by SE Jakes
Tom stilled. He didn’t need the words, never really had. Like Prophet, he valued actions, but to actually hear that one word out of Prophet’s mouth . . . it was all Tom needed. “I’ll take those odds.”
“Yeah?”
“Definitely.” He bent down and kissed Prophet, realized he was shaking a little. Jesus. Loves it echoed inside his brain, and it was on the tip of his tongue to say it back. It was always there, and he showed it to Prophet a thousand different damned ways. But to give voice to it . . .
He wouldn’t say it back now. This was Prophet’s moment, and even though he’d always thought he’d be the one to say it first, it didn’t matter. This was better. Right.
Prophet wrapped an arm around him, pulling Tom down on top of him, and pressed his face against Tom’s chest as Tom said, “We’ll get through this.”
“No choice.”
“You’re the one who told me there’s always a choice,” Tom reminded him.
“For this, that’s the choice. No matter how badly I want to back away from this whole thing, I can’t. There’s too much at stake. Too much at risk.”
“Then we’ll do it. Together. No matter what, Proph. You don’t try to send me away.”
“Definitely not in Amsterdam.”
“We’re going to have to talk about this further,” Tom told him.
“Talk later.” Prophet kissed the side of his neck. “Fuck, then sleep, then fuck again, then pack.”
“Good itinerary.”
Tom woke under the sun’s warmth to Prophet pacing and cursing. He was staring at his phone while he did so.
“I’m seriously going to tackle you if you don’t stop,” he warned.
Prophet turned. “You’re going to have to book us a flight.”
“Like a real flight? With real people?”
Prophet sighed. “Yeah. I don’t want to call in a favor for this one, so we’ll have to chance it. And trust me, I’ve tried to find a way around it. Short of chartering a fishing boat—”
“No fucking way am I doing that with you.” Tom sat up, suddenly completely wide-awake. “Did you order breakfast?”
“I can swim,” Prophet protested. “And steer a boat.”
“As well as you drive?”
“Just book a flight under our real passports, all right? And I’ll order breakfast.” Prophet groused and rubbed his bare stomach, Tom’s bites still there, glowing against his tanned skin. “First flight you can get. Since Lansing’s MIA, the timing’s too good to pass up.”
“Pass up what?”
“We’re going to have a meeting with the team.”
Tom booked the tickets, with Prophet hanging over his shoulder, micromanaging while he ordered breakfast.
“First class? Big spender?” Prophet said after he hung up, clapping him on the shoulder.
“Your credit card, big daddy,” Tom told him.
“Asshole,” Prophet muttered, and Tom laughed.
After showering and packing, they got to the airport and onto a flight that was strangely on time and free of issues. Neither man mentioned it, and Tom figured that Prophet was as much of a superstitious bastard as he was.
Once they landed in Germany, after two connecting flights—the last one being fraught with issues as if making up for the first one, including missing their connection to Amsterdam, Prophet told him, “I can’t get on another goddamned plane anyway. Plus, it’s just one more way we can be traced. Let’s drive.”
Stuffing himself into the car, Tom muttered, “This is more uncomfortable than the plane. And it’s going to take forever.”
“You’ve got somewhere to be?”
Tom glanced over at Prophet and frowned. Then smiled a little. “I like the way you think.”
Prophet sniffed. “Try not to sound so surprised at how smart I am, okay?”
Speaking of smart, Prophet had made him take the piercings out before they traveled. They’d gotten rid of weapons, knowing they’d be able to pick some up wherever they landed. And now, pulled off the side of the road, Tom let Prophet held him put the piercings back in.
Tom hissed with each one. “Jesus, should’ve gotten a room for this.”
Prophet grinned. “We only have forty-eight hours. No time for that.”
Once Tom’s piercings were back in place, they got on the road. To his credit, Prophet stayed awake the entire time. He even offered to drive but Tom already had taken his life in his hands with Prophet and his angel-of-death plane rides, not to mention Prophet’s driving in Africa and . . . everywhere else. He figured the odds were better this way.
