Page 6 of Fallen Hero

Before the kill was just as much for pleasure as it was for the greater good.

Was that where I was at?

Regret had never crossed my mind. Not even in the beginning. But there had been a tinge of remorse. Now, I felt nothing.

I was who I was. I did what I did. I was nothing more than a killer for hire—and I was damn good at it.

Except I’d left a mess in DC that said otherwise. So maybe I was as reckless as my friend Berta warned me I was. I’d allowed emotion to override my training. I hadn’t followed protocol. My concern for my friend took precedence over cleaning the crime scene. Not a regret but a mistake. One I didn’t plan on making again.

By the time I was done in Dubai, the world would be rid of Amir Bakir, and the women he sold would be free. That was, until someone else stepped up and took over Amir’s trade.

It was a never-ending cycle.

“I’ll give you this, Calista. I knew what I was doing when I went behind your back and texted Mason. I knew you’d be pissed. I also know you’re not stupid, but you are stubborn. It was Tom’s idea to call in Mason and his crew, and that alone would make you dig your heels in. I did what I did, and it was underhanded the way I did it. I don’t regret it, and I’d do it again if it means at the end of this assignment you’re alive to be pissed at me.”

With that, she disconnected the call before I could tell her it was not Tom’s idea to call in Mason. He wanted to call Saint ‘Pete’ Young. It was just that where Pete went, Mason went, and I didn’t trust myself around the latter. If Tom had suggested anyone else, I might’ve considered it.

Not that my contemplation would’ve led me to accepting help.

Yeah, maybe I had a severe case of hubris.

On that thought, I went to the safe in the closet and pulled out my personal phone. While I was waiting for it to power on, I finished removing my jewelry. My makeup was one step below call girl—smokey eye shadow that made my blue eyes pop, full-cover foundation that made my skin look flawless even though it wasn’t, and bombshell-red lips.

I couldn’t wait to wipe all this shit off my face. Classy call girl—or one step down—wasn’t my favorite look. However, I needed to play the part of wealthy madam. How Atlanta and Tom thought Mason and his team would fit into my cover, I couldn’t fathom. I was here to buy women. I had a plan, and so far it was working better than I’d expected.

Men were men—dangerous or not. Tits, ass, and legs made them stupid. Package all of that in a tight dress, fuck-me heels, makeup that was classy but heavy . . . give them good hair, let them think they might get themselves some, and stupid becomes reckless.

I snatched my phone off the bureau, took a deep breath, and opened my texts.

It was time to see if I could instigate damage control.

Atlanta had helpfully programmed in Mason’s contact information.

What do you say about a trip to Abu Dhabi? I could use some backup.

Who is this?

CV

Are you safe?

Define safe.

Damn, Atlanta was good. That sounded like something I’d say.

Give me five minutes to get the team together. Answer me when I call.

Do women always bend to your orders?

Great. Now she was flirting on my behalf. What was not great was the way my stomach clenched in anticipation. What was equally not great was the way butterflies were trying to squeeze through the clench.

I went to the next text, and those butterflies broke free.

That’s a show not tell, sweetheart. And I’m happy to show you when I get there.

I pushed through the riot in my belly and looked at the date of the exchange.

It had been five days.