by SE Jakes
Christ. What the hell had happened on that mission? What had happened in the hours and the days and the weeks before Prophet and John and Hal got into that Humvee?
“Why are you the one here with me, Tom?” Lansing stared at him, like he was studying him, and Tom didn’t like it.
“To keep you alive.” Tom spoke firmly—believing it.
“No, that’s not it. You’re not protecting Prophet as much as you’re suspicious of him. You want to know. If you didn’t, you wouldn’t be here now. You’d still be playing lapdog, following him around the country when it suits him. Taking jobs at EE when he has things to do you can’t know about.”
“I’m waiting to hear about proof.”
Lansing gave a harsh laugh. “When people are killed, that’s when you’ll have all the proof you need. There’s so much you don’t know. So much you’re afraid to ask about. He tells you just enough to believe in him, to have faith in him. To fall in love with him. You’re not the first, you know. The other one is living on the run, playing with terrorists, hunted, while Prophet runs around a free man.” Lansing spit to the side. “Sounds implausible, right? You know what he’s capable of. At least you think you do, but you’ve never really, truly seen Prophet in action. Multiply what you know by a million and you might be getting warmer on how incredibly violent he is. Prophet’s spent his life surviving by any means possible. His missions of mercy conveniently line up with terrorist attacks around the globe. And you’re helping him. Ready to kill a CIA agent.”
Tom smiled with an ease he didn’t feel, and a pride he did. “You’re just pissed you couldn’t break him.”
“Can you, Tom?”
Fucking son of a bitch. Had Tom ever wanted that? “Suppose I do believe you, Lansing—then what?”
“If I was living with a major terrorist, I know what I’d do,” Lansing said. “One shot, and it’s over. John can’t be doing all of this alone.”
Tom blinked. Then he turned as calmly as he could and retrieved his laptop, powered it up and pulled up the video he’d watched so many times he’d memorized it.
Lansing stared at the screen, his expression hard, then turned away.
“Did you send me this?” Tom demanded, grabbing the back of Lansing’s head and forcing him to look at the video of him interrogating Prophet.
“No,” Lansing spat. “I destroyed that fucking thing.”
Tom bared his teeth with a smile. “Another fuckup on your end.”
Lansing simply said, “I didn’t send it to you. Prophet’s the only one who has a copy of that video.”
No way had Prophet faked his reaction to Tom having been sent a copy of the video. Tom would bet his life on it.
But still, something was nagging at Tom, and he hated Lansing for it.
Lansing tilted his head to the side and winced. His voice was heavy when he asked, “Did Prophet tell you that I’ve taken everything away from him? Did he warn you that you’d be next?”
Tom slammed him across the face. “Does it fucking look like I’m next?”
That woke the man up, got Lansing smiling through his bloody teeth. “Does it bother you that I fucked your boyfriend first?”
Something in the brutal way Lansing spoke made Tom go still.
“That’s right. Prophet screwed me, so I screwed him. He never reported it though, which makes me think that on some level he really liked it.”
Tom could barely see through the white-hot rage. There was no reason not to kill this fucker—none. He’d go to jail if need be, but thankfully, he’d had the presence of mind to tape this entire conversation.
Lansing was too good to not think otherwise.
“I’m leaving you alive so Prophet can have the pleasure.” Tom was surprised at how controlled his voice sounded. “But that doesn’t mean I’m through with you yet.”
“Remember that the anger you’ve got now should all be directed at him, not me. One day soon, you’ll know I was right.”
Prophet was running on pure adrenaline fumes as he drove the three hours toward LT’s hotel. After the first half hour, his hands began to shake fiercely, and it took everything not to pull over, or to turn back and grab Tommy.
God, he’d put the man in a shit position. And even though Prophet had thought he’d be able to interrogate Lansing, he couldn’t have. Not the way Tom would be able to.
Whatever else Tom learned along the way? He was meant to learn.
If Prophet knew Tom—and he did, really fucking well—Tom’s interrogation would buy them forty-eight hours free from Lansing.
