Page 27 of Fallen Hero

My suitcase was sitting by the door. I could grab it and go. I could rid myself of the irritation and focus on what was important—meeting Amir Bakir for dinner, securing an invitation to the auction, passing the intel to Tom, and then finally avenging my sister.

All I needed to do was put one foot in front of the other and walk out.

Yet my feet stayed where they were.

“What intel was so important you’d risk your life for it?”

Anything that got me one step closer to killing the man who stole my sister from me.

“There’s a lot of intel floating around out there that would be worth risking my life to find.”

Mason tipped his head back and stared at the ceiling. I didn’t need him to say a word to know I was taxing his patience.

Same, friend, same.

Chapter Eight

The woman was downright infuriating.

Berta Lanza’s words from several weeks ago played in my head on repeat.

Calista is a brave woman.

Calista has made it her mission to bring awareness but also to rescue and return victims home. Much like what Saint here does. These women need a champion, a savior, and she has a beautiful soul, so she’s decided that savior will be her. She reminds me of you, Catarina. Mia too. Brave. Strong. But not as smart. She wants to save the world, not just those she can.

Not as smart.

I had no doubt Calista was smart, but she was dangerously stupid with her safety.

What the hell had she been thinking, making herself a target, purposefully getting taken? For what, information? Jesus fuck, she could’ve been killed. She could’ve been raped.

Had she been?

My mind raced through every interaction I’d had with the woman. No hollow, haunted eyes, no recoiling from men who were much bigger and stronger than her, no timidness, jumpiness, anxiety. Of course, just because I hadn’t seen any signs didn’t mean shit.

No, she had to have escaped that cruelty. I wouldn’t allow my brain to contemplate the alternative.

I raised the palms of my hands to my eyes and pressed hard in an attempt to vanquish the horrific thought.

When I dropped my hands, my gaze went back to the view in front of me. From the window, the world’s tallest skyscraper stood proud. The Burj Khalifa, UAE’s latest claim to power. Below, the famous fountain was inactive. Later, the crowd would gather and watch what was now considered the world’s largest water shower.

Dubai was famous for a great many things—all of them a facade.

All of them hiding the truth.

All of it built by slaves.

Not that polite society liked using that word. Society played moral gymnastics to make the world around them more palatable. Well-meaning intellectual types liked to distance themselves from uncomfortable realities. They played word games: forced labor, hazardous working conditions, unpaid services, servitude. It freed them of the inconvenient guilt of enjoying the luxury built by poor, desperate, and beaten-down men.

When in truth it was fucking slavery.

There was no way to pretty up the actuality. But we did that now too. Your truth. My truth. We warped the truth and made it subjective. We hijacked words, changed the meanings to fit the narrative. We called women and men and fucking children being kidnapped and sold human trafficking, exploitation, instead of calling it what it was—sexual slavery. Because it was less offensive to hear.

The longer I stared out the window at a building that was built by slaves, the more my disdain grew. A beautiful skyline, luxury, money, all hiding the truth—the vile, revolting, disgusting truth. Right now, as I stood in the extravagant display of wealth, there were women and men and children down somewhere in that city being raped. Unspeakable trauma being inflicted.

Fuck.

I turned my back on the window, unable to stomach my own thoughts.