by SE Jakes
Which they did, clearing the stairs, the front door, and half the distance to the jungle area before Prophet stopped and looked at Reggie. “You up for a sweep?”
“I’m your man,” Reggie said. “Dean, you’ll be okay.”
Dean coughed, then nodded. He held out his free hand and Reggie pressed something into his palm before heading back toward the house with Prophet.
“Dean, I’m Tom. I’m taking you to safety—your brother will be there too, okay?” He glanced over in time to see Dean close his eyes and nod.
Tom was ready to throw him over his shoulder and haul ass out of the line of fire—because even though the kidnappers were momentarily stunned didn’t meant Tom would take chances. Impatience burned through him—Prophet’s must be catching. And then Dean’s hand shot out as if he was throwing what now appeared to be a thick, wooden stick Reggie handed him, but a long walking stick emerged instead. The kind a blind person would use to tap in front of him in order not to trip over anything.
Tom allowed himself another look at Dean’s face—bruised and covered in soot from the fire. His eyes were unfocused, but they weren’t glassy or faded, the way Tom had in seen people who’d been blind from birth.
The blindness was a recent injury then, and why the hell would Prophet keep this intel from him? Although Tom could easily see the former SEAL training in Dean once he got moving, the man was still dehydrated and shaken and trusted Tom more than the stick.
“We’re almost there,” Tom told Dean without stopping. “Up the hill and the truck’s beyond it. A good vantage point to make sure no one’s coming after us.”
“There were six men in there with us,” Dean huffed.
“We took out the two upstairs with sniper rifles before we bombed the downstairs,” Tom said. “And two more died in the initial firebombing.”
Two left. Prophet could handle that with both hands tied behind his back. Still, that was no reason to not be vigilant. Especially because Dean was weak and putting a good deal of his weight on Tom.
Tom led him forward into the dark jungle brush, not stopping when he heard the sound of gunfire behind him. Reinforcements. It was far enough away not to impact them . . .
“Half a mile out,” Dean said quietly. “Enough time to get away.”
Unless Prophet decided to hang around and blow them up.
“Truck’s in sight.” Tom still bore most of Dean’s weight as he hustled them up the remaining several yards. “So’s your brother.”
“Great,” Dean drawled.
LT was fucking furious, but at least he’d had the good sense not to jump into the fray. It looked like he would’ve started yelling right away if Dean hadn’t half collapsed against the truck. With LT’s help, they got him into the back seat, and Tom ran a glucose IV.
LT kept patting Dean’s cheeks to keep him awake him.
“He’s okay. Exhausted. Dehydrated. Probably has a little smoke inhalation,” Tom catalogued after the IV was running. For Dean, sleeping through the rest of this wasn’t the worst thing in the world. “Stop fucking hitting his face, all right?”
“Don’t you tell me what to do, boy.”
Boy? Okay, one of those. And since Prophet wasn’t there yet, the fucker was going to attempt to make Tom his punching bag. Even when Dean roused and advised him to “shut the fuck up, bro,” LT was just warming up his rant, all the anger and fear from the last days pouring out without thought, his voice drowning out the gunshots and mini-explosions below. He continued to rail about Tom’s total irresponsibility and the importance of following plans and following orders.
It got so bad that Tom walked away from the truck so Dean could get some peace. Of course, LT followed him, grinding out, “I don’t know who the fuck you are or why Prophet trusted you with my brother . . .”
“I’m a former federal fucking agent. I worked for a sheriff’s department, and I’m a private contractor with EE, Ltd. So I think I’m more than qualified to lead a man to safety.”
“You could’ve killed him. Prophet’s always been a goddamned cowboy, but he’d never leave me out of a plan. This had to be your doing.”
“It worked,” Tom said succinctly. “Shut your mouth, or lower your goddamned voice, LT. And get in the goddamned truck.”
LT stabbed a finger in his face. “This isn’t over.”
Tom grabbed the man’s hand and twisted it away. “Put your hand near my face again and you’ll fucking lose it. Trust me on that. Now go sit down and see how your brother is doing before I shut you the fuck up myself.”
