Steel Vengeance (Blackthorn Security #6)

Chapter 14

CHAPTER 14

T he graveyard was overgrown and forgotten, like it had been lost to time. Crumbling crypts with stone arches jutted up from the waist-high grass. Some were falling apart, rubble piled up around them. Tombstones leaned at odd angles, barely visible through the brush, and in the distance, purple hills rolled lazily, dotted with dried shrubs and bare trees.

It was a sad place. Isolated.

A perfect spot for a killing.

Stitch had gotten there early. According to Sloane, Omari left home at two for his weekly visit to the gravesite, and the drive took about half an hour.

It was already 2:15. He’d been waiting for 20 minutes, holed up in a hollowed-out crypt at the far end of the graveyard where the land blended into the hills. There wasn’t much of a border—just a mess of weeds and crumbling stone swallowed by the wilderness years ago.

The crypt was big enough to keep him hidden but small enough to be overlooked. Other crypts were scattered around, some with arches still standing, some collapsed into ruins.

Sloane didn’t know exactly where Omari went when he came here, only that he was dropped off at the entrance and walked in alone. Always alone.

Stitch wasn’t surprised. The place was deserted except for the dead, and even they seemed forgotten.

Who was Omari visiting? His parents? Grandparents?

Stitch settled deeper into the shadows, letting the tall grass and the crypt keep him out of sight. Fitting that the drug lord would die near his ancestors.

He checked his watch. 2:20.

Footsteps. Someone walking through the grass. Stitch leaned forward, keeping to the shadows. Was it Omari? A little early, but maybe.

He crawled to get a better look—and his heart sank.

Shit.

It wasn’t Omari.

Instead of the Afghan drug lord, a white guy with reddish hair walked casually along the path, dressed in chinos and a white shirt. Definitely a westerner, and definitely not trying to blend in.

Who the hell was this? What was he doing here?

The guy whistled softly to himself as he checked out the tombstones, pausing to read the inscriptions before moving on. Most of the writing was in Arabic, which told Stitch a lot.

Should he scare the guy off? Tell him to get lost before Omari showed up?

Then he heard tires crunch on gravel. Stitch ducked out of sight.

Too late.

This was happening, whether this guy was here or not.

Omari’s voice cut through the stillness, telling his driver to wait. Then he appeared, his white tunic stark against the dead grass.

The red-haired guy turned around at the sound of someone approaching.

Maybe Omari would tell him to get lost. Stitch could only hope.

He wanted Omari to himself.

He wanted that murdering bastard to know why he was going to die—and exactly who was pulling the trigger.

Voices. The two men were talking.

Stitch watched from his hiding spot.

What the hell? They shook hands.

He couldn’t hear much, but it was clear—they knew each other.

It hit him then: This wasn’t a gravesite visit. This was a meeting. A private meeting nobody knew about, not even Omari’s closest people.

Keeping his Glock ready, Stitch crawled forward, belly to the ground, moving closer through the grass. They didn’t notice him, completely unaware. Like a snake, he slithered up behind a pile of rubble, close enough to catch bits of their conversation.

They were speaking in Urdu.

“The arrangements are in place,” Omari was saying.

“Good,” the redhead replied. “When?”

“June 23. Container terminal D. The Arabian Prince ss.”

“Excellent. The money will be in your account tonight.”

Omari smiled.

The sight made Stitch’s skin crawl. Who was this guy paying Omari? Was he in charge? Had he ordered the attack on his village?

Stitch pulled out his phone and silently snapped a couple of photos, then slipped it back into his pocket.

Omari had been paid. The deal was done.

If he shot Omari now, the shipment might not happen. The guy with him would want his money back—but would he get it?

Omari probably had offshore accounts. Cayman Islands, Panama, somewhere like that. Once he was dead, this guy’s money would disappear into thin air.

Stitch doubted Omari’s wife even knew about it. Not that it would stop them from going after her if things went sideways.

Whoever this redhead was, he wasn’t Arabic. His accent was terrible. Stitch pegged him as American, but he wasn’t totally sure.

