Page 106 of Steel Vengeance

“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.