Page 109 of Steel Vengeance
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 torethrough 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.