That question was answered when the redhead shook Omari’s hand and said, “Good work. We’ll be in touch.”

Definitely American.

Stitch frowned. Had he missed something in his search for Soraya’s killer? Was there someone else pulling the strings? Maybe Omari was just the tip of the iceberg.

He studied the redhead as he walked off. Stocky build, hard face, straight posture. The guy carried himself like a soldier. Or maybe a merc. Come to think of it, this whole thing reeked of military precision.

If Stitch wanted to figure out who this guy was, he couldn’t kill Omari. Not yet.

That left a bitter taste in his mouth, but he swallowed it. Before he pulled the trigger, he had to know if there was more to this than what he’d discovered.

He slithered back into his crypt and watched as the two men left. They headed in opposite directions. The graveyard walls were so broken down, you could get out almost anywhere.

Once they were gone, Stitch stood up and walked to his motorcycle, hidden behind a domed structure with crumbling turrets.

Once again, Omari had gotten a reprieve. He must be the luckiest bastard alive.

Stitch pushed his bike out onto the gravel road and kick-started it.

If someone else was running this show, he needed to find out who—and he knew exactly where to start. But he had one stop to make first.

“What are you doing here?” Sloane ran out of the community center after seeing him pull up through the window. “Is everything alright?”

She looked him over, half-expecting to see bullet holes, but he appeared to be in one piece.

“I’m fine.”

She frowned, trying to figure him out.

The trauma of taking a life, the relief that it was over, the crash when he realized it wasn’t going to bring his wife back—none of those emotions were there. Instead, he appeared normal. Almost upbeat.

“Is it over? Did you get him?”

He shook his shaggy head. “No, something came up.”

She gaped at him. “You mean you didn’t do it? Omari isn’t dead?”

“No, he’s alive and well, I’m sorry to say. Do you have a minute?”

It took her a moment to process. Omari was still alive. Stitch was unhurt, and he had something to show her.

She pulled herself together. “Yes, class is over for the day. I was just talking to Fatima.”

“How is she?” he asked, momentarily distracted.

“Much better.” She managed a small smile. “Thanks to you. You should come in and say hello.”

“I will,” he said. “But first, I want to show you something.”

He pulled out his phone and scrolled to a photo of the red-haired man. “Do you know this guy?”

Sloane gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. “That’s Jeremy! Where did you—? How—?” Her face twisted in confusion.

What was Jeremy doing here? And how did Stitch get a picture of him?

“I—I don’t understand.”

“He was at the graveyard,” he said sourly. “Meeting Omari. It seems they have a secret weekly meet-up among the tombstones. That’s why Omari goes in alone. He doesn’t want anyone to know. Not even his bodyguards.”

She stared at him, her head spinning. “What does it mean?”

He took a deep breath. “I’m not sure yet. I need to think about it. But it can’t be good.”

“You don’t think—?” She stopped.

No, she couldn’t say it. It was traitorous to even think it.

“I don’t think anything yet,” he said firmly.

She closed her eyes. The ground felt like it was shifting under her.

“I’m so confused,” she whispered.

He took her arm and steered her toward the entrance to the center. “Let me check on Fatima, and then we’ll meet back at your place later. I want to make a few calls and see what I can find out.”

She nodded, unable to do anything else.

Jeremy here? Was he involved? What the hell was going on?

Holy crap.

What had she gotten herself into?

She exhaled shakily. This was way out of her league.

“It’s an easy assignment,” he’d told her. “Just observe and report back. No action required.”

Yeah, right!

“I don’t understand,” she repeated, as he led her up the stairs. Her head felt foggy, like she was in a daze. Nothing made sense.

She tripped, but he steadied her. Thank goodness he was holding her up.

The security guard let them through.

“We’ll make sense of it later,” he told her. “I just needed to check that he was your handler. I’ve got some contacts who can help us figure this out.”

“You have?”

What contacts? She thought he was working solo. A personal vendetta.

It was all so confusing.

“Leave it to me.”

He flashed her a brief smile before stepping past her and heading into Fatima’s room.