by SE Jakes
“We were told to hunker down until the Marines controlled the crowd, which took hours. Maybe half a day. At the time, we thought the powers that be knew what could happen during those exercises, even though our op was supposed to be a simple one. But while it was happening, we had no doubt that the CIA knew this particular attack would happen. So we sweated it out—the ambassador obviously hadn’t been let in on the plan, either. It wasn’t just about him then, even though it was supposed to be. But there was no way I was following orders and leaving the ambassador’s wife and kids behind.”
Tom frowned. “You said ‘I.’ Was that because you were point or . . .”
“I overrode John,” he said brusquely. “Finally, the Marines got the riots under control and we left the embassy—we sent out cover cars—red herrings—and we had the entire family with us. We didn’t use a full caravan, because that would’ve been a dead giveaway. And we got to the LZ in time. Just in time, actually.”
He swallowed, hard, and Tom touched his arm. “Stay with me, Proph. Stay in the present.”
“Trying.” He shook his head, but couldn’t shake the feelings of being back there, head down, loading the family onto the chopper. “They had three kids—the youngest was three years old and he was holding on to me for dear life when the rebels started firing. Didn’t matter what rebels, because fuck, that’s all the Congo was—different groups of rebels all fighting for their slice of power for that day or week or month. But once we got to the LZ, we realized that we wouldn’t have room on the chopper they brought.”
“They didn’t account for the wife and the kids.”
“Right?”
“I’m assuming you and John stayed back—without question.”
“John and I held off enemy fire and let the chopper get away safely. Took down the guy with a rocket launcher by running him over.” He glanced at Tom, who smirked and shook his head.
“I can so picture that.”
After the bird took off, he and John had begun the long hike back to the embassy . . . until they were ambushed. “It wasn’t the rebels.”
Prophet knew then, deep down, that it had been a setup. He’d spotted a Mossad agent earlier that afternoon, and when he and John were held, it was to obtain information.
“They were going to leave us, Proph,” John told him after they’d been rescued. “One of our first missions and the CIA gave orders for us to be left behind. We weren’t even their men at that point and they still found a way to screw us over.”
“The CIA had their eyes on you early on,” Tom said quietly. “Both of you.”
And that’s why John had turned so easily when the time was ripe for it. He’d just waited for a way out—a way to play and pay back the CIA and the government for fucking him (and Prophet) over the first time, and at the same time.
“What happened to you during your capture?”
Prophet shook his head. “Can’t talk about it.”
“Can’t—or won’t?”
“Both,” he managed. Tom had seen only a small portion of his torture at the hands of the CIA, but that had come much later. As the saying went, You never forget your first time . . .
That’s exactly what the agent who’d tortured him for those four weeks, three days, two hours and forty-six minutes had whispered at the start.
You never forget your first time . . .
Prophet sat up and Tom wrapped around him. “We could run from all this shit. Better yet, we could all just stay here.”
“Remy?”
“He’d love it.”
“He would,” Prophet agreed.
“Mal, King, Ren too. We could just . . .” Tom lost momentum. “Sorry. You guys have been running for ten years and I’m acting like I can make it better.”
Prophet ran a hand through Tom’s hair. “Mal tried it first. Then King bought us all a place in Bali. Do you know how fucking hot it is in Bali?” Tom ducked his head and smiled. “The fact that you want us all together? That means a lot. I’m fixing this, T. Once and for all.”
“Maybe you should let me.”
“Between me and John. Trust me, though—if I could give this job away, I’d trust you with it.”
“Are we done after this?”
“I am, Tom. I won’t take it away from you.”
“You’re not.”
“Fuck, we’re sappy.”
“Yeah. I like it.”
“You would.” Prophet nudged him.
Tom froze.
“What?”
“It’s ah . . . nothing.” He glanced at Prophet. “Something. Just not sure what yet.”
Prophet’s gaze slid out the window and over Dean’s land. Tom was tense. Waiting. Phone out of his pocket, in his hand although Prophet would take bets Tom hadn’t even noticed he’d done it.
