Page 26 of Fallen Hero

The room went from icy to a whole nother dimension of arctic. The kind of cold that seeped into your bones and threatened frostbite. The kind that was so cold it burned the skin. And that freeze-out was coming solely from Mason. His fury blanketed the suite. With every breath I took, his anger filled my lungs.

This time when Mason spoke, his words were abrasive, scratchy, and dangerously calm. “Are you fucking crazy?”

My temper flared to life. I didn’t answer to Mason or anyone. I was in charge of my life. No one told me what to do or how to run my investigations. I didn’t need permission from anyone. And I certainly didn’t ask for or need Mason’s opinion.

“I don’t know what your problem is—”

“My problem? Woman, you put yourself in unimaginable danger.”

The danger wasn’t unimaginable. Not for me and not for the men in the room. We were all well acquainted with the dangers that lurked, and we were all willing to put ourselves in front of it.

“Hi, Pot, I’m Kettle, nice to meet you,” I volleyed.

“I’m not a fan of sarcasm.”

Annoyed with his attitude. Pissed off that Tom and Atlanta had screwed me over. And now that I was saddled with this big beast of an asshole and his friends, I lost the last fray of my temper.

Wondering why I was still sitting in the small chair like a naughty child in time-out, I surged to my feet. Not that it did much by way of bringing me eye level with him, but at least he no longer had the dominant position.

“You know what I’m not a fan of?” I shot back. “You.”

Pete and Fallon were still sitting. Fallon’s gaze was happily ping-ponging between me and Mason like he was watching a tennis match. Pete didn’t look happy about anything, and he wasn’t watching the Calli and Mase show; he was staring at his feet.

“Right back at you, sweetness.”

“Look at us, that’s two things we have in common. How about we not find out if there’s a third and use this as the perfect opportunity to part ways.”

My suggestion was met with a growl.

“Sorry, I don’t speak dog. Was that your agreement?” I asked sweetly.

Fallon snorted from the couch. “As entertaining as this is, we have an op to plan and only a few hours to plan it. Someone get Mason one of the thirty-five chocolate bars he picked up at the airport, so he can concentrate.”

“You bought chocolate at the airport? It’s five hundred degrees outside. Who eats melted chocolate?”

“Mason does. He’ll lick the wrapper if he has to,” Fallon informed me.

“The op,” Pete prompted.

Pete’s reminder was the perfect segue I needed.

“You don’t need a strap, and I don’t need you. So I assume you have tonight handled all by yourselves, then you can go home, and I can get back to why I’m here.”

In Fallon’s defense, he did look a little sheepish when I reminded him he’d called me a strap. I couldn’t know if he’d meant it as an insult, insinuating I was dead weight strapped to their team, or if it was nothing more than a turn of phrase. Either way, I was no one’s burden.

“Did you get the intel you were after in Juárez?” Pete asked.

“Sure did,” I told him. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have shit to do.”

“You’re not leaving.”

Was it possible to be so angry your vision hued red—actual red with blurry dark spots? Before that moment, I would’ve said no. I would’ve said allowing yourself to get incensed to the point of hazy vision was a weakness to be snuffed out. Rage was a symptom of loss of control. But there I was, fuming and seeing red, all because of Mason and his proclamation.

“Actually, I am.”

I skirted the table but didn’t get far when Pete stood.

“What Mason means is, you’re a smart woman,” Pete wrongly paraphrased. He’d said I was fucking crazy, and he meant it. “You know us being here only strengthens your cover, and we can use your help tonight. No doubt the woman we grab will be scared. She’s been living in hell for three years. She’ll need a woman’s touch to smooth the way. So we’re all leaving here, going to Shep’s penthouse, and planning tonight. Like Fallon pointed out, we only have a few hours, so we best get moving.”