Steel Vengeance: A gripping, second-chances, enemies-to-lovers romance, page 1
STEEL VENGEANCE
BLACKTHORN SECURITY
BOOK SIX
GEMMA FORD
Copyright © 2024 by GEMMA FORD
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
What’s next?
HEAT FORCE
About the Author
CHAPTER 1
PESHAWAR, PAKISTAN
Stitch trailed Abdul Omari as he and his entourage moved toward the local coffee shop. They moved as a unit, Omari dead center, surrounded by his four muscle-bound bodyguards. His security team wore the traditional robes, hiding who knows what kind of firepower underneath. From the bulges, it was clear they were packing.
Omari had shaved off the beard he’d sported back home in Afghanistan, trying to change his appearance. He’d also cut his curly hair short and ditched the turban. A high-value target on the U.S. radar, he kept a low profile, which was why he’d holed up in this part of Pakistan.
But not low enough.
Peshawar was near the Afghan-Pakistan border and chaotic enough for the warlord to disappear in. The streets were crowded, markets buzzing, traffic non-stop. Recent bombings and political unrest made it a prime spot for someone looking to vanish.
Stitch stepped back as a rickshaw rattled by.
He glanced around, making sure no one had clocked him. Everything seemed normal—locals doing their thing, vendors barking deals, taxis and rickshaws dodging potholes, and women carrying shopping bags, their heads wrapped in hijabs or scarves.
Then, his eyes locked onto a woman in a dusky blue headscarf over a shalwar kameez. She carried a canvas shoulder bag, her dark hair mostly hidden beneath the scarf. Unlike the other women who were either talking quietly amongst themselves, this one moved solo, eyes dead ahead—right on the target.
Omari.
There was no mistaking it. Her gaze was uncovered, sharp, and locked in. She moved fluidly, stopping now and then to glance at the produce, casually picking up an item here or there, dropping it into her bag, but her attention kept snapping back to Omari, tracking him.
At first, Stitch chalked it up to coincidence. Maybe she was just headed in the same direction—these streets were always packed. But three days straight? No way. She was tailing Omari, same as him.
The HVT disappeared into the café. He grimaced. Dirty glass windows covered with Arabic script blocked his view.
Shit, now he’d have to move. He crossed the street, heading for a tea house with outdoor seating, which would give him a better vantage point.
Like the locals, he was dressed to blend. His beard and deep tan made him fit right in. Back in the Afghan mountains, people thought he was one of them. The only thing that could give him away was his eyes—icy, intense blue. But today, with the sun blazing, his shades took care of that.
He ordered tea, paid the waiter, and settled outside. The two men beside him were engrossed in a game of backgammon. He watched them roll the dice then move their pieces across the beat-up board.
The woman had the same idea. She strolled into the shop next door, scanning an array of colorful scarves. She took her sweet time, trying a few on, admiring herself in the mirror by the entrance. Stitch could see her reflection. Behind her, the shopkeeper hovered, ready to make the sale. After some haggling, she decided on a cream-colored scarf, bought it, and replaced the blue one.
Smart. Changing her look under the guise of trying on a new purchase. Anyone who saw her go in might think it was someone else coming out.
But not him.
Now, he kept tabs on both the woman and Omari, who was tucked away inside the café. She moved on to the next shop, passing directly in front of him, not even sparing him a second glance. With his head bowed over his cup of tea, sunglasses on, she probably wrote him off as just another local.
Behind the shades, he studied her closer. Her skin was lighter than he’d thought. She wasn’t from here, even if she’d nailed the look. Her clothes were perfect, obviously bought locally, and she wore the scarf like a pro. Her hair was a rich chocolate brown, he’d seen a flash of it when she’d swapped scarves.
Who the hell was she?
She could be one of Omari’s mistresses. The drug lord apparently had more than a few. Maybe she suspected Omari was messing around with another woman. Not a stretch, knowing his type. Then again, maybe she was playing a different game.
What if she was a foreign operative? CIA, maybe? MI6? Any number of intelligence services would be interested in Omari’s whereabouts.
Stitch listened as she spoke to the shopkeeper, asking about something.
Urdu.
He was impressed. She had it down pretty well, but a few words were off. Still, it would fool most people. He frowned. Whoever she was, she’d prepped for this.
A black SUV rolled to a stop outside of the café. Three men stepped out—two with beards and skull caps, the third clean-shaven with a military haircut. The woman pulled out her phone, pretending to snap a selfie while holding up a necklace to her chest.
Stitch wasn’t buying it. Her camera lens was pointed right at the men.
He took a sip of tea, his gaze pinned to the men who disappeared inside the café. A meeting, maybe?