That happened so often, Prophet was used to it at this point. “Any messages?”
“Huh? Oh.” Tom checked his phone. “Nothing yet.” Then he turned to Prophet. “How many more secrets are you holding, Proph?”
Tom watched Prophet squirm until he finally admitted, “Enough of them.”
“But there’s something—one of them—you’re trying to figure out how to tell me, right?”
“Fuck, I hate it when you do that.”
“Only when it’s something that doesn’t suit your purpose,” Tom pointed out.
“Touché, T. You win. Guess now’s as good of a time as any.” That last part was more to himself than to Tom. And yeah, Prophet was twitching a little. Tom rarely saw him this nervous, so fuck, this had to be big. “Look, I couldn’t tell you before. Shouldn’t be telling you now, except . . .”
“You’re killing me here, Proph. Seriously.”
“It’s about Ollie. And Hal.”
“Okay.” Tom frowned. “What do they have in common?”
Prophet sighed. “A lot more than you realize.”
“Like . . .?” Like fucking pulling teeth.
“Like everything. They have every single thing in common . . . because they’re the same person. Ollie is Hal. Was Hal. Fuck, you know what I mean.”
Tom stared at him for a long moment, and when he spoke, he didn’t recognize the slash of anger in his own voice. “No, Prophet, I don’t know what you mean.”
“Not sure how to make it clearer. Want me to draw you a picture?”
Tom grabbed Prophet’s arm, hard, and Prophet stared between it and Tom. “Oh no, you don’t get to be pissed at me. Don’t even try to turn this shit around.”
Prophet held up his free hand, like he was surrendering. But he wasn’t.
“How long, Prophet?”
“How long was Hal Ollie?”
“Fuck you, you bastard.” Tom was ready to pin the fucker down and make him talk, and not in the fun alligator games way.
“I’ve known . . . as long as I’ve known Hal. But I didn’t know you, Tom.”
“So you knew—the first time I mentioned Ollie, you knew who he was . . . what happened to him.”
“Yeah, I did.” Prophet’s tone was defiant, something Tom would normally back the fuck away from.
Now, he was too far gone to avoid the danger. “I get why you wouldn’t tell me back then when we first met . . . but fuck you for not telling me before this.”
“What does it matter? What does it change?”
“Everything. Because it’s all about trust.” He shook his head, still reeling over the fact that Ollie was Hal and not fully comprehending exactly what that meant . . . until right this second.
Prophet stared at him warily, like he’d been waiting for Tom to process the full value of what he’d been told.
“You killed Ollie,” Tom managed. “All of this, with John, started because of Ollie.”
“Yes. And yes.”
“So over ten years ago, killing Ollie—Hal—was your job.”
Prophet nodded. “That was my job, yes. Looking back, if I hadn’t, John would’ve taken Hal and set off a worse chain of events. As it was,
I made John’s life harder.”
“And you took the FBI’s word for it that Hal was too valuable, too much of a threat to world security, to stay alive?”
“At that time? Yes. Now? Yes again. So you can think what you want. You knew who I was and what I did. What I do. Suddenly, because it was your mentor, it’s murder.” Prophet shook his head. “What the fuck do you want from me?”
“Honesty.”
“I just gave you some.”
“None of this is a goddamned coincidence,” Tom said, and Prophet didn’t disagree. Which made Tom even angrier. “Tell me everything.”
“You know what happened to Hal.”
“Tell me about the first time you met him,” Tom demanded.
Prophet looked like he was considering not complying, but finally, he began to speak. “I wasn’t briefed on the mission until maybe six hours before we left for the desert.”
“Is that unusual?”
“No, not for those kinds of missions. Everything is kept hush-hush, because that cuts down on leaks.” Prophet laughed as though seeing the irony in that.
“And you met Hal then?”
