Chapter Five
The stubborn asshole was still in my room.
I’d been lying in the empty bathtub with nothing but towels to cushion my neck. My ass was sore, I was angrier than I had been in recent years, and part of that anger included my lack of access to a weapon.
I could go out there and challenge the prick to a fistfight, but he’d best me before I could kill him. Sure, a few solid punches to his handsome face would make me feel better, but it wouldn’t solve my problems.
I needed him gone. Him and his busybody friends.
Fucking Tom.
I was going to kill him too. I no longer cared that I needed him alive to work his magic and get my DNA and prints to magically disappear so I could reenter the US without a warrant for my arrest. I didn’t care that my father had respected the man.
That was just another lapse in his judgment.
That and not getting my mother into a program when she turned to alcohol to numb the pain of losing my sister.
I wanted this life to be over, and I was close.
This would be it, then I’d tell Tom I was no longer available to be his personal assassin and go about my life.
I’d find someplace quiet. I’d never look at a gun again.
The only time I’d ever hold a knife would be when I was chopping vegetables.
Which reminded me, I needed to add watching cooking videos to my post-CIA-contract-killer life.
Wherever I was going, I would for sure not have internet or a phone.
Okay, I needed the internet so I could watch my cooking videos. But no phones and no email.
I wanted to be totally off-grid—with my internet.
I’d grow a garden and live out the rest of my days talking to birds and wildlife and pretend they were talking back.
I’d forget I had a dead sister, a dead father, and a mother who hadn’t been coherent enough to have a real conversation in a decade.
I’d never utter the name Tom again; hell, I wouldn’t even think it.
I’d change my name and call myself . . . nothing.
That’s what I wanted—nothing. I wanted to sink into my nothingness and be left alone.
But I had to finish this first. Then I’d have everything, which would mean I could have my nothing.
One more kill.
Okay, not one more, there’d likely be a few more, but only one of those mattered.
Everything I’d sacrificed had led me here. All the black marks on my soul would be worth it. I knew there’d come a time when I’d have to pay for my transgressions. When I stood in judgment to a higher power, I’d accept my damnation. I wouldn’t plead or beg for salvation.
I was irredeemable.
Apparently, I was whiny and self-indulgent as well. Instead of worrying about what I was going to do after and plotting Tom’s murder, I needed to strategize.
Getting rid of Mason wouldn’t be easy. Ditching him and his friends would take too much time. Maybe I could use him to my advantage.
I had a rock-solid cover—rich and powerful madam who was on the hunt for fresh talent to add to her stable.
It wouldn’t be out of the realm of possibility I’d have bodyguards with me.
Actually, it would be weird if I didn’t.
I’d already followed Amir Bakir to two expensive dinners with potential buyers.
You would think it would be the buyers trying to—for lack of a better word—woo Amir.
But that wasn’t the case. Amir liked to show off his wealth; it was him treating the buyers to an evening of excess.
The extravagance was nauseating, but the bottom-line truth was, they each had a security detail with them.
Then last night, when Amir met with Ahmad Sindi, he, too, had an entourage.
I still didn’t understand the dynamic between those two—were they equals, or did one of them hold more power than the other?
Ahmad the kidnapper, and Amir the man who provided vetting and a lavish venue to sell Ahmad’s merchandise.
Of course, Ahmad wouldn’t be the only seller at the auction.
The ever-present gnawing in my stomach clawed its way to the surface.
I had a bad feeling Tom was going to pull his normal underhanded bullshit.
This wasn’t the usual kind of assignment he sent me on.
My role was twofold: secure an invite to Amir’s sick-fuck party and relay the details to Tom, and verify Ahmad was back in Abu Dhabi.
Tom had assured me he had a team on standby for the takedown, that the women would be taken care of. But something about that didn’t sit right. If he had a team close, and he was worried about me, why not send one or a few of the Ground Branch commandos to back me up? Why Pete and his team?
Unless Tom was lying, and he had no plans to actually shut down the auction.