What if he kills Lansing?
It wasn’t that Prophet would give a shit about Lansing, but he didn’t want that on Tom’s conscience, dogging him for the rest of his life.
Then again, even though Tom’s eyes had been turbulent, the rest of his façade had been calm. Really in control. He’d come a long way in nine months. They both had, although Prophet thought he was actually going backward.
He hadn’t turned the radio on, and when he didn’t hear the jangle of dog tags, he automatically looked around the car’s floor for them. To most, the sound they made wouldn’t register, but to him, every clink was a thudding echo.
It took him a few seconds to remember that he wasn’t in his Blazer, but in an old Land Rover.
Tom had noticed the tags—Prophet knew that. Hell, maybe he’d even picked them up and looked at them when he borrowed the car. Maybe he’d looked through the glove compartment and found the old registration that showed his name and John’s. But maybe he hadn’t.
At this point, Prophet kept all of it like it was some kind of spell, a way to lure John back out into the open.
The past months had a slowed-down feeling, a relentless pattern to them, as if they all—he and Tommy, Mal, Ren and King and Hook—knew they were simply biding their time, their lives were on a collision course with change. Again. In the past, that couldn’t have come fast enough. At this point, knowing what that end might entail caused them all to slow their roll, just slightly.
“Latest intel isn’t good,” Ren had reported last night to Prophet in his typical understated drawl. Ren’s not good meant things were close to DEFCON 1. Apparently, there was chatter, and while that was nothing new, this was some significant shit concerning Sadiq. And so yes, Prophet had known with as much certainty as possible that Lansing would follow him. Because Lansing believed he and John were in on this together—so any significant chatter about John being anywhere in Africa, coupled with Prophet leaving the country, would catch Lansing’s interest.
And ironically, Prophet was here to help LT, who’d gotten him involved in rescuing and guarding specialists in the first place.
“Hold it together, Tommy,” he said out loud, willing Tom to listen, even though he wasn’t there—and for far more than the sake of the damned plan. He was well aware that their relationship would be affected by what Tom was doing right now . . . by what Prophet had kept from him. Because Lansing was going to lay shit out that sounded seductively true. And he needed Tom not to falter in his trust. If Tom did, Prophet would be forced to keep him out of the plan to stop John once and for all.
When he got to LT’s hotel, and texted him so he didn’t get shot making his entrance, LT greeted him with, “You’re early.”
“Want me to sleep outside?” Prophet couldn’t keep the irritation out of his voice.
“You said you were bringing help.”
“And you said you wouldn’t let Dean do this anymore without several bodyguards just for him and more for the surrounding area.”
LT’s expression hardened. “You think I don’t feel guilty enough?”
“I don’t know what the hell you feel,” Prophet muttered.
Hours later, his knuckles bruised, Tom left Lansing tied to the sink in the locked bathroom, gagged and bloodied. He might be able to get out of the bathroom in a few hours, but it would take him days before he could do anything other than get to safety. The broken ribs alone would ens
ure that.
Sometimes, the pent-up violence living inside him could do a world of good. The fact that he’d stopped Prophet from unleashing his own violence . . . the fact that Tom had controlled himself enough to pull back, well, he’d learned.
He’d also learned that the CIA wired their trucks, even the rented ones. So he drove Lansing’s about ten miles up the road, to another hotel, so it looked like maybe he was following Prophet somewhere. From there, Tom borrowed another truck and with his weapons tucked in around him, made the several hours’ drive to LT’s hotel.
Their rental car from the airport wasn’t here, but he assumed Proph had gotten rid of it. He parked several structures down and walked through the dusk. Two quick knocks and Prophet was opening the door, letting him in, checking him over and cursing.
“I’m okay,” he said. Prophet shook his head, but didn’t disagree. He put a hand to Tom’s cheek, pressed his lips together, so Tom assured him, “We’re okay.”
Finally, Prophet nodded. From behind him, Tom heard the clearing of a throat, but Prophet didn’t drop his hand, not even when someone said, “You must be Tom.”
