Page 2 of Steel Vengeance
The woman lingered for another few minutes, hopping between shops until it became obvious she was stalling. With one last look at the café, she headed off.
Making a split-second decision, Stitch got up and tailed her.
She moved with intent now, mission complete. No more playing the shopper. Twice, she checked over her shoulder, scanning for a tail. She’d had some training, no question. But she didn’t see him. Stitch had spent a lifetime blending into shadows.
Rounding a corner, she made her way to an old, beat-up Honda scooter. Stitch watched as she hopped on, slinging the shopping bag across her chest.
Damn. He was on foot.
He threw himself in front of a rickshaw, forcing the driver to slam the brakes. Jumping in, he barked, “Follow that scooter!”
The driver shot him a weird look but hit the gas, swerving around a delivery van coming straight at them.
She didn’t go far. Four streets later, she slowed, hopped the sidewalk, and parked in front of a butcher shop. Stitch looked around, then back at the shop. Dead carcasses hung from hooks inside.
A mile, if that. Barely worth the chase.
Stitch waited until she’d slipped into a plain door next to the butcher’s shop, then he paid the driver and got out.
Was this where she lived? Or was it some kind of safe house?
He studied the crumbling structure with its sagging balconies that looked ready to collapse. If it was a front, it was a damn good one. The smell of raw meat mixed with the thick exhaust fumes, while flies buzzed overhead.
This part of town was more industrial—leatherworkers, jewelers, and other trades. But it was still packed. Wires crisscrossed the narrow streets, draped with laundry and flags.
No way to tell which apartment she went into. He could’ve followed her in, but without knowing where she was headed, it’d be a waste of time.
He scanned the exterior. The building was climbable. Plenty of footholds. But broad daylight wasn’t the time for it.
Instead, he circled the block, taking in every angle.
Failing to plan is planning to fail, his special forces instructor used to say. Prep was key. That mentality had stuck with him long after he’d left the service. His wife used to tease him about it.
You need to be more spontaneous, she’d joke. But she had enough spontaneity for both of them.
Soraya.
He closed his eyes, letting the grief hit him, sharp and familiar. Then, he took a breath, shoving it back down.
Soon.
Omari was going to pay for what happened to her.
But first, he had to figure out who this mystery woman was and what she wanted with his target. He didn’t need any more complications.
After finishing his rounds, Stitch found a bench up the street and sat down to wait.
CHAPTER 2
Sloane entered her apartment, a squalid one-bedroom flat above a busy street and locked the door behind her. God, she was tired.
Removing her scarf, she made a beeline for the bathroom and turned on the taps. A hot soak in the tub was what she needed to get rid of the dust and grime of the street. Even her eyes felt gritty.
While the bath ran, she plugged in her laptop and set her cell phone beside it. She’d use it to connect to an internet hotspot. It was the only way to get connectivity.
She thought about the three men Omari had met.
That was new. He usually met friends at the coffee shop, not out-of-towners. She could tell by the vehicle registration that they weren’t from Peshawar. Maybe they’d hailed from across the border in Afghanistan. That was where Omari was from, although he couldn’t risk going back in case the U.S. forces discovered where he was.