Page 101 of Fallen Hero

I wondered how long it would take Mason to pack. Did Pete already have a flight scheduled to take them back to California? Was Fallon itching to get back to whatever it was that Fallon did when he wasn’t helping the CIA shut down sex-slave auctions? Would the others be mad they’d wasted a trip if Tom actually came through and dispatched a Ground Branch team?

“I need you to attend the party.”

Tom’s order banged around in my head, making it pound to the same beat as the drumming of my heart.

“That wasn’t the mission,” I reminded him.

“The mission is always fluid.” His neutral, relaxed tone pissed me off.

My gaze snagged on Mason’s angry face as I replied, “I’m not attending—”

“You are, Calista, and you know why. This will be two birds—you take out my target and you’ll have access to yours.”

I locked down the slew of obscene names ready to spill out of my mouth. Unfortunately, I couldn’t block out the three sets of male eyes staring at me in censure. I’d never mentioned I had a target. And the other two men in the room were now also laser focused on me, which made me twitchy.

“Listen to me carefully, Tom. I am not attending. Your team can take out your target, and if they can’t, call in one of your other mercs. I don’t care what you do, but it won’t be me.”

“The team’s too far out. I need you to go in.”

Bullshit. Bull-fucking-shit. He’d once again lied. There was no team. He’d always intended for me to attend the party.

I glanced at Pete. The hard set of his jaw said it all—he was furious. And relieved he’d brought his team to Dubai.

There was no way I could attend the party after last night. My cover wouldn’t hold.

Not that I’d explain my reasons to Tom, nor would I tell him Pete would now be going in to rescue the women and give him the chance to manipulate the situation.

“I’m not going to the auction,” I declared. “If you don’t have a team close, I suggest you start calling around.”

Before I could disconnect the call, Tom blew my world apart.

“I’m delivering Jason Anderson to you on a silver platter.”

“Who’s Jason Anderson?” Mason interjected.

“Mason Hughes,” Tom drawled. “Calista didn’t explain?”

Motherfucking dick canoe.

Piercing green eyes fixed me in place. The unbridled accusation almost made me flinch.

“Explain what?”

“There’s nothing to explain,” I warned. “And, Tom, I was going to wait until after your mission to talk to you, but with this bullshit, I’m thinking now’s the perfect time to tell you I quit.”

“Tell me, Calista, how does one quit doing what you do?”

Was that a threat?

“I don’t know, you tell me. Do I need to email you my resignation, or will verbal notice suffice?”

“You’re smarter than this.”

No, I wasn’t. This morning was proof of that, when I lay awake in Mason’s arms, wishing I could wake up next to him every morning, wishing that was my life—Mason and peace. But neither of those would ever be mine. Even after I walked out of my old life, I would never be walking into his. My world would never be perfect. I’d never get even a little bit of what I wanted.

“Don’t ever call me again. I’m out. If you come after me, I’ll come out of retirement. And warning, before you think to fuck with me, remember you’re a good teacher, Tom, and I never forgot a lesson. I’m all for mutual destruction—and you taught me that too.”

I stabbed the screen of my phone and refused to look up. I knew what I’d find, and I wasn’t ready to deal with it yet.