“What’s a BFFL?” Prophet asked as Tom got back in the car after a quick food break.
Tom glanced over to see Prophet staring down at his phone. “You’d better not be talking to Cillian.”
“It’s Remy. Telling me about some chick who’s his BFFL.”
Tom put the car into gear and pulled into the street. “Best friend for life.”
“How do you know this shit?” Prophet muttered. “Wait a second—who’s your BFFL?”
“His name begins with E.”
“Hmmm, all right. You’re not just saying that because I took you in off the streets, right?”
“Why you gotta make me sound like a hooker, bébé?” Tom drawled, because he loved the way Prophet’s eyes got that lazy-lidded, turned-on look when he did so.
“Not fair. BFFL’s aren’t supposed to use your weaknesses against you.”
“Maybe I don’t consider you wanting me a weakness.”
Prophet gave a nod in concession to that, then sobered. “I’m worried about that kid.”
“Yeah, me too. I’m glad he checks in every day.” Tom heard from Remy a lot, but not as much as Prophet did. There had been a bond there from the first time they’d met. “Where is he?”
“At one of his friend’s. Says he’s staying at Della’s this weekend. His mom’s going out of town.” Prophet cursed, even though both men knew that ultimately, her not spending time with Remy strengthened their case. The PI Prophet had hired was doing a bang-up job of getting the dirt on Remy’s mom. The now sixteen-year-old couldn’t stay there much longer. It had been tolerable while Etienne was alive but now . . .
“We going to visit him when we get back?” Tom asked.
“Tickets are already booked.”
“How’s my aunt doing?”
Prophet cut him a side glance. “Same as she was when you spoke to her.”
“Actually, I spoke to Roger . . .” Prophet groaned, put his arm over his forehead. “Nice of you to fix the roof while you were there.”
“I had some free time.”
“Uh-huh.”
“You should be glad I went there,” Prophet warned. “Because there was other stuff I could’ve done.”
There was an hour between checking into their hotel and the meeting time. Prophet was just happy to be out of any moving object, and insisted they walk there.
They did so hand in hand.
He took the texts from Remy in the middle of all this shit as a good sign. There were a hell of a lot of responsibilities coming their way. And for a little while, the fantasy of pulling up stakes and just leaving, forgetting about John and what he’d done, not using what little time he had left chasing an obsession, had seemed like the perfect solution.
None of his former teammates would fault him for it—he knew that already. There’d been a hell of a long road behind them.
But they also needed to look past it all, to be reminded of what was waiting for them on the other side.
Now, Prophet motioned with his chin toward the gay club with a long line and the promise of fun and sin inside.
“This is where you guys are meeting?” Tom asked with a small grin.
“Yep.”
“This is Mal’s idea, right?”
“And Ren’s too. King and Hook stopped arguing a long time ago. It’s actually a pretty good plan.” Prophet shrugged, took Tom’s hand again, but didn’t make
a move to go inside. “King and Ren are coming in tonight. Mal’s already here.”
“Because of your favorite spook?”
“He’s not mine, Tommy.” Prophet stood with him along the mouth of the adjacent alleyway, scanning the crowds. Tom kept watch behind them, and if he felt any voodoo vibes, he didn’t say anything. They were both keeping an eye out for Lansing, who was potentially a far bigger threat than Cillian at the moment.
“Would Lansing send agents if he couldn’t get here himself?” Tom asked finally.
“He usually sends his underlings to follow us. Me, at least. Because as long as we’re all on separate ends of the earth, we’re less dangerous. He doesn’t want us hunting John, wants us to believe John is dead. So finding John is part of this. Finding out Lansing’s stake in it is another. He’s as much the enemy as Sadiq at this point. But typically my tails aren’t going to follow me into a club. Too noisy to hear, too crowded for surveillance, and a lot of people to get lost around. Plus, they think I’m going in to pick up guys.”
“So Lansing doesn’t have the others followed?”
