Page 32 of Steel Vengeance

She smiled when she saw him. He didn’t smile back. He was here to do a job, and nothing was going to get in his way.

Didn’t matter how good she looked in that copper scarf she’d picked up the other day, or how the color made her eyes flash with golden highlights.

“Omari inside?” he asked, his voice gruff.

“Yeah, they’ve been there since eleven.”

“They?” He raised an eyebrow.

“He brought the whole family today,” she said. “Wife and five kids.”

For fuck’s sake.

“Must be some kind of special occasion,” Sloane added. “His wife showed up with a bunch of balloons. Probably one of the kids’ birthdays.”

Stitch clenched his jaw. That was a problem. Taking Omari out with his family around would be way harder. He wasn’t about to traumatize the guy’s kids by making them watch their dad get shot. That was a memory no kid should carry.

He wasn’t that heartless.

Still, today was the day. No more waiting.

Somehow, he’d find a way.

He sat down, ordered some tea, and casually tapped the Glock in his pocket. The holster was slim, snug, hidden well under his long kameez. No one would spot it, not unless they were looking for it.

“Do you miss being a medic?” Her question caught him off guard.

“I guess I miss it sometimes,” he said, his voice low. “It was mostly trauma care. Bullet wounds, shrapnel, burns—patching guys up fast, trying to keep them alive long enough to get to a field hospital. Not the easiest job in the world.”

She hesitated, and he got the impression she wanted to say something but was holding back.

“What?” he asked.

“You’re not just a sailor, are you?”

He tensed. “What makes you say that?”

She shrugged. “I met some navy guys during my training course. They don’t teach you guys that level of expertise.”

He sucked in a breath. Too damn observant for her own good. “No, I wasn’t just a sailor.”

“Marine? Special ops?”

“Something like that.” He wasn’t about to elaborate.

There was a brief pause.

“When’s the last time you did any medical work?” He knew she was just making conversation, get him talking.

The waiter placed his tea in front of him, but he didn’t touch it. Instead, he stared into the steam. “About a year ago.”

The day his world had turned to hell. The village had been a massacre site—bodies strewn everywhere. He’d tried to save them, but it was impossible. The screams, the blood... people he’d known, kids he’d treated for simple scrapes and fevers, now lying lifeless in the dirt. He could still hear their voices, still see the faces of those he couldn’t get to in time.

He’d done what he could, but it hadn’t been enough.

It was never enough.

She nodded thoughtfully, unaware of the nightmare he'd just relived. “Is that when you started digging into Omari and his drug network?”