CHAPTER 1
P ESHAWAR, 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. They wore the traditional shalwar kameez, 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 up his profile. He’d also cut his curly hair short and ditched the hat. A high-value target on the U.S. radar, he was flying under it now. That’s 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 scanned his six, making sure no one had clocked him. Everything seemed normal—locals doing their thing, vendors barking deals, taxis and rickshaws dodging potholes, and women with 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 bag, her dark hair resting over one shoulder. Unlike the other women, who were either chatting or keeping their heads down, this one moved solo, eyes dead ahead—right at the target.
Omari.
No mistake. Her eyes were uncovered, sharp, and locked in. She moved fluidly, stopping now and then to look at the produce, casually picking up an item here or there, dropping it in 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.
Omari disappeared into the café. The dirty glass windows, covered with Arabic script, blocked the view. Stitch crossed the street, zeroing in on a teahouse that gave him a good vantage point.
Like the locals, Stitch 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 guy, and settled outside. Two men beside him were playing a game that looked like backgammon. Stitch watched them roll the dice, 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 grabbed a cream-colored scarf, bought it, and swapped it for the blue one.
Smart, Stitch thought. Swapping her look like that. Anyone watching her would probably mistake her for someone else.
But not him.
Now, Stitch kept tabs on both her and Omari, who was tucked away inside the café. She moved on to the next shop, passing 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, a rich chocolate brown, fell straight down her back. He’d seen a flash of it when she’d swapped scarves.
Her lips had that natural pout, like something straight out of an old cartoon. Betty Boop, minus the lipstick. They sat perfectly on her heart-shaped face, framed by big, kohl-lined eyes.
Stitch wasn’t about to jump to conclusions. She could be one of Omari’s mistresses—word was, the drug lord had more than a few. Maybe she thought Omari was messing around with another woman. Not a stretch, knowing his type. Then again, maybe she was playing a different game.
Maybe she wasn’t local at all. Could be CIA. Could be MI6. Omari was a hot ticket for any intel agency.
He eavesdropped as she spoke to the shopkeeper, asking about something.
Pashto. She had it down pretty well, but a few words were off.
Stitch frowned.
Who the hell was she?
A black SUV rolled up outside 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 was pointed right at the men.
He took a sip of tea, mind racing.
She lingered for another twenty minutes, hopping between shops until it became obvious she was stalling. When she was done, she finally headed off.
Making a split-second decision, he 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. Stitch jumped in, barking, “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. Dead carcasses hung from hooks inside.
A mile, if that. Barely worth the chase.
Stitch paid the driver and got out. She slipped into a plain door next to the shop.
He glanced up at the building. Was this where she lived? Or some kind of safe house?
Stitch took in 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.
The building was climbable. Plenty of footholds. But broad daylight wasn’t the time for it.
So, he circled the block, taking in every angle.
Failing to plan is planning to fail , his old special forces instructor used to say. Prep was key. That mentality had stuck with Stitch long after he 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, Stitch had to figure out who this woman was and what she wanted with Omari. He didn’t need any more complications.
After making his rounds, he found a bench up the street and sat down to wait.