“We didn’t fly in with Hal. He was already transported to the tents. We pulled in the night before we were supposed to roll out with him and took him over from the FBI, who surrendered him.”
“Why? Why did they surrender him, Proph?” Tom asked. “Because he was doing good things at the FBI.”
“They don’t tell us shit like that, T. I wish they did. But I’ll tell you something—they don’t pull men like Hal without a preceding threat, okay? Someone made him, or maybe he was dirty and working in conjunction with a foreign government—”
“He wasn’t like that.”
“Maybe he was forced into it. Did you think about that? Any guy like that who has family has a vulnerability,” Prophet told him and Tom’s head began to pound. “I’m not going to sit here and justify my jobs to you, so if that’s what you’re waiting for—”
Tom cut him off coldly. “Just tell me what Hal said when you met him.”
Prophet nodded. “First time I met Hal . . .” It was almost like he was going into the past, like he was having a flashback while he was awake. And while Tom hated that, right now he thought he might hate Prophet more. “The first time we met, he was in the tent, waiting for me.”
“Before John?”
“Before John, yes. I sat down with him and asked if there was anything he needed. He said he had plenty to tell me, but not right then. He wanted a beer, so I got him one. And after he drank it, he started telling me about himself. Shit I didn’t want to know—shouldn’t know, but when men know the end might be near, they feel the need to unload on the nearest safe person.”
“Right—you were so safe.”
“He knew I was the man who’d kill him if he was in danger of being captured by the enemy,” Prophet told him, an edge of anger in his voice. “It was the first thing I said to him.”
“Why didn’t you mention that first?”
“Because you asked me what Hal said to me.”
“Fuck you, Prophet. Don’t you dare start mincing words—”
“And don’t you think you’re interrogating me. Unless you want to tie my hands down? Re-create the tape you saw before you met me? Is that a kink of yours?”
Tom shoved him, hard, both palms on Prophet’s chest, and Prophet stumbled back but caught himself and warned, “I wouldn’t do that again, T.”
“Keep talking about Hal.”
“He wouldn’t shut up.” Prophet closed his eyes, and Tom knew he was picturing Hal sitting across from him, explaining himself. “He told me, ‘First, I was Sam. Then Cal. Right before this, I was Ollie, the man who taught young FBI agents how to remain calm under pressure.’ And then he’d laughed at how his hands trembled and continued. ‘It was the cushiest job I ever had, pretending to be a pretender. Except I was damned good at it by that point. Wasn’t allowed anywhere near a lab or computer. Not allowed more than one call a month to my family.’”
Prophet opened his eyes. “By that point, he was shaking a little, and then he asked me, ‘So why now? Why, after all this time?’ And I couldn’t answer that—not for sure.”
“How does it happen?”
“Maybe someone got comfortable, breached security protocol, or maybe someone sold Hal out. In the end, it didn’t matter in terms of what my job was—get Hal to his new, secure location. And if that proved an impossible task? I had orders to kill the specialist. I didn’t have to call in and ask if I should—my judgment was trusted to make that decision.”
“Keep going.” Tom heard the coldness in his voice as he talked to Prophet like he was a stranger, and Prophet looked visibly upset about it for a second.
But then he seemed to shake it off and said, “I told Hal to get some sleep. That we were moving out in the morning. And that’s when he said, ‘Not until you promise me three things.’”
“Three? I know one of them was keep his son—Gary—safe.”
“One was to not hesitate to kill him if capture was imminent.”
“He made you promise that?” Tom asked doubtfully.
“They all do. Even though they don’t want to die, the thought of being captured and tortured or worse, having to work against their country? Is terrifying in the abstract.”
“And what—once they’re captured, it’s easier to cooperate?”
“Yes,” Prophet said, his tone clipped.
“Okay, so what’s the third?” Tom asked but Prophet didn’t answer. “We’re back to this shit? More secrets?”
“It has nothing to do with you, T. It’s about my—”
“No. No fucking way. Don’t you dare say it’s about your job.”