Another reason I was ready to walk away—the lies, the double-crossing, the subterfuge. Tom would spin the deception; he’d cite some bullshit about the mission being fluid and targets changing.
But one problem at a time.
Bodyguards, that would work.
Then after Amir and Ahmad were taken out and the women were freed, Mason and his friends would leave.
And I’d be free to finish my mission.
Perfect.
Problem solved.
I rose in the bathtub, stepped out, and went for the door. I gave myself enough time to take a deep breath before facing the big, stupid, nosy, sexy jerk.
God, how was it possible to be attracted to a gigantic pain in the ass?
Was this what normal people felt—temptation and desire and pissed-off-ness all swirled together?
If so, I was glad I wasn’t normal, happy to be the outcast, ecstatic to be the only forty-year-old virgin on the planet who wasn’t a nun or saving herself for marriage.
Maybe it was time I took up masturbation. Dust the ol’ cobwebs off and banish all thoughts of Mason Hughes and his stupid face. It had been years since I’d tried the frustrating, never-coming-to-fruition self-pleasure route. But that was before I’d met Mason and had something to fantasize about.
I clenched my thighs and rested my forehead on the door. What would it be like to kiss Mason, to feel his lips on mine, and other places besides? And those big rough hands, what would those feel like on my skin, on my breast, down there?
I closed my eyes and willed away the images I had no business conjuring up.
“You okay in there?” Mason’s question had me jumping back from the door.
It also reminded me, I had work to do.
No more fantasizing about . . . anything. No lips, no hands, no penis.
“I’m thinking,” I called back.
“About?”
How good your mouth would feel on my breasts.
Lord, I needed a lobotomy.
“If it’s worth dismembering your body or if I should leave it in one piece for your friends to bury.”
I heard his deep, rumbly laugh through the door, and damn but the sound made me shiver.
“I want to be cremated,” he told me.
“Really?” I asked, opening the door to find him lounging on the bed.
His shoulders rested on a pile of pillows against the headboard, long legs straight out, ankles crossed, hands resting on his stomach, eyes trained on the door, waiting.
Nothing particularly sexy about the pose, but so totally sexy all the same.
I had to swallow a groan and remind myself I seriously disliked Mason Hughes.
“Dead’s dead. Just burn my body and toss the ashes.”
My gaze hadn’t left his hands, or more to the point, his very thick fingers.
I was too transfixed to reply, so he went on. “I take it you want to be put in the ground.”
“No.” I shook my head and repeated, “Dead’s dead. Just burn my body and toss the ashes.”
Not that I’d have anyone to claim my ashes or visit a grave.
Two-thirds of my family were gone, and with the state my mother was in, she wouldn’t be able to find her way to the cemetery.
I knew because two-thirds were buried, and she never visited.
Not that I was in a position to judge. I’d only been to my Lili’s grave twice—first when we put her into the ground, and the second was the day we laid my father to rest. Or maybe I’d laid him to rest, and my mother just sat there next to me, comatose.
“Calista?”
“Yeah?”
“Look at me, sweetness.”
My gaze snapped to his.
“You okay?”
What the hell was wrong with me? First dirty thoughts, now I was letting my guard down thinking about crap I had no business thinking about.
“Fine,” I scoffed. “Your dirty boots are on my bed.”
“So?”
“So? I don’t want to sleep in a bed—”
“You’re not staying in this room alone,” he interrupted me. “We have—”
It was my turn to interrupt, and inform him, “I’m not part of a ‘we.’”
“You are now.”
Shit. I kind of was.
“Okay, hotshot, here’s the deal. I don’t do teams and I don’t do partners, but I thought about it, and since you’re here and it’ll help my cover, you, Pete, and Fallon can act as my security.”
With a smooth lift of one eyebrow, he asked, “You don’t do teams?”
“No.”
“Thought you had a hacker assistant.”
“I do.”
“You don’t consider her a part of your team?”
