Steel Vengeance (Blackthorn Security #6)

Chapter 43

CHAPTER 43

T hey took off from the CIA helipad in a Mi-17 just before five.

Time wasn’t on their side. If they wanted to reach the cabin before dark, they had to move fast.

Stitch prayed Sullivan hadn’t already headed for the border.

“Who do you think he’s meeting?” Stitch asked Pat as they soared across the sky, the sun dipping lower.

“Could be a money man,” Pat guessed. “He’ll want to clean out his accounts before fleeing the country. You need cash to hide effectively.”

“Maybe he’s meeting a coconspirator,” Stitch suggested. “A member of Ghost Company.”

“I think that’s who those guys were back at the warehouse,” Pat said dryly. “I had to stop that last merc with my bare hands. He kept coming at me. Those guys knew how to fight. Not even the smoke slowed them down.”

“How’s the leg?” Stitch asked.

Pat shrugged. “I’ll walk it off.”

Stitch nodded. His boss wouldn’t let something as small as a twisted knee slow him down. Pat was tough—pushing forty-five but still fit, muscular, and stronger than most men half his age. Apart from Blade, there was no one Stitch trusted more in a firefight.

The four-hour flight took them to San Antonio, where a vehicle was waiting to transport them to the cabin.

One of the young analysts had tracked down an isolated cabin near Medina Lake, owned by Sullivan’s ex-wife’s mother. The local sheriff said it had been vacant for years.

“Why can’t we fly there?” Stitch growled. Every moment wasted gave Sullivan more time to escape.

“Nowhere to land,” Pat explained. “Even Sullivan would’ve had to drive there.”

“At least that buys us some time,” Stitch muttered.

They sped down the freeway, sirens blazing, racing through Medina County toward the lake.

By the time they arrived, it was dark. The driver from the Texas office killed the lights and parked behind a clump of trees, out of sight.

Stitch, Pat, and another agent approached the cabin, guns drawn.

Pat, who was leading, suddenly stopped and raised a hand. Stitch peered over his shoulder.

Lights.

There was someone inside.

Maybe Sullivan had decided to stay the night and make his run for the border tomorrow. It was dark, after all, and he probably thought he was safe.

The cabin was well hidden. Not even Sullivan’s ex-wife knew it existed.

A sharp CIA analyst had dug through a property purchase from thirty-two years ago. When the analyst contacted Sullivan’s ex-wife, she said the cabin had been sold after her mother passed away five years ago. That much was true, but the buyer was one of Sullivan’s dummy corporations.

A tangled web of deceit that led right back to Matthew Sullivan.

“Let’s check it out,” Stitch said.

They split up and circled the cabin. When they regrouped, the agent said, “I see two people inside. You?”

“Same,” confirmed Pat.

Stitch nodded.

Parked outside was a powerful, black SUV. Stitch felt the hood. It was cold. “They’ve been here a while,” he whispered.

“So, what now?” the CIA agent asked the two former SEALs.

“They’re probably armed,” Stitch said.

Pat nodded. “I’m not looking for another shoot-out.”

“We could wait until they come out, then arrest them as they get into the car,” the agent suggested.

It wasn’t a bad idea.

But Stitch had something different in mind. “How about we lure them out?”

Pat narrowed his eyes. “What are you thinking?”

“A little diversion, maybe?” He nodded toward the getaway vehicle.

The agent pursed his lips. “I’ll see what we’ve got in the trunk.”

He returned with a can of fuel, some old newspapers, and a lighter. “Will this do?”

“Perfect,” Stitch said.

Once Sullivan was out in the open, he was bound to fight back. Stitch was counting on it. He needed a reason to take the bastard down.

Pat doused the SUV while Stitch stuffed paper up the exhaust and under the carriage. It wouldn’t do much damage, but it would burn harder.

The agent lit the fire, and they stepped back as the flames started to lick at the car.

Stitch kept his eyes on the cabin. He’d seen enough flames to last a lifetime.

He wondered how Sloane was doing. His chest warmed at the thought. He hadn’t wanted to leave her, but he had to finish this, or she’d never be safe.

As long as Sullivan was alive, there’d be a target on her back.

He didn’t know when her safety became more important than his need for revenge, but it had. All he could think about was killing Sullivan and getting back to her.

A shout came from inside the cabin, and the door swung open. A man Stitch didn’t recognize stood there, rifle in hand.

“What the—?” the man growled.

Sullivan appeared behind him.

“Shit!” Sullivan hissed, darting back inside.

At first, Stitch thought he was going for his gun, but then Pat yelled, “He’s going out the back!”

“He’s mine,” Stitch shouted, taking off after Sullivan before Pat could react. “You get the other guy!”

Stitch tore through the dark woods. He could barely see a few feet ahead of him. The moonlight didn’t stand a chance against the thick tree coverage, so he used the light on his phone to guide him.

He strained to listen, but there wasn’t much to hear. Stitch was impressed. Even in this dense forest, Sullivan moved quietly—a testament to his training.

A crack echoed as a twig snapped underfoot. Stitch followed the sound. Then there was a rustle, the brush of a tree branch, and the crunch of leaves.

He followed the trail, heading northeast. He knew there was a lake nearby—he’d seen it on the map.

Is that where Sullivan’s heading? Does he have a boat waiting for a getaway?

A well-trained agent always had a contingency plan. If Sullivan was anything like Stitch, he’d already thought through every scenario and counter-scenario.

The rustling stopped.

Stitch paused, listening hard. Just the chirps and chatter of the night creatures.

Nothing human.

He moved cautiously, half-expecting Sullivan to double back. It was a tactic Stitch had used on several jungle ops—let your pursuer think they’re still on your trail, then ambush them from behind.

Through a break in the trees, Stitch spotted the shimmering, dark blue surface of the lake. A shadowy figure bolted down the beach toward a wooden jetty.

“Sullivan!” Stitch exploded into a run, adrenaline fueling his muscles. As he hit the sand, he saw the motorboat moored at the end of the pier.

Fuck.

He pushed harder, ignoring the burn in his calves. If Sullivan got away now, they’d never find him again.

Stitch sprinted down the jetty as Sullivan untied the moorings and pushed the boat into deeper water. The motor sputtered to life.

Sullivan’s boat was packed with a holdall and a cooler box of supplies.

This wasn’t Plan B. This was always Plan A.

They weren’t going to risk driving away from the cabin. Smart. There was only one access road, and it’d be easy to block and check. The plan was to motor across the lake, then take a chopper or some other transport to Mexico. Unchecked. Undetected.

Then it hit him. There was only one holdall in the boat. One cooler of supplies.

Sullivan had never planned to take his sidekick. A cabin fire would have covered up the bullet wounds, leaving Sullivan free to escape with the money—if that’s what was in the bag he was carrying.

Moonlight glistened off the water. It would have been a peaceful scene if Stitch wasn’t chasing the man who’d almost killed Sloane and destroyed his life.

“Sullivan!” he bellowed.

But the rogue agent didn’t respond. The boat was nearly a meter out, its engine kicking up frothy water.

Stitch didn’t slow down.

He put everything he had into his last few strides and launched himself off the end of the pier. He wasn’t letting the bastard get away this time.

It was only midair that Stitch saw the gun in Sullivan’s hand.

Then Sullivan pulled the trigger.