“Not the way he does me,” Prophet said. “He’s got their passports monitored, so they’ll only use them when they want Lansing to know where they’re going. Usually, they’ll go to a decoy location on their own passport and then leave on their fake ones.”
“And Lansing thinks they don’t?”
“Lansing thinks they’re too worried about being tossed in jail. He doesn’t realize that those are his fucking fears, not ours,” Prophet said through gritted teeth. “So I’m the liability.”
“Except it’s been forty-eight hours and we haven’t been tracked by him or anyone from the CIA.”
“That we know of.”
“You’d know,” Tom said firmly, and yeah, he would. Still . . .
“Maybe that’s strategic on his part. He could be planning to arrest us all.”
“Let him try,” Tom said, his expression hard.
Tom let Prophet lead him to a table in the center of the madness, cushioned between the dance floor and the go-go dancers’ platform. When they sat, no one could see them, which was entirely the point.
Mal was already at the table, drinking a giant, red umbrella drink. It had six straws, and Prophet clapped him on the shoulder before taking a sip. Mal looked as ready to kill as ever, like a biker with his black leather jacket, hand tattoos, and sardonic dark eyes.
Tom slid into the chair against the dancers’ platform, figuring he’d be the one to keep an eye out while these guys discussed their plans. The go-go dancers were trying to get his attention. Every once in a while, he’d glance up at them and nod. In response, they’d shake their asses faster. Tonight, they wore white boots and white wings. And jockstraps.
Mal signed something and Prophet laughed, then turned to Tom to translate.
“I don’t want to know,” Tom said.
“Plan’s in place—spoke to Kasey this morning, so your ‘sister’s’ on board,” Prophet said.
“There’s more than one of him?” Tom muttered.
Prophet snorted while Mal glared. “Long story—I’ll fill you in. And moving right along . . .”
Prophet signed quickly as Mal watched intently, occasionally glancing at Tom. Had to be the Lansing story. And although Tom wondered why Prophet wasn’t waiting for the others so he didn’t have to repeat the story, he supposed it didn’t matter.
“We’re not being followed. Not by Lansing,” Prophet said.
Mal, in turn, studied Tom like he didn’t trust him as far as he could throw him. And knowing Mal, he’d probably try. Then he signed to Prophet, who translated.
“He says that Cillian’s got informants who claim to have contact with John. Now we’ve just got to figure out if that’s true.”
Tom looked at Mal. “You never believed he was dead?” He didn’t have to yell over the music—both these men were pretty well versed in reading lips.
Prophet translated as Mal signed. Wouldn’t believe someone was dead unless I was the one to kill them and I got to gut the body. And it’s been awhile since I had a body to gut. How tall are you?
“Sick motherfucker,” Tom muttered.
Mal stared at him with his You’re just figuring that out? look. No translation needed on that. And then he smiled as Prophet said, “That was never a secret.”
Prophet turned back to Mal. “You’ve been with Cillian the whole time?”
Mal nodded. Except for two nights ago. I lost him for about twelve hours.
“You lost him.”
CIA was on my ass. Had to shake them. But Cillian turned up again for a meeting with an informant.
“Find out where he was,” Prophet instructed. “And where are the rest of those assholes?”
Like that was their calling card, they appeared silently, two of them sitting on either side of Tom and a third standing behind Mal, surrounding Tom before he fully realized it. There were introductions, although Tom figured that they’d no doubt put him through a vetting process already and knew all about him.
That pissed him off slightly. As if Prophet sensed that—or hell, maybe it showed on his face—he gave Tom a look. One that Tom knew well. It meant, I’ve got your back.
So Tom relaxed, as much as he could, given all the circumstances, and watched the group dynamics, pictured these men in happier days—on the battlefield, in the mess hall, on leave. They were simply easy with one another and these weren’t easy men. There was King, with his ever-present dark skullcap and blue-green eyes that almost looked see-through, along with his promised shadow, Ren, a stocky blond with piercing green eyes and a palpable energy buzzing around him. Tom got the feeling that if Ren really wanted to, he could lead all the people out of this club and off a cliff, and they would gladly go, drinking, laughing, dancing the entire time. As evidenced by the fact that Ren himself was happily on a table, drinking. Dancing. Laughing.