LT jerked his hand away and went into the back of the truck with Dean. Tom waited on the hill for Prophet, willing the man to get his ass in gear so he didn’t have to leave without him.
When Prophet went back into the danger zone with Reggie, cradling the M249 SAW—a lovely big motherfucking machine gun—like a baby, he knew he was losing control, even as he knew he appeared more in control than ever. He also knew both were necessary, and he was more than grateful Tom was there to catch him in the end. Because Lansing had unraveled him, and seeing Dean’s face during the rescue had nearly undone him completely.
As he took out an incoming Jeep of kidnappers who must’ve seen the flames and come in for backup—and they had no chance against the SAW, with its seven hundred rounds of raw power per minute—he realized he was so fucking angry at Dean. He hated seeing the fear etched into the man’s face, and there was no better place to take out his aggression than on the bastards trying to kill him.
As gunfire cracked the night in staccato bursts, Reggie stood at his back, covering him.
There was nothing wrong with fear. But Christ, Dean had gone beyond harnessing it to just flat-out scared beyond reason. Too scared to save himself, or to try to.
When Prophet first burst in, he’d sworn that for a split second Dean had seemed pissed. That he hadn’t wanted to be saved.
Or maybe that’s just you, projecting.
But no. Prophet knew better. It’s not like they hadn’t noticed they were being rescued. When he’d gone in, head down, mouth covered, Dean had just been sitting there, waiting. And Reggie had been desperately trying to yank him up.
And sure, fire was unpredictable, but it was better than bullets. Reggie had known that—and so had Dean on some level. The smoke was meant to be a shield.
And when he’d urged, “Dean, come on—it’s Prophet,” Dean had turned sharply to him—sharply and angrily—and even in those brief moments, it was apparent Prophet hadn’t imagined the death wish Dean harbored.
Mainly because he held the same one at times.
He had to face the fact that Tommy and his voodoo might already know the truth about his eyes, that he might be waiting for Prophet to spill. God, it’d be so much fucking easier if Tom would just tell him he knew.
Sometimes, Prophet wanted easy. And this motherfucking machine gun? This was easy.
Major retaliation was a way to ensure no one would make the mistake of kidnapping Dean—or harming his community—again. It could also totally backfire and make the rebels seek revenge. But Prophet was ready to take that chance.
He was going to burn it all goddamned down. With Reggie’s help, he threw the dead bodies back into the burning house. There’d be nothing left of this fucker when he was done.
It was only when Tom saw Prophet’s quick flash of light signal that he knew they were close. He’d had the truck idling, waiting for Prophet and Reggie to haul ass. As soon as they were in, he pulled through the footpath, away from the house. LT followed alone in his own truck.
He used the parking lights only—and his instincts—and Proph watched the road like a hawk. When he got to the main road, he stopped so Prophet could get out to check for visible ambushes or roadblocks.
Prophet got back in. “We’re clear. You see a roadblock, you speed up.” He pulled out a sawed-off machine gun from under the seat and glanced in Tom’s direction. “Good?”
“Good,” Tom echoed, then pulled out
and got on the road. He turned the lights on and sped along the road as fast as the terrain would allow. He knew from working with Cope that the roads were unpredictable at best, moving from asphalt to rocky dirt with no warning. It was the dry season, so most of the roads had suffered through flooding and settled back in over the last months, but there were still craters that could take out any vehicles.
The new locale was several hours away from the scene of the kidnapping. Tom and Prophet utilized their press badges to check in, leaving the other men in the trucks. They weren’t able to drive right up to their new place, had to go through the lobby of the tourist hotel. And while they didn’t exactly blend in well at the moment, the rebels weren’t going to risk coming there to grab them. Not with all the armed soldiers around, paid to guard the hotel guests. And they hadn’t been followed.
Tom got out and Reggie was already helping to grab the gear, and that’s when he saw that Reggie only had one arm. In the earlier confusion, Tom hadn’t seen the metal, hook-like device attached to a prosthetic.
