by SE Jakes
And then.
“I’m waiting. I get bored easily,” Tom mumbled through a yawn.
“No, that’s me,” Prophet said irritably. “We’re done for now.”
“You didn’t get me up this early—”
“You just said you don’t sleep anyway.”
“—to teach me shit, then back off.”
“Maybe I have nothing to teach. Maybe I’m just crazy like my mother.”
There was silence after he admitted that. He stood in the clearing, wanting to take the confession back, but couldn’t. Shouldn’t.
Tom’s heavy arm went around his chest. Pulled Prophet’s back to him so they both faced out the same way. “You’ve got the blind thing already—I think you’re probably good without worrying about adding another thing to your repertoire.”
Prophet whirled around on him. “You did not just make a joke about that.”
“I did.” Tom grinned. “Besides, the kind of crazy you are? There’s no medication for it anyway.”
And then he took off at a dead run.
“Oh sure, now you want to run,” Prophet called after him. “Just wait till I catch you.”
“Counting on it,” Tom called back.
Prophet smiled. Finally. And then he chased Tom through the goddamned freezing woods.
Tom’s phone began to beep at the same time Prophet’s did. “It’s Remy,” he said.
“Mine’s Mal. He says, ‘Tell the kid to stop pointing a gun at me.’”
“Shit.” Tom answered the phone. “He’s cool, Remy—Prophet’s friend. He didn’t know you were there, or he wouldn’t have scared you.”
Or maybe he was enough of an asshole that he would.
“So I can put down the gun?” Remy asked.
“Yes, no gun. He’s fine,” Tom emphasized. “We’re on our way back now.”
“I would’ve made Mal wait it out with the gun,” Prophet said.
“Now you tell me,” Tom groaned as he raced with Prophet through the freezing cold morning back to the house. By the time they got inside, Mal was making breakfast for Remy, and Remy was learning sign language.
“Great,” Tom muttered. “Uncle Insanity.”
Prophet snorted. “See, I’d think you two’d have common ground. All the tattoos and shit. Don’t your people bond over that?”
“Your people?” Tom raised his brows. “They’re tattoos, not a geographic location.”
Mal shot him the finger out of Remy’s line of sight, and Prophet nodded approvingly, saying, “See, his response? Much cleaner and to the point.”
“I fucking hate you.”
Prophet ran a hand down his neck, and Tom fought a shiver. He went to curse at him but caught the look in Prophet’s eyes and fucking melted, the way he always did.
Remy laughed, more so when Mal made a gagging sound. Tom shot him the finger back, and Prophet nodded as if to say, See? Much more efficient.
“Keeps my mouth free for other things,” Tom whispered into Prophet’s ear. “Rem, isn’t it time to get ready to meet your tutor? I’ll drive you.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Remy pushed away from the table, asking Mal, “Will you be here when I get back?”
Mal nodded yes, and Tom fought a groan. He’d seen Mal’s giant duffel bag earlier, but waited until Remy left the room before saying, “I thought you guys weren’t supposed to show up near each other at all?”
And Mal’s response was a simple shrug, which somehow caused Prophet to start in, his voice at slightly apeshit level. “Cillian’s been gone for a while. Like, gone, Mal. Won’t answer texts or anything.”
Mal shrugged again, encouraging the apeshit.
“Mal. Did. You. Kill. Him.”
Mal stared at him steadily, then shook his head. Slowly.
“Good.”
And then Mal had his iPad and he was typing, not signing. I don’t think I did, and making sure Tom could see it—and how sweet of Mal to include him in this argument.
As if reading Tom’s mind, Mal smirk, and Prophet demanded, “You don’t think you did? Okay, what the fuck does that even mean?”
Again, Mal shrugged.
“For the love of Christ, we need to find him.”
Why? You miss him? Mal typed.
“Yeah, that’s it.” Prophet must’ve caught on to something in Mal’s expression to make him stop. “Did something happen?”
Mal shrugged.
Prophet stared at the ceiling, cursing, ignoring Tom’s snort. Finally, he looked at Mal and said, “I’m taking Remy to his tutor.”
“I said I’d do it,” Tom reminded him, because there was no way he was getting stuck with Uncle Insanity of the shrug.
“Yeah, but I figure leaving you two together’s torture enough for both of you.” Prophet gave them both a mock salute, and Mal, of course, shot him the finger.
Tom shook his head at both men and sat down on the couch. He wanted to bring up John, and the team thinking that Prophet was in denial, but he didn’t want to start any problems.
He wondered if Mal knew King had confronted him in Amsterdam—or if he cared. And, to his surprise, Mal took a seat next to him on the couch, his iPad in hand. He stared straight ahead, ramrod tense.
Like, take-out-the-entire-apartment-in-three-seconds tense.
“Want to talk about it?” Tom asked.
Mal turned to him, and instead of the withering look he expected, mouthed, You saw me—in the back room.
Yeah, there was no getting rid of that particular image, but instead of telling Mal that, he nodded.
Didn’t tell Proph.
