Page 107 of Steel Vengeance
“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.
CHAPTER 43
They 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.