Reggie waved it. “So much better than a pretty-looking hand. I’ll take this metal shit any day of the week. I throw a hell of a punch.”
“Yeah, you’re a real brawler,” Dean drawled, obviously feeling better. He was halfway out of the truck, his stick down.
But Tom didn’t want to take chances. “Hey, Dean, let me help you in case you’re still weak.”
He took the IV bag down and held it as Dean stared in his direction. Tom expected resistance but got none. Instead, Dean grabbed Tom’s arm to finish exiting the truck and paused. Moved his hand from gripping Tom’s forearm and felt for Tom’s bracelet. Touched it. Looked toward Tom and smiled. “Yeah, okay, that makes sense now.”
Tom didn’t question it, just took a step toward the building. Dean tapped the stick in front of him, although it made no noise when it hit the ground. Dean was a man used to moving silently.
“I’m still a little shaky,” Dean admitted finally.
“You’re doing much better. But I’ll keep the IV in for a while longer,” Tom informed him. “Some food will help too.”
“Thanks. Sounds really good.”
Tom stayed close, but Dean didn’t ask him for any further help as they walked.
When they got through the lobby, Tom guided him in the general direction of the luxury “tent”—a large, three-bedroom, free-standing structure that LT had rented.
Before he went inside though, Dean turned until he was facing the beach several hundred yards away.
“I love the smell of the ocean,” he told Tom. “And I love it here. I’m sure that’s hard for you to understand.”
“Not really, no. You need more protection, though.”
Dean bristled, and Tom saw the resemblance between brothers. “You don’t know anything about it.”
“I know that I risked my life to save your ass,” Tom countered.
Dean smiled. “It’s nice to be spoken to like I’m an asshole. You wouldn’t believe how nicely people treat me, just because I’m blind. And it’s annoying because, generally, I am an asshole.”
“I’m not disagreeing.” Tom paused. “Did you talk Prophet into doing the jobs he does?”
“I didn’t talk him out of them,” Dean admitted. “I strongly encouraged him to do what he was meant to, because he could get hurt at any time. He was so good, Tom. Still is. At the time, I thought that he shouldn’t waste that talent when there were people to help.”
Tom stared at him. “And how do you feel about that now?”
Dean shrugged. “I realize that it sounded good—and that I did mean it then. But I was pissed off at myself, at the world. I told him what I’d want to hear. And Prophet was perfect for those jobs. He still is.”
“Christ,” Tom muttered.
“Prophet knew exactly why I preached what I did. He’s not stupid—never was. But the guy who gave me that bracelet first told me I needed to pass it on to someone who could do some good in the world. And to take it back if that didn’t happen.”
So Dean had given it to Prophet. At some point, John had worn it . . . but either John had given it back or Prophet had taken it back. Tom would never—and Prophet hadn’t asked, simply nodded approvingly over the tattoo and moving the bracelet back over the ink. Both were now a symbol of their trust in each other, and a way to make Tom believe in himself during a time when he didn’t. A time when he didn’t think he ever could.
As far as Tom was concerned, the bracelet was just a symbol of Prophet’s magic. If Dean had been able to give that to Prophet during a time in his life when he’d needed it, then maybe he could forgive the guy for being an asshole. “Thanks for telling me that.”
“Don’t go all nice on me now,” Dean warned.
“Don’t worry—I’ll make up for it with your brother.”
“Speaking of.” Dean pointed to where LT was waiting in the doorway. “That’s my cue to leave.”
The brothers paused for a moment, LT touching Dean’s face, leaning in to hug him. Tom turned away and stared at the ocean until LT came up next to him.
The gruff man stuck his hands in his pockets, rocked on his heels, obviously uncomfortable with the apology he was no doubt here to make. Finally, he ground out, “Prophet told me it was all him.”
Tom glanced at him. “Maybe he told you that to try to save my ass.”