After the stunt Atlanta pulled, I wasn’t sure I considered her anything. But that was for another day. “I work alone.”
Mason’s gaze went from perusal to scrutinizing. His study of me was intense and uncomfortable. An anger-fueled stare down was one thing. Mason observing me like he was reading my deepest, darkest secrets—no.
“I get that,” he finally said.
I didn’t see how that was possible when he was literally part of a team.
“I don’t think you do,” I stupidly mumbled.
“You can’t be part of a team without trust. Tom’s as untrustworthy as they come, and it doesn’t sound like the hacker chick is any better.”
For some reason, even though Atlanta went behind my back and I wasn’t sure I could forgive her, I didn’t like hearing Mason call her untrustworthy.
“I don’t agree with how she handled the situation, but she’s had my back a lot over the years.”
“Yeah?”
“She’s the best investigator I’ve worked with.
She never fails to get me what I need when I need it, and some of the time she’s a step ahead of me and predicts what I’m going to ask for.
She helped train me for fieldwork, and when she did, she didn’t go easy on me.
She’d kick my ass, and before I could drag myself up off the mat, she’d tell me an enemy wouldn’t pull punches, so neither would she.
But even with all of that, I still don’t know if I’ll ever trust her again. ”
“Justifiably so.”
This was one of those times when I wondered what a normal person’s response would be. Someone who’d lived untouched by the atrocities I’d seen. Someone who didn’t have a dead sister and blood on their hands. Someone who hadn’t dedicated their life to killing as many evil men as possible.
In a moment of sheer idiocy and curiosity, I asked, “Do normal people forgive?”
Mason’s eyes flashed with what looked like panic before he blinked it away.
“I don’t have the first fucking clue what normal people do. I just know what I do.”
My curiosity turned morbid when I pushed for more. “What do you do?”
“I don’t give anyone my trust. They can’t break what they don’t have.”
Wise words to live by. “Smart.”
Mason shifted, yanked out a pillow from behind his back, and tossed it next to him. Why did he have to look so damn good in my bed?
“Stick with me. I’m full of good ideas.”
He looked more like he was full of delicious mistakes.
“So you say.”
“You look dead on your feet,” he noted.
He wasn’t wrong, but screw him for pointing it out. “Thanks,” I said dryly.
“Come lie down.”
And that was when I found myself blinking so fast I was worried I was going to have a seizure.
“What?” I was worried my question came out as a squeak. My suspicion was confirmed when Mason smirked.
“I don’t bite.”
“Well, I do.” Inwardly, I cringed at my retort.
“How about we save the biting for later and you come lie down and rest. We have a busy day tomorrow.”
There was no way I was getting in that bed with him. “I have a better idea. You go back to your room, and I’ll rest when you’re gone.”
“I don’t trust you not to bail.”
That was fair. After all, he’d caught me mid-bail.
“I’ve changed my mind since then and come up with a new plan. One that includes you being my bodyguard, so I won’t be ditching you.”
Mason’s gaze latched onto mine. His mask slipped and showed me the lethal man beneath the veil. Weirdly, I felt more comfortable with the real Mason.
“I still don’t trust you.”
“Good, we have that in common,” I returned. “I don’t trust you either.”
“You shouldn’t.”
It was his quick honesty that had me walking to the foot of the bed and toeing off my shoes.
I put a knee to the bed.
Was I really doing this—crawling into a bed with a man I didn’t know, willingly lying down beside him, willingly putting myself into a vulnerable situation?
I totally needed a lobotomy.
When I made it to the pillow, I dragged it to my front and held it to my chest like a feathery shield and laid my head on the mattress. My hip was teetering on the edge. If I did manage to close my eyes, I hoped I wouldn’t move or I’d fall off the bed.
I was on my side, facing Mason. He was still on his back staring at the ceiling.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
“For what?”
For telling me the truth. For not doing what everyone else in my life did and try to manipulate me. For not watching me crawl into bed.
“For being honest.”