The woman lingered for another few minutes, hopping between shops until it became obvious she was stalling. With one last look at the café, she headed off.
Making a split-second decision, Stitch got up and tailed her.
She moved with intent now, mission complete. No more playing the shopper. Twice, she checked over her shoulder, scanning for a tail. She’d had some training, no question. But she didn’t see him. Stitch had spent a lifetime blending into shadows.
Rounding a corner, she made her way to an old, beat-up Honda scooter. Stitch watched as she hopped on, slinging the shopping bag across her chest.
Damn. He was on foot.
He threw himself in front of a rickshaw, forcing the driver to slam the brakes. Jumping in, he barked, “Follow that scooter!”
The driver shot him a weird look but hit the gas, swerving around a delivery van coming straight at them.
She didn’t go far. Four streets later, she slowed, hopped the sidewalk, and parked in front of a butcher shop. Stitch looked around, then back at the shop. Dead carcasses hung from hooks inside.
A mile, if that. Barely worth the chase.
Stitch waited until she’d slipped into a plain door next to the butcher’s shop, then he paid the driver and got out.
Was this where she lived? Or was it some kind of safe house?
He studied the crumbling structure with its sagging balconies that looked ready to collapse. If it was a front, it was a damn good one. The smell of raw meat mixed with the thick exhaust fumes, while flies buzzed overhead.
This part of town was more industrial—leatherworkers, jewelers, and other trades. But it was still packed. Wires crisscrossed the narrow streets, draped with laundry and flags.
No way to tell which apartment she went into. He could’ve followed her in, but without knowing where she was headed, it’d be a waste of time.
He scanned the exterior. The building was climbable. Plenty of footholds. But broad daylight wasn’t the time for it.
Instead, he circled the block, taking in every angle.
Failing to plan is planning to fail, his special forces instructor used to say. Prep was key. That mentality had stuck with him long after he’d left the service. His wife used to tease him about it.
You need to be more spontaneous, she’d joke. But she had enough spontaneity for both of them.
Soraya.
He closed his eyes, letting the grief hit him, sharp and familiar. Then, he took a breath, shoving it back down.
Soon.
Omari was going to pay for what happened to her.
But first, he had to figure out who this mystery woman was and what she wanted with his target. He didn’t need any more complications.<
After finishing his rounds, Stitch found a bench up the street and sat down to wait.
CHAPTER 2
Sloane entered her apartment, a squalid one-bedroom flat above a busy street and locked the door behind her. God, she was tired.
Removing her scarf, she made a beeline for the bathroom and turned on the taps. A hot soak in the tub was what she needed to get rid of the dust and grime of the street. Even her eyes felt gritty.
While the bath ran, she plugged in her laptop and set her cell phone beside it. She’d use it to connect to an internet hotspot. It was the only way to get connectivity.
She thought about the three men Omari had met.
That was new. He usually met friends at the coffee shop, not out-of-towners. She could tell by the vehicle registration that they weren’t from Peshawar. Maybe they’d hailed from across the border in Afghanistan. That was where Omari was from, although he couldn’t risk going back in case the U.S. forces discovered where he was.
“We know already,” she murmured, as she stripped off, tossing her clothes onto the bed. “We’ve got you in our sights.”
Music emanated from the apartment next door. She didn’t mind it, actually. The mismatched, jingly beat was strangely uplifting. Plus, it helped to know there were people close by. Sometimes, she felt so alone.
At first, she’d been delighted, if a little overwhelmed, at the prospect of being chosen for this assignment. She was a new recruit, after all. Matthew must have pushed to get her assigned. She didn’t want to let him down. This was a test of her mettle, her first overseas mission.
She’d read ferociously in preparation, but coming here was nothing like what was in the books or online. As a westerner, she was conspicuous. As a woman travelling alone, even more so.
She’d quickly learned to dress like a local, to blend in. Her contact in Islamabad had helped her acquire the appropriate attire and headwear. One of the servants at his hotel had shown her how to fix her headscarf so that it looked natural, like an Arabic woman. With her dark hair and brown eyes, people assumed she was a local.
Then her contact had driven her to Peshawar. The trip had taken nearly three hours, and he hadn’t spoken to her once. On arrival, he’d handed her the keys to the apartment, told her which number it was, and sped off leaving her standing in the middle of the dusty road with her suitcase.
The first thing that struck her was the smell of raw meat. It made her want to throw up. She’d never considered vegetarianism before, but in the three weeks she’d been here, she hadn’t touched anything even remotely resembling meat. She could still smell it now, wafting up from the butchery below on the warm air, permeating the rickety windows.
Or maybe that was her imagination.
She walked naked into the bathroom. At least there was hot water. She hadn’t been sure when she’d seen the state of the apartment. She poured in a few drops of scented oil she’d found at the market—lavender, she thought—and climbed into the steaming, fragrant water.