LT frowned, obviously not reading the sarcasm—or blatantly ignoring it. “Yeah, I thought about that. But no. Still, the fact that you took the blame for him, no hesitation . . .”
“Makes me the kind of guy you like?” Tom made sure LT couldn’t miss the sarcasm in his tone this time.
LT stared at him steadily, the circles under his eyes deeper than they’d been even an hour before. “Next time I won’t bother apologizing.”
Tom turned to face him, ignoring the growled warning of LT’s tone. “Is that what that was? Maybe you’re apologizing for the wrong thing.”
LT squared off to him as well. “Yeah? What’s that?”
“Prophet met you early on. Said you helped put him on the path he took.” Tom paused, then emphasized every word, imagining each one a knife twisting. “You were the one who talked Prophet into doing those jobs.”
LT’s eyes were a pale blue, but the man behind them wasn’t as flinty as they were, at least not any longer. “Do you expect me to apologize? He’s the perfect person for them.”
“Whether he was or not—”
“Is, Tom. Is.”
“No. Fuck that.” Tom got in LT’s face, consequences and old friendships be damned. “You leave him the fuck alone. I won’t let you pull him back into shit. He’s still paying, all right? That won’t end, even when all the shit that came with it does.”
“I’m just glad he got away from that EE bullshit. He hid there, wasting away. I’m glad he stopped making that mistake. He’s good at the jobs I pushed him into—just like he was good tonight.”
“Tonight, you were ready to kill him for taking chances,” Tom reminded him. “And what about what’s good for Prophet?”
“He had a talent. I made sure he used it.”
Tom stared at him steadily. “Did you make sure your brother used it too?”
“You have no right to come in here and question things you had nothing to do with.” LT’s voice raised, and a few of the guests who’d been cutting through a path several yards away glanced over. Tom simply waved and smiled, and they went on their way. And then he turned his attention back to LT.
Tom liked Dean a lot. LT . . . not at all. “I think you talked guys into doing what you’d never do yourself.”
LT looked shaken—that Tom said it or that he’d been caught, Tom would never be sure. Because he got up and left LT outside and went into the front room where Prophet was waiting.
He found Prophet in the living room section of their place, sitting on the back of the couch, staring into space. He’d changed out of the camouflage on the road, like Tom, and now he only wor
e khaki shorts, his shirt thrown on the floor. There was dirt and mud and red dust all over his skin, and he looked like hell, but his reverie broke easily when he saw Tom.
“Everything okay?” he asked.
“I’ll be happy to be away from LT. Guy’s a fucking dick.” Prophet snorted but didn’t argue. “Dean’s cool.”
He grabbed some water, took a drink from the bottle, and passed it to Prophet, who he was sure hadn’t hydrated or eaten anything since last night. “You need to eat.”
Prophet passed the bottle back. “I ordered food. They’ll bring it here within the next few minutes.”
“Good.”
Prophet reached out and touched the bracelet. Smiled. Then moved it aside to rub the tattoo. “You know Dean gave this to me, right?”
“He made a vague reference to it.”
“The guy who gave it to Dean told him to pass it along. And the guy before that too. It’s supposed to stop when it gets to the right person.”
Tom raised a brow. “So that’s me?”
“I don’t think anyone else got a tattoo of it, so I’m thinking you win.”
Tom gave a brief smile. There was still the Lansing crap between them, but he was happy to push it off in favor of keeping watch on the three men in the other rooms. “Are you okay?”
“Not really, no.” Prophet pushed a hand through his hair but didn’t elaborate. Tom supposed he didn’t need to. “You did good out there.”
“It was a good plan.”
Prophet nodded. And then the food came, and all the men came together briefly to eat. The table was quiet, but since LT didn’t open his mouth except to shove food into it, it remained peaceful. Dean looked better, but exhausted, and he and Reggie went back to their room, carrying their drinks with them. LT bowed out too, taking a third helping of food with him.
Prophet continued eating and Tom sat back, full and comfortable. When Prophet finished, he went to check on the others, and came back after a few minutes. “They’re out.”
