Page 5 of Fallen Hero

Actually, I wouldn’t be surprised if he had a wake of buzzards at his command to pick clean the carcasses of those he screwed over.

“I happen to agree with him about this.”

I had a sinking suspicion I knew what she’d agreed about. I also knew I did not agree.

“I wholeheartedly, one hundred percent disagree with Tom regarding Mason Hughes and Pete Young. What did you text Mason?”

A sheepish smile tugged at Atlanta’s lips. “I didn’t text Mason anything.”

I gave her a moment to continue. When she didn’t, I asked, “What does that mean?”

“You texted him. Well . . . technically, I texted him, but I did it using your number, and I kinda lied and said I was you. So I did but I didn’t, since he thinks you texted him. And before I forget to tell you, I booked you a room at the Burj Al Arab for tomorrow’s move. It’s under a new alias, Lois Lane. I thought it went well with your journalist cover. Not that you’re using—”

“You did what?” I cut off her rambling about covers as her betrayal burned through me.

This was why I didn’t have friends. This was why I preferred to work alone. This was why I trusted no one. In the end, they always screwed you over.

“You’re moving down to Dubai tomorrow.”

I brought my hands up in front of me in a prayer position for no other reason than to stop myself from throwing my phone across the room. Over the years, I’d worked hard and learned to keep my temper in check. I wasn’t the same angry, impatient young woman I was when I’d started this crusade. I’d learned self-control—unless my friend was being violated, then all bets were off—yet here I was, on the verge of blowing.

“Don’t play games with me,” I admonished. “Let’s go back to the text you sent.”

Atlanta flinched, and I knew she caught the angry wave of hostility coming at her through the phone. Not that I was trying to hide my anger or hostility, but it was good to know I hit my mark.

“Calli—”

“You overstepped.”

“Maybe,” she conceded. “But friends don’t let friends make stupid decisions to save face. Friends don’t let friends suffer from hubris. You’re skating the line of ‘in over your head,’ and before you start to sink, which in turn will lead to you drowning, I stepped in—and okay, maybe overstepped, but goddamnit, Calli, you need backup. This isn’t cartels in Mexico. This isn’t kidnapped girls off the street. This is something else, and what it is, is next-level dangerous.

“You’re dealing with Amir Bakir. If the man even catches a whiff you’re not who he thinks you are, he will not think twice about slitting your throat. Your cover’s solid, and back in Mexico, Ahmad Sindi didn’t see you, but one of his guards on the island might’ve. Now is not the time to start taking unnecessary risks when you’re so close to your endgame.”

Atlanta wasn’t wrong. Amir had a well-known mean streak. He was also a man who had money and power and an ungodly amount of both.

What made Amir more dangerous than the normal danger a psychopath would present was his background. He had no royal blood; he was not related to a well-respected tribal leader. He was what we’d call in America a desert rat. Born into poverty.

Growing up, Amir had less than nothing. He was a scavenger. Being that, he learned young the only way for him to get what he needed to survive was to steal it.

There was a saying: The most dangerous kind of man is one with nothing to lose. However, a better saying would be: The most dangerous kind of man is one who was born with nothing, grew up hungry, learned to steal, cheat, and lie, and found a way to use all he’d learned to move up the felonious ladder until he made it to the top.

Now that man knew what it was like to eat shit, and he would do absolutely anything to never have to eat it again. A man like that, who’d tasted the good life, had it all, wouldn’t think twice about protecting all he’d amassed by any means necessary.

But still . . .

“That doesn’t give you the right to go behind my back and do what you did,” I pointed out. Then added, “And friends don’t betray friends.”

“Betray?” she whispered. “I didn’t betray you. At worst, I went behind your back—”

“And betrayed me, Atlanta. You used your access to my phone to pretend you were me. Taking that a step further, you did it knowing damn good and well I wouldn’t want you to do it. You listened to Tom and sided with him instead of respecting my wishes.”

My statement was met with a stone-cold stare.

Something to know about Atlanta, not only was she a genius behind the keyboard, with great instincts and a knack for finding a thread that was never meant to be found, then unraveling it until she had actionable intel, she also had skills that made her scary deadly.

The difference between her and I was, she preferred to be behind the scenes, while I’d rather gnaw off my own arm than search the dark web for hours on end.

She was also a few years older than me and had been at the game a lot longer. She called her desire to step back from the field burnout. But I suspected there were only so many marks the darkest of souls could take before you became the very thing you hunted.