Page 7 of Steel Vengeance
He needed to find out what she knew. Who her handler was? The ‘friend’ in Islamabad.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“Doesn’t matter who I am.”
“What are you going to do with me?” Fear flickered across her face.
“Nothing, as long as you tell me the truth.”
“I have told you the truth. What more do you want?”
She was angry, but afraid to show it. The flush in her cheeks crept down her neck.
He leaned forward. “I want to know everything that you know about Abdul Omari. His daily routine, who he’s met since you’ve been watching him, where he goes, and what he’s been up to. And I want to know the name of your contact.”
She gulped. “Is that all?”
He gave a little smirk.
“Let’s start with his routine.”
Reluctantly, Sloane picked up the phone. “He lives in the upmarket Hayatbad district, west of here.” She bent forward to show him the photograph he’d already seen of the double-story house with the gated front entrance and garage.
He wished she hadn’t. He kept his eyes glued to the screen.
“Every morning, he leaves home around eleven, is driven into town where he goes to his favorite coffee shop. He seems to prefer coffee to tea.”
The cherry lips formed a pretty pout.
“Sometimes friends meet him there. Locals. I’ve seen the same men several times. Look, here they are…” She got up and stood beside him, leaning over to show him the shots.
Christ, was she fucking doing this on purpose? Did she have any idea of the effect she was having on him?
As she thumbed through the photographs, he caught a whiff of vanilla. Wet hair tickled his hand. He fought not to jolt away.
“Then he walks up and down the street, greeting people, flanked by his bodyguards, before getting back into the car and going home. His routine hardly ever varies.”
“Except for today,” growled Stitch.
“Yeah,” she said breathlessly. “I haven’t seen those men before. They looked like they were from out of town.”
He agreed with her there. The plates had been different, and the dust coating the base of the vehicle signified it had driven a fair distance before arriving at its destination in Peshawar.
“Afghanistan,” he muttered.
She straightened up. “That’s what I thought.”
“Can I see the photographs?”
She handed him her phone. He flicked through until he got to the ones she’d taken of the three visitors. He zoomed in. None of them looked familiar.
“Do you think they’re Taliban?” she asked.
“Maybe.”
He didn’t elaborate. She had her job to do, and he had his. No way was he about to tell her who Omari really was.
A monster. A destroyer of villages, a killer of women and children, a taker of lives. A psychopath consumed by power and wealth and all the trappings that came with it.