenched his jaw. That was a problem. Taking Omari out with his family around would be way harder. He wasn’t about to traumatize the guy’s kids by making them watch their dad get shot. That was a memory no kid should carry.

He wasn’t that heartless.

Still, today was the day. No more waiting.

Somehow, he’d find a way.

He sat down, ordered some tea, and casually tapped the Glock in his pocket. The holster was slim, snug, hidden well under his long kameez. No one would spot it, not unless they were looking for it.

“Do you miss being a medic?” Her question caught him off guard.

“I guess I miss it sometimes,” he said, his voice low. “It was mostly trauma care. Bullet wounds, shrapnel, burns—patching guys up fast, trying to keep them alive long enough to get to a field hospital. Not the easiest job in the world.”

She hesitated, and he got the impression she wanted to say something but was holding back.

“What?” he asked.

“You’re not just a sailor, are you?”

He tensed. “What makes you say that?”

She shrugged. “I met some navy guys during my training course. They don’t teach you guys that level of expertise.”

He sucked in a breath. Too damn observant for her own good. “No, I wasn’t just a sailor.”

“Marine? Special ops?”

“Something like that.” He wasn’t about to elaborate.

There was a brief pause.

“When’s the last time you did any medical work?” He knew she was just making conversation, get him talking.

The waiter placed his tea in front of him, but he didn’t touch it. Instead, he stared into the steam. “About a year ago.”

The day his world had turned to hell. The village had been a massacre site—bodies strewn everywhere. He’d tried to save them, but it was impossible. The screams, the blood... people he’d known, kids he’d treated for simple scrapes and fevers, now lying lifeless in the dirt. He could still hear their voices, still see the faces of those he couldn’t get to in time.

He’d done what he could, but it hadn’t been enough.

It was never enough.

She nodded thoughtfully, unaware of the nightmare he'd just relived. “Is that when you started digging into Omari and his drug network?”

His eyes stayed glued to the coffee shop across the road. “Yeah.”

“Is that when it happened?”

His pulse quickened and he shot her a sharp glance. “When what happened?”

She couldn’t possibly know.

“Whatever it was that Omari did to you.”

He exhaled slowly. She didn’t know. She was just reading him again, something she was annoyingly good at.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “I’m not trying to pry. It’s just... you were incredible with Fatima yesterday. I can’t figure out why you’d want to throw that away.”

He frowned. “What makes you think I’m throwing anything away?”

She glanced toward the coffee shop. “Omari.”

He ran a hand through his hair, irritation rising. The last thing he needed was her in his head. Not now, when he was this close.

“Look, my business with Omari is just that—my business. It’s got nothing to do with you. I don’t want you involved.”

“Except I am involved,” she said quietly. “Omari’s my target. Whatever happens to him, I have to report it.”

He shrugged. “Do what you gotta do.”

It wouldn’t matter then.

“I will,” she said. “But I’d rather not have to report that Omari was assassinated by a U.S. Marine, or whoever you are, who got himself arrested—or more likely, gunned down by Omari’s bodyguards.”

He stayed quiet, his focus locked on the café across the street.

“I can feel it coming off you,” she said, getting to her feet. “Tension. Anger. It’s almost suffocating.”

“You don’t have to stick around. Your shift’s over.” His voice was hard.

She slung her bag over her shoulder. “You’re right, I don’t. I’m leaving. Just remember, whatever you do, there’ll be consequences. Maybe you won’t be around to face them, but others will. His kids. His wife. Me.”

He kept his gaze forward, refusing to look at her.

She sighed softly. “Good luck, Stitch.”

And she walked away.

By the time Omari and his family finally left the coffee shop, Stitch was in the tobacconist next door. His plan was simple: wait for the kids to get in the vehicle, then step out and take the shot. If everything went smoothly amidst the chaos, he’d slip out the back into the parallel street where his motorcycle was parked.

The escape route was clear. The back door was already open, providing an easy exit to the street behind. Plus, the store itself gave him cover. He could stay hidden while lining up the perfect shot.

He only needed one.

A blacked-out SUV pulled up outside the café. Stitch’s hand slid into his pocket. No need to pull his weapon just yet—no sense in spooking the customers inside the shop. If they panicked, it could blow his whole chance.

The door opened, and two security guards stepped out, scanning the street. Stitch pretended to be checking out a hookah on display out front.

The guards signaled for the family to come out.

The kids came first, running out, all hyper from cake and sugar. The driver opened the back door, but they didn’t hop in. Instead, they ran up and down the sidewalk, pushing and shoving each other.

“Come on,” he muttered under his breath. “Get in the damn car.”

He didn’t want to do this in front of the kids.

Omari’s wife came out next, chatting with another woman. Sloane hadn’t mentioned there’d be another family with them. Great. That meant there’d be another man to deal with too.

He waited, but no men appeared.

Where the hell were they?

Finally, the kids piled into the car, and the wife said her goodbyes, getting into the front seat next to the driver. No room for Omari.

The SUV drove off, and Stitch let out a quiet sigh of relief.

The woman stayed behind on the sidewalk, waiting for her husband. A few more security guards stepped out, and then finally, Omari and another man appeared.

“Get out of the way,” Stitch grumbled, as the woman and her husband stood in his line of sight. With the wife and kids gone, this was his chance. He pulled his Glock out of his pocket and took aim, arm stretched just outside the shop door. No one inside had any clue what was happening.

“Move, dammit.”

After what felt like forever, the couple said their goodbyes and started walking down the street. Omari was now alone, except for his four guards, but Stitch had a clear shot.

His heart beat slow and steady as adrenaline flooded his veins.

This was it. The calm before the storm.

His pulse stayed even—he’d been trained for moments like this his whole life.

Then, a woman screamed.

The guards all snapped their heads toward him, hands going for their guns. It was now or never. He was just about to squeeze the trigger when Sloane’s voice hissed, “Not now. They’ll kill you.”

She yanked his arm and pulled him through the store toward the back exit. The guards were already moving toward the tobacco shop. They had seconds.

“Go!” she shouted. “I’ll meet you at my place.”

He didn’t have time to argue. He jumped on her scooter and sped off down the street. In his rearview mirror, he saw Sloane disappear into the crowd just as the four guards burst out onto the street.

By the time they realized what had happened, he was already gone.