Page 38 of Steel Vengeance

Shit.

It wasn’t Omari.

Instead of the Afghan drug lord, a white guy with reddish hair walked casually along the path, dressed in chinos and a white shirt. Definitely a westerner, and definitely not trying to blend in.

Who the hell was this? What was he doing here?

The guy whistled softly to himself as he checked out the tombstones, pausing to read the inscriptions before moving on. Most of the writing was in Arabic, which told Stitch a lot.

Should he scare the guy off? Tell him to get lost before Omari showed up?

Then he heard tires crunch on gravel. Stitch ducked out of sight.

Too late.

This was happening, whether this guy was here or not.

Omari’s voice cut through the stillness, telling his driver to wait. Then he appeared, his white tunic stark against the dead grass.

The red-haired guy turned around at the sound of someone approaching.

Maybe Omari would tell him to get lost. Stitch could only hope.

He wanted Omari to himself.

He wanted that murdering bastard to know why he was going to die—and exactly who was pulling the trigger.

Voices. The two men were talking.

Stitch watched from his hiding spot.

What the hell? They shook hands.

He couldn’t hear much, but it was clear—they knew each other.

It hit him then: This wasn’t a gravesite visit. This was a meeting. A private meeting nobody knew about, not even Omari’s closest people.

Keeping his Glock ready, Stitch crawled forward, belly to the ground, moving closer through the grass. They didn’t notice him, completely unaware. Like a snake, he slithered up behind a pile of rubble, close enough to catch bits of their conversation.

They were speaking in Urdu.

“The arrangements are in place,” Omari was saying.

“Good,” the redhead replied. “When?”

“June 23. Container terminal D. TheArabian Princess.”

“Excellent. The money will be in your account tonight.”

Omari smiled.

The sight made Stitch’s skin crawl. Who was this guy paying Omari? Was he in charge? Had he ordered the attack on his village?

Stitch pulled out his phone and silently snapped a couple of photos, then slipped it back into his pocket.

Omari had been paid. The deal was done.

If he shot Omari now, the shipment might not happen. The guy with him would want his money back—but would he get it?