Tom turned, and Prophet’s hand finally dropped. “And you’re LT.”
LT was about fifty. Still in good shape—probably could give guys half his age a beating and barely break a sweat. His hair was more silver than black, his eyes were dark and serious, and he was dressed like a man on vacation, not someone about to bring a suitcase of ransom money to kidnappers.
Tom held his hand out to shake. LT went to grip it, but turned it over instead, glanced between Tom’s knuckles and his face. “I can see why Prophet likes you.”
Prophet snorted. “Subtle, LT.”
“Any updates?” Tom asked.
Prophet studied his face carefully. Frowned.
And then LT broke in. “They called again—want to move up the meeting time. Didn’t give me a choice. Glad Prophet showed early. Gave us time to plan.”
Tom didn’t say anything. He waited until Prophet motioned him over to the table with his computer. When he sat next to Prophet, he said, “Anything we’re doing differently?”
Prophet seemed to understand that Tom was not talking about Lansing right now. Instead, he answered Tom. “I think this house they’re sending LT to is a fake.” He pointed to a smaller structure barely visible in the photograph Prophet had to have taken himself at some point today. “So they’re having him deliver to the wrong house . . .”
“Have they given proof of life?”
“Yes—through late this afternoon,” Prophet confirmed.
“Okay, so LT goes to the wrong house with the money and then . . . what? They take the money and kill him?”
“I’m thinking either that or keep him and up the ante.”
“And Dean?”
“Keep him and hope his lawyers pay . . . or they kill him and keep LT.” Prophet sighed. “Of course, this is all dependent on how antsy these guys get. They’re not as organized here as South America. They want the fast buck, and they’re not against kidnapping the same guy twice to try to get more money. According to LT, Dean was paying these guys—they shook down the clinic, so he paid them monthly. For protection, they’d insisted. And then, when they wanted double and triple the amount, Dean refused. We need to get in there soon.”
He wasn’t arguing with Prophet’s gut. Mainly because his was singing the same tune. “Do they know LT was also former military?”
“I’m guessing, but I can’t be sure. Just follow my lead,” Prophet murmured to him, then, louder, “Okay, LT, listen. Tom and I are going to go in first. You follow behind—give us half an hour. Park where we planned. And then you’ll bring the suitcase in while we watch.”
“Don’t you think it’s better if I go with you?” LT asked.
“I need you here in case they call and change anything,” Prophet said, and yes, apparently LT was buying that. It was actually completely reasonable.
What Prophet and Tom planned on doing, on the other hand? Completely fucking nuts, and it got Tom’s blood pumping. He waited until LT went into the other room to start getting ready before he asked, “You trusting me . . . letting me in. Is this about Lansing?”
“It’s about us. You took him on for me.”
“I didn’t do anything I didn’t want to. Ever since I first saw that video, I wanted to kill him. I didn’t know why, but I just fucking did.”
“But you held back.”
“I’m learning self-control.”
Prophet gave a wry smile. “Don’t practice any of that shit tonight.”
“I know what I’m doing.”
“I know, Tom.” Prophet paused, his expression tight. “You don’t trust me, tell me now, before we go out there.”
“Guilty conscience, Proph?”
“I’m a realist.”
“And I’m not stupid. Didn’t think Lansing would sing your praises.”
“You think I don’t know what Lansing tried to tell you?” Prophet demanded. “That I’m collecting specialists and hiding them away from everyone for my own gain?” He shook his head, his lips pressed together tightly, before he lifted his finger and pointed at Tom. “If I was worried, why would I leave you with him?”
“Come on, Prophet—I’m not stupid. I don’t believe a lot of what he says.”
Prophet narrowed his eyes. “Fuck you, Tom. Fuck you hard.” And then those eyes flashed, dark storm clouds settling into the slate gray. “It wasn’t your fight.”
“I know. I took it on. No regrets. You?” Tom challenged.
“Only that I thought I was stronger than that.”
