Steel Vengeance (Blackthorn Security #6)

Chapter 42

CHAPTER 42

O ne way or another, Stitch was going to find her—and Matthew Sullivan was going down.

Pat hauled out his phone and dialed 911. Stitch stood beside him, fists clenched, his heart thudding with the violent rhythm of helpless rage. Every second that passed without Sloane felt like a knife twisting deeper into his gut.

Twenty minutes later, the cavalry arrived.

A local sheriff named McCloskey took charge, asking them rapid-fire questions. They explained the situation: a wanted felon and rogue CIA agent had abducted a key witness, and they feared for her life. It was imperative they get her back.

Pat was on his phone again, calling his CIA contact, Stuart Rider. It wasn’t long before a cavalcade of blacked-out SUVs swarmed the motel parking lot, drawing stares from every guest still lingering near their rooms.

“We’ll have the press here soon,” McCloskey groaned, adjusting his hat.

Stitch didn’t care. Whatever it took to get Sloane back.

For the first time in his life, he felt utterly useless. This wasn’t his neck of the woods. He had no contacts here, no strings to pull, no networks to exploit. He had to trust the authorities to do their job. But trusting others had never been his strong suit—it felt like everything was moving in slow motion, and meanwhile, God only knew what was happening to Sloane.

Back at the CIA field office, they reviewed CCTV footage from outside the motel.

“Sullivan’s driving a gray Chevrolet,” Pat pointed out, his finger tapping the screen. “We got the plates.”

They immediately put out an APB on the vehicle, but an hour later, the news came in—the car had been found abandoned in an industrial area, miles away.

“He must’ve had a second vehicle waiting, or someone helping him,” Stitch muttered. “We need to look at his known associates. There has to be a lead.”

An agent at a nearby desk typed furiously on his keyboard, eyes scanning data as he worked. “Sullivan’s got a long list of contacts. He knows almost everyone in the local CIA field office and probably has half a dozen unofficial informants and associates.”

Stitch swore under his breath. Sullivan had been operating under the radar for so long, hiding his true self behind his cover as a respected agent. Now they were up against a man who knew the system better than anyone.

Fuck. They had to find a lead.

“What about properties?” said Stitch. “Does he own any properties, cabins, warehouses, anything like that?”

“He owns two houses in D.C.,” the agent responded. “One his wife and kid live in, the other is his official residence. But nothing else that we know of.”

Stitch racked his brain. What did they know about Matthew? “If he’s moving drugs, he needs a place to store them. A container yard, a warehouse—something. They’ve been moving shipments for years, so there’s gotta be a system in place.”

“We’ve got the names of his cohorts from Ghost Company, but most of them are off the grid. We’re tracking down leads now.”

Stitch nodded. It wasn’t much, but it was something. His gut told him that Sullivan wouldn’t disappear without tying up his loose ends. “Maybe one of them hired a warehouse or storage space somewhere?”

“Looking into it,” said a petite female agent. “I’m running their names now.”

Stitch was impressed by how efficient the department was. He had no idea which branch of the CIA this was or what they were called, but Rider was a solid leader, and his team seemed loyal, smart, and capable.

Which made it all the more surprising that a rotten apple like Matthew had operated unnoticed for so long.

“We had no idea he was dirty,” Rider said, almost as if he’d read Stitch’s mind. “The first we heard was when Pat walked into my office last week. I thought he was talking bullshit, but once we started digging into Matthew’s affairs, we found a lot of suspicious activity.”

“What kind of activity?” Stitch asked.

“Various dummy corporations, shell companies, investments. All the red flags, though nothing can be traced directly back to him. All his assets in the States are legit, paid for through his salary and some smart investments. On paper, he’s an exemplary citizen.”

Not anymore. The game was up.

A call from one of the agents made Stitch look up.

“Sir, I’ve found an old lease taken out by Ryan Osbourne almost four years ago. It’s for a warehouse near the Anacostia River.”

“Who’s Ryan Osbourne?” Rider asked.

“He was part of Matthew’s unit that was deployed to Afghanistan, sir. Part of the original Ghost Company.”

“Address?” Stitch barked.

The agent scribbled it down and handed it to him on a Post-it note.

Stitch glanced at Rider and Pat. “Let’s go!”

“That’s the place,” Stitch said, his voice grim as Rider pulled up in front of a two-story, prefab structure. It had a flat roof and a metallic sliding garage door. By warehouse standards, it wasn’t large, but it was big enough to hide several shipping containers.