Prophet looked like he started to say something—maybe I’m sorry—but then he stopped. “It was. It is. Fuck, I’m not supposed to be telling you any of this. I’m never supposed to tell you. Don’t you think it’s more fucked up to tell you this shit? I’ll gladly keep the burden, T, but you insist. And then you get pissed.”
Prophet got up then, picked up the closest thing—a glass—and threw it hard against the wall, where it shattered in a million pieces.
Tom remained unimpressed, kept his gaze stony, even though he knew how dangerous Prophet’s temper, once unleashed, actually was. So Prophet picked up another glass, and another, before a night table felt his wrath.
Finally, he turned back to Tom. “I keep everyone’s secrets because they ask me to. Because I fucking have to. So this might not be the last, but you can either deal with it or get the fuck out.”
Tom chose the latter.
Tom just stuttered an angry laugh and walked out, which was probably better for both of them. But maybe not for the furniture that Prophet hadn’t yet managed to break, so he went in search of some, and more of a fight.
But Tom was standing in the middle of Dean’s main room on the phone, his face serious. Nico lounged near the window, a bruised cheekbone giving Prophet momentary happiness.
And Dean was staring at Prophet. He signed, He’s on with Phil. And Prophet immediately texted Natasha with, What’s up at EE today?
She didn’t hesitate to give him intel he shouldn’t have been getting. Call Elliot—he saw men take Doc and Cope. Phil called Tom in to help.
Elliot was steady—knew his country and its people, knew the territory and said he could literally smell trouble. Still, because the order—and intel—came from Phil, Prophet wanted to hear it from him directly. He called Elliot while Tom was still on with Phil.
“Prophet, it’s trouble.” Elliot’s accent wasn’t thick—it sounded smooth and calm and as though he’d been waiting for Prophet’s call. “I recognized the soldiers.”
“Not Boko Haram?”
“No. Gaetan’s cousin, Kamuzu. He’s powerful. He’s been trying to take control up north. Rumor is the son is badly wounded and they needed a doctor.”
And people in the area knew Doc, but still . . . “A
nd they don’t have another doctor in their pocket?”
“I know it’s suspicious, Prophet, but the bottom line is—”
“Tom’s got to go get him out. I know.” Prophet rubbed his eyes.
“I need to keep my cover with the region,” Elliot said. Because even though it was known he worked with the Americans at times, he usually turned it to his advantage by telling everyone that he was simply using the Americans.
He was their best source in Africa, so sending him in to rescue Doc and Cope was out of the question. “Tom will be there.”
Elliot was silent for a moment. “Not you?”
“I can’t, Elliot. Watch out for him, okay?”
“I will, Prophet.” Elliot cut the line and Prophet glanced over at Tom, who was also ending his call.
Nico and Dean remained quiet. It was obvious they’d heard the yelling but both men knew now wasn’t the time to discuss it. But the tension was thick as hell, and Prophet didn’t see a way to clear it anytime soon. Especially not with Tom leaving. “Everything okay?” he asked Tom, trying to keep his voice neutral.
Tom’s was the same. “It was Phil. He needs me.”
“Glad you two are so close.” Prophet couldn’t resist and Tom just shook his head.
“You know exactly where and why, so why don’t you brief the room?”
Dean let out a low whistle and Prophet shook his head. “Doc and Cope were called out to help a warlord’s cousin’s son. More than called out—they were taken.”
“Phil authorized Doc and Cope to help the boy,” Tom said.
“What are you talking about?”
“They needed Doc to perform a surgery on the boy. They asked Elliot for help. Elliot called Phil, who approved it. But then the men stormed in and took Doc and Cope by force. Blindfolded them and put them into cars. Elliot said that the men said Doc and Cope were the only ones they trusted for this.”
“That’s Phil’s version,” Prophet told him.
“Just because you hate Phil—” Tom started.
“I do not hate Phil,” Prophet broke in.
“I hate it when Daddy and Daddy fight,” Nico drawled.
