Page 55 of Steel Vengeance

“I’m sick of resting.” She’d gotten so bored lying in bed that she’d spent most of the afternoon in the lounge talking with Mrs. Bhatti about him. Now she knew way more about Stitch than he’d ever want her to.

Like how he’d taken care of Mrs. B when she had food poisoning. How he’d go shopping for her, bring her little gifts from America, and even help her in the kitchen.

“He’s not a bad cook,” Mrs. B had giggled. “Though those big hands of his can get in the way.”

Sloane had laughed.

“He needs a woman to look after him,” Mrs. B had said knowingly. “He’s been alone too long. Always taking care of everyone else. It’s about time someone took care of him.”

Mrs. B didn’t know about the past year, and Sloane had kept it that way. It wasn’t her story to tell, and Stitch wouldn’t want people knowing. She tried not to even entertain the idea that she... that they...

No, that was ridiculous.

Despite the almost-kiss, he was still in love with his late wife. You could hear it in his voice when he talked about her. Sloane couldn’t compete with that.

Mrs. B had also told her about the times Stitch or one of his team had come back injured, concussed, bleeding, and how they’d stayed hidden while they healed, waiting for things to cool down before heading back to the States.

The more Sloane learned, the more in awe she was of him, and the more she felt she could trust him. There wasno wayhe was leaving her behind.

If anyone could keep her safe, it was Stitch.

“What’s Mrs. B supposed to do if armed men show up?” she asked.

He smiled. “Probably more than you think. But you don’t need to worry—no one knows you’re here.”

“They’ve probably searched my apartment by now. They know I’m not there. They’ll think I’m hiding somewhere in Peshawar, not heading to Islamabad.”

“You do realize Jeremy, your handler, is probably the one who put the hit out on you, right?”

She clenched her teeth. That sleazy bastard. “The last thing they’ll expect is me going after him.”

She stared him down, daring him to argue.

“I guess you’ve got a point,” he said reluctantly.

“See? It’s a no-brainer. Decision’s made. I’m going with you.”

He gave her a long, frustrated look, then threw his hands up. “Fine. You win. We leave in an hour.”

The driveto the Pakistani capital took just under three hours.

They hit a police roadblock leaving Peshawar, and Sloane was so scared she nearly peed herself.

“Stay calm,” Stitch muttered. “Don’t look at them.”

Two men in black uniforms with big guns peered into the car, then asked Stitch for his driver’s license.

Sloane stared at her hands, silently praying they’d get through. The full burqa Mrs. B had given her made sure they couldn’t see who she was, or her bandaged arm. The only thing visible through the narrow slits were her eyes, and she kept them down.

Stitch handed over his license. Her heart raced. Would they realize it was fake?

She tried not to think about the semi-automatic hidden under the carpet beneath the driver’s seat. She’d done a double-take when he’d brought it out of the house.

“Just in case,” he’d said, his face grim.

And then there was the Glock under her seat. The car was loaded with weapons. If anyone searched them, they were screwed.

By the time they reached the busy capital, her arm was aching from the bumpy roads, the painkillers had worn off, and she was starving.