Steel Vengeance (Blackthorn Security #6)

Chapter 19

CHAPTER 19

S titch turned off Bara Road and hit a dirt track running alongside a dry riverbed, opening up the throttle. The rented motorcycle kicked up dust and shot forward, bouncing over the uneven ground.

How had he almost kissed Sloane? What the hell was he thinking?

He wasn’t, and that was the problem.

For once, he hadn’t been thinking at all—he’d been feeling. The way she could read him, like she was inside his head, threw him off. She knew things about him no one else did.

Big mistake.

The wind slapped against his face, making his eyes water. He welcomed the sting and pushed the bike even harder.

Talking about his time as a SEAL operator, opening up about what had happened afterwards, made him vulnerable. He hated feeling vulnerable.

Then, out of nowhere, that overpowering urge to kiss her had hit him.

Where the hell had that come from?

He hadn’t been attracted to anyone since Soraya. But now, this American woman with deep chocolate-brown eyes and cherry-red lips had gotten under his skin.

Damn her for walking into the bedroom stark naked, fresh from her bath. Damn her for wearing that slinky gold thing she called a nightgown. Damn her curves, her softness, her inescapable sensuality.

He could still feel her hand on his arm, the warmth of it playing with his emotions. It wouldn’t let him forget how, in that one moment, he’d wanted her. And how hard it had been to pull away.

Soraya.

He couldn’t do it to her. It was too soon. Her memory was still too vivid.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, the wind snatching the words away before he could even finish.

The motorcycle was going as fast as it could now. The riverbed blurred beside him. If he wiped out, he’d be in serious trouble. He wasn’t even wearing a helmet—nobody did around here. Common sense interjected and he slowed down, feeling drained. He was running out of road, anyway. The ground was turning gravelly, dipping dangerously towards the riverbed. Finally, he came to a stop.

Cutting the engine, he climbed off the bike, gulping down the hot, dry air. Everything was eerily quiet. No one was around. He spotted a grassy patch further up the bank. Leaving the bike where it was, he walked over and sat down, staring at the hills across the valley, the purple mountains stretching into the distance. Somewhere among those hills, he used to live. Back when he was happy.

But not anymore.

The grassy bank reminded him of a day about three months before the attack. Soraya had taken him down to the river for a picnic. Afterwards, she’d told him she was pregnant. He remembered the joy in her eyes, the way he’d hugged her, and how they’d talked about becoming parents. That dream had died in the fire, too.

Tears stung his eyes, and he fell back on the grass.

Soraya’s voice echoed in his mind. “Are you happy here, my love?”

“What do you mean?” he’d asked. “Of course I’m happy.”

“Because this isn’t your world. This isn’t your culture. I couldn’t live with myself if I thought you were unhappy.”

He’d taken her hand. “It is my world now,” he’d said with a smile. “It is my culture. I’m happy here.” And he’d kissed her, right there on the grassy bank.

His fists clenched the dry, brittle grass. The lack of rain had left it shriveled and gray. Everything died in this place.

I couldn’t live with myself if I thought you were unhappy.

He stood up and brushed himself off. Enough with the self-pity. It was what it was, and he had to deal with it.

Soon, he’d get his revenge. The people responsible would pay. He’d make sure of it.

It wouldn’t bring Soraya back, of course. He knew that. Or the life he should’ve had. Husband, father, village doctor.

But it would damn sure make him feel better.

He dropped the bike back at the rental place and paid extra for the condition it was in. He was walking back to Mrs. Bhatti’s when his phone rang.

Only two people had this number. Make that three, including her .

“Blade?” he answered right away.

His buddy chuckled. “Glad to see you were expecting my call. How’s life in our favorite border town?”

“Hotter than usual,” Stitch replied.

“This is a secure line,” his friend said, picking up on their code for ‘trouble.’

“Someone on a motorbike tried to take Sloane out,” he said. “I had to pull a bullet out and stitch her up.”

“Shit. She okay?”

“Yeah, resting at Mrs. B’s.”

“You took her to the safe house? Was that wise?”

Blade knew Sloane was CIA. When they’d talked a few days ago, Stitch had laid it all out, no holding back.

“Yeah, she was pretty out of it on the way here. Besides, her own people put a hit out on her. She’s got nowhere else to go.”

“You know that for sure?” Blade asked.

“Has to be. Her boss was the only one she told about her handler, Jeremy, meeting Omari. No one else knew.”

There was a pause.

“We did some digging,” Blade said. “Well, Pat did. Quietly, if you get my drift. Didn’t want to step on any toes.”

“Find anything?” Stitch asked.

“Yeah. Matthew Sullivan runs a branch of the CIA focused on watching the Taliban’s drug cartels. Officially, they track the big players and report back to Washington. Drug trafficking’s blown up in the past few years, and it’s a big deal for the U.S. government. They want to crack down, but the Afghan economy depends on poppy production. Shutting it down would tank the economy, and in its fragile state…”

He didn’t need to finish.

After decades of war, people were already starving, and farmers turned to growing poppies because it was the only way to make a decent living. Stitch knew better than most how hard life was for rural communities.

“So, they might be getting paid to look the other way, or…” Blade hesitated. “And here’s the kicker—they could be running the whole operation.”

“Fuck.”

“Exactly,” Blade said. “Sullivan might seem like a desk jockey, but he was part of a specialist team sent to Afghanistan in 2014 to help suppress drug production, get farmers to plant wheat, stuff like that. That year saw a huge opium crop, which tanked heroin prices, so wheat became more competitive. Heroin production dropped, but still enough to keep the Taliban going.”

Stitch took it all in.

“So, these guys, this specialist team, would’ve made connections with local farmers, maybe even the Taliban warlords running things?”

“Yep. They were in a prime position to take advantage. Maybe not back then, but definitely later on.”

Damn. It wasn’t looking good for Sloane.

“How do we smoke out the bad guys?” he asked his friend.

“Pat’s flying to the U.S. tomorrow to meet with a contact in the CIA. He’s confident this guy’s legit. They’ll explain what we know and, hopefully, the CIA and the DEA can work together to intercept that shipment you mentioned and take down Sullivan and whoever else is involved.”

Best-case scenario.

Stitch knew things didn’t always go as planned.

“Alright, great. Tell Pat thanks from me.”

Stitch knew Pat well. His son, Joe, had been part of their team. He was one of the men killed in the ambush that day in the Afghan mountains.

“Will do, buddy. And the good news is, you’ll get to see me. Pat wants me to bring you something.”

“Yeah? What’s that?”

“I’ll tell you when I get there. Meet me at Islamabad airport, 0800 hours tomorrow.”

“Got it. Have a safe flight.”

“Thanks.”

They signed off.

Stitch felt better as he stepped into the house. Finally, things were happening. Sitting around with nothing to do was the worst. He’d always hated waiting for things to get moving. Unfortunately, in the SEALs, waiting was just part of the job.

Soon, Blade would be here, and they’d track down Jeremy.

Stitch had heard back from his contact—a short text earlier that morning with a location: The Best Western.

There was a bar there, one of the few still open for foreigners that hadn’t been shut down or bombed yet. The memory of what happened to the Marriott a decade before made the owners of these sketchy drinking spots nervous. If you wanted a drink in Islamabad now, you relied on whispers from other expats. Personally, Stitch didn’t think it worth the hassle.

His list, however, was getting longer.

Omari.

Rasul.

Jeremy.

Sullivan.

Once the ship carrying the drugs set sail, he’d finally do what he came to Peshawar to do.

And there’d be no reason not to.