Situated several blocks back from the docks, the building blended into its surroundings—just another warehouse in a forgotten part of the city. If you didn’t have a reason to be here, you’d drive past without giving it a second thought.

The team jumped out of the agency vehicle, weapons drawn, as they approached the front. Stitch’s pulse quickened. Sloane could be inside. He wanted to charge in, guns blazing, but years of training held him in check.

“There’s a side door,” he called, circling the building.

“I’ll go around the back,” Pat said, breaking away.

Stitch moved fast, checking the side entrance. Locked, as expected. He glanced up, and his heart stuttered. Smoke—thin wisps curling from one of the upstairs windows.

“Fire!” he yelled, his voice breaking the stillness.

He threw his shoulder against the door, but it didn’t budge. “I need help here!”

Rider came running, and after three hard heaves, the door broke open, flinging inward as smoke billowed out. They were instantly engulfed in the stifling cloud. Stitch pulled his T-shirt up over his nose and mouth.

“I’m going in,” he said, determination hardening his voice.

“Not advisable,” Rider warned, already pulling out his phone. “I’m calling the fire department. This whole place could go up.”

Ignoring him, Stitch ducked inside, staying low. The dense smoke made his eyes sting and water. Every instinct screamed to stop, to get out, but the fear of what might happen to Sloane overpowered his sense of caution. He pushed forward.

In the main area downstairs, visibility was better—the smoke hovered near the ceiling, probably coming from the second floor. The garage door mechanism caught his eye, and Stitch ran over, flicking the switch. It groaned, lifting halfway before jamming.

“Sloane!” he shouted.

His eyes darted up to the offices on the second floor, where the smoke was thickest. That’s where the fire had started. He heard something—a faint cry.

“Sloane!”

Sure as hell, the hazy outline of two men could be seen through the smoke, their muzzles flashing. They didn’t know where the intruders were, so they were firing randomly in all directions. Stitch slid forward on his stomach and took aim. He pulled the trigger and heard one man cry out. The figure fell to the ground.

Pat took down the second with precision, the man collapsing as the room echoed with gunfire.

“I’m going up!” Stitch yelled. “Sloane’s trapped!”

He sprinted for the stairs, but more gunfire rained down, forcing him to retreat behind a plywood wall.

“More shooters!” he shouted.

Pat darted across the room, taking cover beside Stitch. “I’ll cover you,” he said.

From across the floor, Rider opened fire, sending bullets toward the stairwell.

Stitch bolted, sprinting up the stairs before the shooters could react. He was almost at the top when a hand appeared around the corner, gun ready to fire. Instinct kicked in—Stitch grabbed the man’s wrist, twisting it hard before hurling him down the stairs. Pat finished him off at the bottom.

His breath came in ragged gasps as he rushed toward the office. Smoke thickened around him, making it almost impossible to see. But he didn’t care. All that mattered was getting to Sloane.

He kicked in the door, and there she was—slumped over a table, coughing uncontrollably, tears streaming down her face.

“Matthew’s getting away,” she gasped, pointing weakly down the corridor.

“Where?” Stitch shouted, pulling her to her feet.

“The roof...”

She could barely stand. He considered going after Matthew, but Sloane wouldn’t make it out alone. His jaw clenched with frustration.

The glass partition between the office and the next room shattered, flames licking across the floor. Within seconds, the fire was everywhere.

Sloane collapsed against him, her body wracked by another fit of coughing. “I can’t breathe...” she wheezed.

Stitch didn’t hesitate. He hoisted her over his shoulder in a fireman’s lift, his lungs burning with every breath he took. “Hang on,” he rasped, forcing his way back toward the stairs.

“Pat!” he croaked, but it came out as more of a squawk. His throat burned. He couldn’t risk going after Sullivan now—he had to get Sloane out.

He found the exit, pushing Sloane’s limp body through the half-open garage door and dragging her to safety. His chest heaved with each breath as he collapsed beside her on the pavement, the warehouse behind them consumed by flames.

Sirens blared, fire trucks arriving too late to stop the inferno. Stitch coughed violently, his lungs protesting against the smoke that still lingered in his chest.

He turned to Sloane. Her pulse was strong, but she was out cold.

Rolling onto his back, he looked up at the roof just in time to see a helicopter rising from the smoke, its rotors slicing through the air.

Matthew was getting away.

Stitch watched helplessly as the chopper banked right, disappearing into the night sky.