“Way to be covert, babe,” was all King mouthed, but no one seemed too worried, as Ren was mainly blocked in by the go-go dancers.
Ren laughed, did a shot, and danced with a drag queen while King surveyed the situation as if it happened on a daily basis. Which it might.
Hook was easily six foot six. And lanky. Reddish-brown hair and dark brown eyes. He seemed the least lethal, which Tom translated to mean he was the most.
“We’ve got an hour at most,” Prophet said.
The men talked in the kind of shorthand born from knowing one another for years. Tom knew there was a plan forming, and he grasped bits of it, but the edges were still fuzzy for him. He knew Prophet would explain it later, but he wanted to get this. Needed to understand so he could help.
He gained the most points with Mal—or maybe lost them—when he spotted Cillian before Mal did. He mouthed the spook’s name, and Mal straightened, glared—but whether it was aimed at Tom or Cillian, he couldn’t tell.
With two signs at the men that Tom didn’t really get, Mal was gone. When Tom looked up, so was Cillian.
“Could’ve fucking predicted that,” Hook growled.
“There are a million of these clubs,” King pointed out, “and Mal specifically said Cillian’s never come here.” But they quickly moved on since it turned out that King had more intel, thanks to Mal. King had been following several of Cillian’s sources, and he thought he’d discovered a lead on another specialist, buried by the CIA but being actively sought by Sadiq.
“Final piece of the puzzle,” King added. He showed them a picture on his phone. Then another and another, and Tom realized that it was all the same man in different disguises.
“Hal used to wear all different kinds of disguises—new identities every time they move, which is about once every three months in the first few years,” Prophet confirmed for him before asking King, “Do we have him?”
“We will.”
“And then what?” Tom asked.
“We leverage him,” King said. And there were too many possibilities there for Tom to
ponder, but in his gut he knew that the specialist was the carrot to lure Sadiq—and John—closer.
Prophet nodded, his expression guarded. “Hey, T, keep your head down and check on Mal? He’s not on the dance floor or at the bar.”
Prophet was trusting him not to let Cillian see him, and hell, it was good practice. Ren came along too, but he veered off to keep company with the man Cillian had come into the bar with—and to pick his pocket while dancing with him. But there was no immediate sign of Mal or Cillian.
Soon the only place left to check was the back room. As he walked in, men brushed against him, propositioning him with every step, and he knew he couldn’t stay here alone for very long without the bouncers tossing him. His cock hardened, just with the smell of sex, and he wondered how fast he could get Prophet back here . . .
When he got into the main area, he blinked into the darkness and checked out shapes. Some were easily dismissed by height and build. In the corner, he spotted two tall men, one pinning the other to the wall.
Mal.
And Cillian.
Mal fucking Cillian.
Okay, yeah, accounted for.
And they were just finishing up. As Mal hitched his pants up, Tom walked out and waited along the hallway so he wouldn’t be spotted. Mal walked past first, followed by Cillian several moments later. The spook headed to the bar, and Tom was about to thread his way back toward the go-go dancers when he heard shouting and watched a massive brawl break out in the space of a few moments.
When he looked toward the table where the team had been sitting, he saw Ren. Swinging a chair over his head.
Great. Really covert, guys. He sighed, and then he dove headlong into the fight because what else was there to do?
God, Prophet fucking loved a good bar fight—hadn’t had one in a while. He sent tables and chairs flying, was more cautious with actual people, but hell, anyone who came at him got a good, sharp right hook.
Ren had, of course, started the fight when Mal gave the signal that Cillian was heading toward the bar. Now, Prophet and Tom were the only ones from their group left inside the bar, and Tom ambled over to him while he waited by the dancers’ platform that was mostly unharmed. As were the dancers.
