Page 8 of Steel Vengeance

Being Taliban was the least of his crimes.

Nothing Omari did was terror related, but if that was the story she’d been fed, so be it. Nothing to do with him. He wasn’t interested in Agency business, so long as it didn’t interfere with his.

Omari was going down, regardless.

CHAPTER 5

When Sloane’s heart finally slowed to a reasonable pace and she no longer felt like she might faint from fear, she took a closer look at the beast of a man who had invaded her space.

She might not be the best field agent, but she was brilliant at reading people. That was her "gift," as Matthew called it. And the first thing she picked up about this guy was that he was in pain.

Not physical pain, but the kind that tore at your soul. She could tell he’d been to hell and back and was haunted by it. It was all there, plain as day. The tension in his muscular frame, his clenched fists, the veins popping in his neck, the rigid jaw. His intimidating posture and angry glare barely concealed it. And his eyes—icy blue, filled with hurt.

Grief? Hatred?

Something.

Definitely something.

No doubt he was dangerous, but she didn’t think that danger was aimed at her.

It was aimed at Omari.

He wanted something from Omari. But what?

A shiver crawled up her spine. Whatever it was, it wasn’t good.

He knew his way around a gun. Military, maybe? A soldier? He moved like one—disciplined, efficient, totally focused, light on his feet. She’d trained with soldiers at the academy—she knew the type.

Plus, there was that sexy tattoo peeking out from under his right sleeve. She could just make out the tip of a trident, its sharp lines etched in bold black ink against his tanned skin.

Her knack for reading people was why she’d been recruited. Her instructors were impressed by how quickly she could sense someone’s emotions. It came naturally, like breathing.

She was reading him now.

That’s what happens when you grow up with an alcoholic father, she thought with a sniff. His unpredictable moods and frequent outbursts had kept her on edge. She learned when to disappear, when to calm him down, and how to talk him out of a drunken rage. Too bad she hadn’t been able to talk him off that bridge. That was ten years ago. She’d been seventeen.

“Why do you want to know about Omari?” She turned back to the smoldering ball of tension standing in front of her, still scrolling through her phone.

He glared at her. No, not at her—through her.

His mind was on Omari, the Taliban official they were both tracking. Raw, unfiltered hatred poured off him. It was so strong she could practically feel it.

“None of your business,” he snapped.

“Except you came here demanding to know mine?” she shot back.

His eyes narrowed—dangerous slits of rage and pain. “I believe I’m the one holding the gun.”

She sighed and sat back down on the bed. “Looks to me like we both want the same thing.”

He didn’t respond, just stared.

“To know what Omari’s up to, right?”

Nothing.

She took a deep breath. “So, why don’t we come to a compromise?”