Page 92 of Steel Vengeance

Stitch knew Blade was working the problem. They had to divide and conquer. It was their only hope. In reality, it could go sideways fast, but he didn’t have a better plan.

“Alright, you wanna set the charges, or should I?”

“I’ll do it.” Blade didn’t hesitate. “You keep watch on Omari. If he makes a move, let me know.”

“Copy that.”

Stitch turned back to the convoy as Blade ducked behind a container and vanished.

He could always count on his Navy brothers. That was the great thing about their team. They had each other’s backs. Not just in combat, but for life.

Last year, when Blade and Lilly had been stuck in Afghanistan and on the run from the Taliban, Stitch had helped them escape. Together, they’d managed to get Lilly out of the country, but only because Blade had sacrificed himself at a roadblock. It was the bravest—and most reckless—thing Stitch had ever seen.

Now, Blade was helping him track down the man responsible for Soraya’s murder and the destruction of their village. That’s how it was between them—and always would be.

As Blade crept away to plant the charges they’d gotten from the same arms dealer who’d supplied their weapons, Stitch kept his eyes on Omari. The Afghan warlord was talking to someone on the dock—a port official, by the looks of things. Someone paid to let the heroin containers through. Stitch snapped a quick photo with his phone.

The two men shook hands, and the official walked off. Omari hung back, overseeing the final checks as the massive container ship prepped for departure. His entourage stayed near the SUVs, on edge, scanning their surroundings.

Fifteen minutes later, Blade returned. “All set.” He patted his pocket, where the detonator was tucked away. “Just say the word.”

“Soon.”

They watched as the ship’s engines roared to life, churning the dark water beneath it into a foaming frenzy. The steel hull groaned and creaked as it pulled away from the dock.

“There she goes,” Stitch murmured.

“And there goes Omari.” Blade nodded toward the Afghan leader as he climbed into the middle vehicle in the convoy. Once Omari and his men were safely inside the SUVs, they began to drive away.

Stitch raised his hand. When Blade hit the detonator, the C4 would go off, stopping the convoy dead in its tracks.

“Ready... now!”

Blade pressed the button, and a split second later, the first SUV was blown off the ground, engulfed in flames.

“Nice shot.” Stitch watched the wreckage burn. There were no survivors.

The remaining two vehicles screeched to a halt.

“Let’s do this,” Blade said, springing into action.

“Ready.”

They opened fire, unleashing a hail of bullets on the SUVs. The mercenaries scrambled out of the cars, trying to take cover. Stitch and Blade managed to take down six of them before the last three, including Omari, found shelter behind some crates.

But they weren’t together—while the mercs huddled behind the crates, Omari bolted into the maze of shipping containers.

“Damn it,” Stitch growled. “I’m going after him.”

“I’ll deal with the others,” Blade said. “Watch your back.”

“You too.”

They split up.

Stitch tracked Omari through the narrow gaps between the containers. The Afghan was armed and dangerous, a seasoned fighter with years of experience as a rebel soldier and Taliban officer. He wasn’t going to be an easy target.

Crouching low, Stitch moved quietly, his rifle at the ready. Where had the bastard gone?