Page 41 of Steel Vengeance
Stitch.
As usual, he’d arrived after ten o’clock at night. But this time, she was wide awake—sleeping in the heat was impossible. Besides, after what they’d discovered today, she needed answers.
“Hey there.” She forced a smile, but he walked right past her into the room, always on alert. Did the guy ever relax? “Sorry about the smell, but I had to keep the windows open.”
He grunted, unconcerned. She bet he’d had to handle a lot worse.
"You got a haircut," she said, surprised as he turned around. The wild-haired, mountain-man look was gone, replaced by a drop-dead gorgeous guy with a short, clean cut. He still had the beard for his Arabic cover, but it was neat now, not that wild, scruffy mess.
Suddenly, she could see his full lips and that sharp jawline. Without all the fuzz, his cheekbones looked way more defined.
She swallowed hard. Damn, he looked good. Really good.
And here she was, sweaty, frazzled, and red as a lobster.
Great going, Sloane.
“Yeah, it was time.” He ran a hand through his new haircut. “Hope it hasn’t compromised my cover.”
He was still in the traditional shalwar kameez, but today’s tunic was a pale blue, making his arctic eyes stand out even more. Instead of looking like some scruffy, middle-aged guy, now he looked like a hot, thirty-something straight out of a men’s style magazine.
“I’ve got some cold iced tea.” She gestured to a jug on the table.
“Thanks.” He strode over and poured himself a glass.
She realized she was staring, but this new look was such a surprise, she couldn’t tear her gaze away. The corners of his mouth quirked. “I don’t look that different, do I?”
Hell, yeah.
“It’s just a surprise, that’s all.” Heat stole into her cheeks, and if she hadn’t already been flushed from the heat, she would have been embarrassed by it. As it was, she doubted she could get any redder. Still, she needed to put herself together. He was still the same, damaged, bitter fighter underneath, no matter how great he looked on the surface.
Turning to face the window, she said, “I can’t believe Jeremy was meeting Omari. I’m still in shock. How do they know each other?”
“You weren’t supposed to know,” Stitch downed his lemonade in one long swallow.
“Did you talk to your contacts?”
He nodded. “Yeah. My best buddy, a guy I served with in—well, in Afghanistan—works for a private security company in D.C. They’ve got contacts everywhere. I asked them to check it out for us.”
“Did you tell them about me?” She bit her lip. What would Matthew think of that? Strict radio silence meant not telling anyone else she was here.
“Not by name,” he said.
She exhaled. “Good. I don’t think the Agency would be too thrilled if your friend knew I was here.”
“They’re discreet,” he assured her. “But my buddy Blade said they’d look into Omari’s ties to the CIA, if there are any. Maybe the guy’s a whistleblower, or maybe he’s being paid for intel.”
The thought had crossed her mind, too.
She tilted her head. “Omari might not be as bad as we think.”
He let out a low hiss. “Oh, he’s bad, alright—but that doesn’t mean he’s not playing both sides.”
“The clandestine meetings—” she murmured. “If his men found out, he’d be in real trouble.”
Stitch’s lips pressed into a firm line. “He’s walking a fine line. If he is dishing the dirt, he’ll be considered a traitor. The Taliban won’t stand for that.”
“How soon will your friend get back to you?” she asked.