Against his better judgment, Tom rode shotgun so he could wrap his cut-up knuckles to prevent infection and tried his best not to watch the road. Prophet drove the truck as close to the meeting place as he could possibly get without being seen. Luckily, they were parked on higher ground, which meant the truck would be tough to spot.
He and Prophet, on the other hand? Sitting ducks. Which is why they’d take the longer route down and around to get to the back of the house. The truck was for the escape, which would be a straight run up the hill for one of them—with Dean and his bodyguard—while the other covered them.
Prophet had informed him that he’d be doing the covering while Tom took the hostages up the hill, but conceded when pressed that sometimes, things happened and you had to be flexible.
Tom had simply rolled his eyes and nodded, in no mood for the Special Forces lecture.
Together, they half slid, half commando-crawled down the hill. Tom hadn’t spotted any guards actively watching the hills, but that didn’t mean there weren’t cameras trained on them from the inside.
“Time?” Prophet asked quietly.
“We’ve got fifteen minutes until LT gets here,” Tom confirmed.
“Ten. He’s always early,” Prophet corrected.
“Looks like there’s no one in the big house.”
“Gotta be a trap. Door’s gotta be rigged.”
Tom shifted the binoculars to get a glimpse of the small house. He got lucky with a tiny window on the ground floor that was cracked open several inches. “I see four men, walking around.”
“Hang on,” Prophet said, and Tom watched him use the heat-sensing equipment. “Okay, got two more guys upstairs. All of them moving as well . . . except for two more heat spots in another room that aren’t moving at all. Shit.”
“Gotta be them, Proph,” Tom said.
“And we’ve got to be prepared to carry them out of there.”
“I was never not prepared for that—you always say to be prepared for every eventuality.” Prophet nodded approvingly. “We’ve got to go in now.”
“Roger that.” Binoculars down, weapons up, hidden flat on the ground. They moved stealthily until they were maybe fifteen feet from the back of the small house.
Prophet reiterated the plan. “I’m going to take them out. Distract the fuck out of them. You grab Dean and his bodyguard and go to
the truck. Set the flashbang off behind you.”
That last part was new. “Won’t that fuck you over?” Tom asked.
“I’ll be fine. And if the bodyguard’s in decent shape, I’ll keep him with me.”
“And if Dean’s all right?”
Prophet stared at him for a long moment, then said, “Just get him to the truck, even if he’s all right.”
Tom could only afford to wonder briefly why he wouldn’t let Dean, the former SEAL, help if he wasn’t injured, figured it had to do with his family money and other threats. “Consider it done. I’ll also deal with LT until you get there.”
“If I’m not there within fifteen minutes, you go back to the hotel without me. And then I’ll meet you at the second hotel.”
“Proph . . .”
“I’d do this with Mal or King or Ren or Hook,” Prophet told him. “You don’t want special treatment.”
He didn’t. And Prophet was ready to prove himself in control again. Tom trusted him. “Fine. But let’s take out the two on the second floor with the rifle first. Fewer to deal with.”
“Yeah, I like that. Same time?”
Tom nodded. He adjusted his scope, and Prophet did the same next to him. “You take the one on the right.”
Tom got him in the crosshairs. It seemed like forever, and once he pulled the trigger it was as if the world moved in slow motion. The window shattered quietly, the men went down, and Prophet wasted no time in launching the next part of the attack, which consisted of Molotov cocktails arcing perfectly into the front windows, driving the kidnappers to the back, away from where the prisoners were being kept, since the front actually faced the jungle paths. Prophet pointed, motioned with a hand signal for Tom to go in behind.
Tom did, running under the smoke and haze to the second floor. He saw Prophet approach the thin, dark-haired man on the floor, and then a black man in camouflage was helping Prophet to drag the dark-haired man up.
“Dean and Reggie,” Prophet said, pointing and then swinging to cover them as Tom cut in, ready to get Dean out. Reggie was propping Dean up, and Dean’s legs kept buckling. Tom propped Dean’s free side, held a rag over Dean’s mouth and nose to keep him from inhaling the smoke, since it was all the guy could do to hang on to him and Reggie, until they got clear of the house.
