Chapter One
“Don’t be mad.”
My gaze slid from the mirror, where I was watching myself unclasp my earrings, to the video call on my phone.
“That’s never a good way to start a conversation,” I told my . . . what was Atlanta? Not my assistant, not exactly my intel specialist, not my friend in the sense we shared secrets over cosmos and scheduled manis and pedis at the same time so we could gab and gossip.
Though she was a friend in the sense she helped me hide the bodies. That was, the bodies that needed to be disposed of. Sometimes it was better to leave the dead where they were, as a warning.
To say Atlanta was displeased I didn’t call her after the DC situation was an understatement. She would’ve had the crime scene cleaned, and I wouldn’t be on the hook for three men’s deaths.
The authorities would and did call it manslaughter.
I called it consequences. It would’ve been a lesson in ‘no means no’ if I’d left them breathing.
Seeing as I didn’t, and they earned their punishment by ignoring my friend’s pleas for them to stop, in the end, their deaths were nothing more than justice.
A savings for the taxpayers. The police should’ve been thanking me for taking three raping, low-life scumbags off the streets.
News flash, they weren’t. And to further their ungratefulness, I now had a warrant—or warrants, as it were—out for my arrest.
I watched Atlanta pinch her lips before she rubbed them together. Something she did when she was trying to come up with the best way to spin news she didn’t want to share but knew she had to.
“Just spit it out,” I said and went back to my earrings.
“I texted Mason Hughes.”
At her declaration, my eyes sliced back to my phone. “You did what now?”
With a long, heavy sigh, Atlanta attempted damage control. “I talked to Tom—”
“That was your first mistake,” I interrupted her.
Atlanta rolled her eyes. Not because she didn’t know I was correct.
Speaking to Tom was always a mistake. He was a snake.
And not just any snake. Tom was at the top of the deadly snakes we dealt with.
The Black Mamba, if you will. I had no doubt he’d eat his young if it meant saving himself, and, seeing as that was the case, one day when the time was right for him and it served his purpose, he’d throw me under the bus.
Which meant he wouldn’t think twice about throwing Atlanta into rush-hour traffic, nor would he blink at leaving her bloody, mangled body on the side of the road.
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.
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.
Five. Freaking. Days.
Shit.
I blew out a frustrated breath but couldn’t deny that frustration was mingled with a fair amount of belly flutters.
Before I closed the text thread, I did another quick scan of the messages.
Fucking Atlanta.
Thankfully, the burn of her betrayal won out and singed those stupid butterflies.
I also had a voicemail notification. I didn’t have to look to know who it was from.
Tomorrow. I’d deal with the voicemail and Atlanta and whatever trouble she’d caused tomorrow. Hopefully, it wasn’t too late to call Mason and tell him not to come. Five days was a long time, but if I was lucky, I could still stop him before he rallied the troops.
I knew my hope was for naught, and that was proved true when the knock on the door came.
No, not a knock—banging.
Shit.