Page 32 of Fallen Hero

“It never stops coming as a shock, sweetness, because it’s fucking shocking and disturbing.”

She nodded but didn’t look convinced.

Chapter Nine

Simple and stupid went out the window when we were dropped off three blocks down from the location Pete was given.

Shep had arranged a driver. The man looked like he wasn’t a day younger than a hundred and seventy-five. His English was impeccable; so were his manners. There was something about the kind old man that made me want to whisk him away and force him to retire someplace far from here.

On the drive over, he explained he’d worked with the “American” before. I thought he was referring to Shepherd as the American, but as it turned out, he worked with more people than just Shep. “Worked” didn’t mean he accepted money. He offered his taxi services for free transporting women to safety. He reminded me of Berta. Good and honest and noble, trying to do right in a country he loved. Trying to right wrongs that were not his.

But that wasn’t what derailed the simple and stupid strategy to get Kiara. It was Mason changing up the plan after we’d already hashed it out back at the penthouse.

It was simple—Pete was going to the alley. Fallon and I were going to use the side entrance to get into the building and wait inside for Pete to hopefully bring Kiara in. If she wasn’t in the alley, Pete would leave without picking a girl. Then thirty minutes later, Mason would come into play and go to the alley to look for Kiara. If she still wasn’t there, Pete would come back later and try again.

Simple.

Or it would have been if Mason hadn’t decided he was going to accompany me into the apartment building, and Fallon was going to take his place looking for Kiara. This led to a minor squabble between me and Mason. I didn’t like last-minute changes, especially when they were made with no explanation. But I didn’t need one. I knew he’d switched places because he didn’t trust me to have Fallon’s back.

“You’re not to be outside of touching distance,” Mason demanded.

Now I wanted to kick Mason in the balls for not trusting me to do my job and for being a bossy twit.

“What? You mean I can’t do a skip-dance in the street?” I asked as I fiddled with my dusty-rose shayla that was already damp, making sure my neck was still covered. “This is torture.”

Mason glanced over at me. “You could go back to the penthouse.”

“Bet you’d like that.”

His jaw clenched under the scruff of his not-yet-full beard, but full enough it was more than a five-o’clock shadow and sexier than I wanted to admit.

“I would.”

Gah. I was going to cause the man bodily harm before the night was over.

I decided now was a good time to ignore him and start paying attention to my surroundings. The street was packed despite how late it was. Late and hot as hell. The sun setting had barely put a dent in the temperature and did nothing to touch the humidity. If the sweat rolling down my back and between my boobs was anything to go by, it had to be pushing ninety.

Shop signs were lit up, and streetlights cast a white glow over the dirty sidewalks. I couldn’t take a step without seeing a massage card—on the ground, stuck on parked cars, taped to the light poles.

They were everywhere.

All in English.

Spa and Massage: fifty-percent-off special.

Oil Massage, facial, body scrub: call now.

Massage Therapy: special rates.

Phone numbers boldly displayed.

There had to be hundreds and hundreds of them. Every-fucking-where.

People all around me hustling on the sidewalks, crossing the street, standing in front of shops and sitting at outside tables of restaurants, and hardly anyone paid attention to those massage cards.

There was bumper-to-bumper traffic, horns honking, roadwork being done.

Everything looked normal, but there were thousands of men and women being held against their will in these hotels, apartments, in the backs of stores. Thousands in this district alone.