Page 1 of Fallen Hero

Prologue

Calista Ventura

Abu Dhabi, United Arab Emirates

“It’s time for you to call Saint and his team.”

Even though Tom couldn’t see me, since he was three thousand miles away and we were speaking on the phone, I still rolled my eyes at his use of Pete’s real name. For some reason—and I hadn’t asked—Tom didn’t like calling Pete ‘Pete.’

“I already told you, Mason Hughes is going to be a problem. I don’t want him involved.”

That was the lie I’d told Tom on the plane out of Mexico, when I’d adamantly turned down his suggestion to ask Mason and his team to help me. The lie wasn’t that Mason was going to be a problem because he was going to dig through my past, my present, and he’d find out who I really was and who I really worked for.

The true problem was I found him attractive—in the I-wanted-to-jump-his-bones kind of way. And the more he irritated me, the more I wanted to bang him. Which in my estimation was the definition of insanity. Or maybe it was unhealthy. Though I wasn’t sure I even knew what healthy was. After Liliya was taken, my life spiraled into a tangled mess of dysfunction and grief.

“There’s nothing for him to find.”

“Be that as it may, Tom, I don’t want—”

“I’m not asking, Calli,” Tom interrupted me. “Your choices are call Saint or I’m pulling you.”

The asshole would pull me out of some foolish sense of obligation to my father.

“I think you’ve paid your debt to my father tenfold. You don’t need to keep riding in to the rescue every time you think danger’s close.” I’d shocked the man into silence. I took a second to savor the moment. “And just as a reminder, I didn’t need help back in Mexico. I’d gotten myself out of that situation just fine and got us the authorization to go after Ahmad Sindi.”

Still nothing.

“Tom, did I lose you?”

“How long have you known?”

“Since my father confessed all on his deathbed, with a warning and instructions on what to do if I was ever approached by the Irish.”

Tom had nothing to say to that.

“How’s Diane?”

Thankfully, Tom had something to tell me about my friend.

“She’s in Upstate New York with a friend of mine who’s taking care of her.”

Thank God for that.

“And the charges against me? Where are you with that?”

“We’re not done discussing your current situation.”

We were.

I wasn’t calling Saint.

“Tell me what you’re doing to clear my name?”

“They have your DNA, Calli.”

I knew they did. I’d stupidly broken a window.

“Don’t feed me some line of bullshit. The rich and powerful have been getting away with murder since the beginning of time. The Agency cannot expect to send me out to do their dirty work but turn it off when I’m stateside. He was raping her, Tom. What did they expect me to do? Stand outside and call nine-one-one? Wait for the police to arrive while she endured more? Then watch him get off on some bullshit technicality because he’s rich and powerful, which means he gets a free pass? I call bullshit on that. I saved the taxpayers money on a trial, and if by some miracle he was convicted, I saved them money housing and feeding that monster. They owe me a thank-you, not murder charges.”