It was utter bliss.
She sunk down, feeling her body relax.
Her handler would be very interested in Omari’s visitors. Perhaps this was the intel they’d been waiting for. Her orders were simple: observe and report back.
Nothing else.
It hadn’t sounded that difficult at the plush CIA offices in D.C., however, here in Peshawar, things were more complicated. Logistically, following Omari had been a nightmare—until she’d got the scooter.
She’d bought it from Mohammed who owned the garage up the road. There’d been no argument when she’d offered to pay in U.S. dollars. The magic currency. He hadn’t even asked if she had a license.
Another bribe ensured she could park it just inside the meat market. The store owner was happy to oblige. He even gave her a key to the back entrance so she could get it after hours when the front was closed, not that she’d ever had to use it.
Most of Peshawar shut down at night. Alcohol was prohibited, so there were no bars. It was only the odd teahouse and coffee shop, the tobacconist and the night market that stayed open. Despite this, the traffic only died down around midnight, but she’d gotten used to it. It no longer kept her awake like it used to.
After washing herself fully, she shampooed her hair and rinsed it using the jug she’d placed by the side of the tub. Much better!
Climbing out, she wrapped herself in a towel. Still dripping, she padded into the bedroom.
And screamed.
CHAPTER 3
Sloane dropped the towel and dived under the pillow for her gun.
It was missing.
Shit!
“Looking for this?” On the chair by the window, sat a man who looked like he could wrestle a grizzly bear—and win. He held her gun, twirling it between his fingers like it was a toy.
Her heart pounded as she realized two things at once: she was completely naked, and he was very much armed.
"Who are you?" She grabbed the towel and clutched it to her chest. Her hands trembled so badly she could barely hold on to the fabric. None of her training had prepared her for this—standing butt naked in a room with a mountain of a man, staring down the barrel of her own gun.
She could hit targets hundreds of meters away, track moving threats with precision. She could read a situation in seconds—friend or foe.
Foe. Foe. Foe. Her instincts screamed loud and clear.
But her weapon was across the room, and he had it.
The man just sat there, calm as anything, the gun now pointing right at her, his eyes dark and unreadable beneath a layer of scruff on his tanned face.
“You’re American?” She fumbled for clarity. Anything that would dampen the threat, steady her frantic heart.
He ignored her question. Instead, he asked one of his own. “Who are you and why are you following Abdul Omari?”
The hand holding the gun didn’t waver. The eyes held steady, piercing in their directness. She could barely make out his features, thanks to the bushy beard that covered the lower half of his face. At first, until he’d spoken, she’d thought he was a local.
“I’m Sloane Carmichael,” she said, falling back onto her legend. “I’m a charity worker with the Women’s Empowerment League.”
He scowled at her, his eyes narrowing. “Bullshit.”
“W–What?”
“I recognize a cover story when I hear one. Who are you really? CIA? NSA?”
Something in her expression must have given her away, because his lips curled into a gratified grin. “Ah, the Agency. I should have known.”
“I–I don’t know what you mean,” she stammered.
He smirked. “Please, spare me the pretense. I’ve been watching you follow Omari for days. Now, I want to know why.”
“You’re mistaken,” she insisted, clutching onto the towel like it was a lifeline. “I work at the Peshawar Community Centre. I teach English language classes.”
He got up. Holy crap, he was tall. He towered over her, his head nearly touching the ceiling. She took in the dark, wavy hair, wild and unkempt, the massive, boulder-like shoulders, and the menacing expression that sent chills down her spine.
As he approached, she stiffened. This man was raw power. It emanated from every purpose-filled movement. His jaw was tense beneath the beard, his face a mask of barely controlled anger. Veins bulged in his neck.
Oh, hell.
Don’t let him unleash that fury on me.
"Don't lie to me." His voice was a rough whisper. "Aid workers don’t carry Glock 19s, change their appearance on a whim, and speak fluent Urdu."
Sloane grimaced internally.
Crap, she was made.
“That’s for protection,” she blurted out, knowing instantly how lame it sounded. “I’m a woman, traveling alone. This isn’t exactly the safest part of the world.”
He snorted. “How’d you get it past airport security?”
“I didn’t. A friend in Islamabad lent it to me.” That part was actually true. Except Jeremy wasn’t exactly a friend. She’d met her handler for the first time three weeks ago when she’d arrived in the Middle East.
The grizzly stared at her for what felt like an eternity. She shivered under his gaze, and it wasn’t because of the cold. His eyes were a striking blue, but icy—like the Arctic. Set against his deeply tanned face, they were both mesmerizing and unsettling.