Tom shook his head. “Have you really not heard from Cillian?”
Mal studied him, his eyes dark, his gaze penetrating—he typed without looking and Tom glanced at the tablet. You were right to worry about Cillian, but not in the way that you think.
“He doesn’t want to fuck Prophet?”
Mal shrugged. He would’ve, if the opportunity’d presented itself. But no. Cillian’s watching Prophet for a different reason.
“What’s that?”
If and when Proph finally gets to the bottom of the John Morse mystery . . . Cillian’s the one who’s supposed to kill him.
Tom swallowed hard. “Cillian’s going to kill Prophet?”
If he fucks things up with John. And I think . . . I think Cillian doesn’t want to do what he’s been charged with doing. I have no confirmation. But . . .
“So we keep Prophet from John.”
And we watch Cillian like a hawk around Prophet, Mal typed. I can do that. I will do that.
Something odd burned in the man’s eyes. Tom couldn’t quite put his finger on it. “You’re sure Cillian’s going to be back?”
He’ll show, Mal assured Tom. He needs help, and he’ll offer it in return.
“How can you be sure he’s on our side?”
Because his own agency’s trying to kill him.
“Because the spook’s an asshole,” Tom practically shouted, then realized that only an asshole who you actually liked could make a man this goddamned miserable. Because he’d been there. But Mal? “I can’t believe I’m going to ask this but . . . did you fall for Cillian?”
And when Mal nodded, Tom sat back. “What the fuck is happening?”
No idea, Mal mouthed.
Tom sighed. “Ah, come on. You of all people should be able to fuck without attachments.”
Like you?
“That was different.”
Why? Prophet’s an asshole too.
Dammit. “Okay, so . . . you’re involved.”
Mal shook his head.
“Did it interfere with the job?”
Mal put his fingers together. Little bit. But no, not really. I got intel. It’s good too.
“Does Cillian have the same intel?”
Mal shrugged. He didn’t—but his informants did. But Cillian’s good, so it’s only a matter of time.
“He’s good? Ah, Christ, Mal.” Tom rubbed his eyes.
<
br /> Mal looked really off. He was staring straight ahead and judging by his expression, this was way more serious than Tom had originally thought. “What did you find out?”
Coupla things. Locations. I’ve got maps. And something else more personal.
“I’m scared to ask, but I’m going to do it anyway,” Tom muttered.
Mal stared at him. Pointed to his own throat.
“He knows who did that to you?”
Mal nodded.
“I thought . . . I assumed . . . John?”
Mal sagged. Nodded. Typed, Me too. But . . .
Tom stood. Moved to face Mal and stared. Yes, calmer was probably the better reaction but fuck . . . “You’re sure?”
Mal nodded.
“Did you sleep with him before you knew?”
Again, Mal nodded. Can’t tell anyone.
“Why the fuck not?”
Because we need Cillian. He’s actually on our side.
Tom pointed to Mal’s scar.
Mal looked down.
“Ah, fuck.” He sat back down next to Mal, his hand on the man’s back as Mal started to breathe fast. He pushed Mal’s head forward between his legs. “Breathe, Mal. Come on—breathe and focus.”
Mal nodded and breathed. Tom rubbed his back and neck until Mal sat up, his color slightly better.
“You’ll get through this. I won’t say anything.”
I figured you’d understand.
Tom tilted his head. “How long have you known we were so much alike?”
Mal gave a wry smile and held up a finger. From day one.
“And I’m the last to know.”
Not always, Mal mouthed.
He hated having secrets from Prophet. But he figured that Cillian almost killing Mal was most likely was a misunderstanding because of John, and the fact that it probably was an accident wouldn’t matter to Prophet. Not now, anyway, when he was already running hot. And even though Tom wouldn’t mind getting his hands around Cillian’s throat for many reasons, if they really needed him, then Prophet knowing this could cause some major damage to an ally. And if Mal really did fall for Cillian . . .
It was all a hell of a thing to get through.
“How did you not kill him when you found out?” Tom asked, and Mal’s eyes flashed—with an emotion Tom was pretty sure he never thought he’d see on Mal’s face. “Love? Really?” And when Mal grimaced but didn’t say no, Tom pressed, “Are you sure? Maybe you hadn’t been laid in a while and you got confused?”
Mal rolled his eyes.
Tom sighed. “Well, maybe you’re suppressing your psychotic urge to kill because you know we need his help? And you’ll kill him when all’s said and done?”
Mal put his head back against the couch cushions. It’s complicated.
“Yeah, speaking of, what’s the deal with your entire team getting pissed at Prophet?”
Mal mouthed, Delusional.
“You think he’s delusional?”
Mal sighed. Threw his hands up in the air. There’s proof that John’s alive and involved in terrorist activities.
“And that he’s trying to have Cillian killed, which, for the record, all of you were thinking about doing too,” Tom pointed out.
Mal glared at him like Tom was his own conscience. That’s different.
“Keep telling yourself that.”
Mal typed, He’s got a blind spot where John’s concerned—always has. And no, that wasn’t an intentional pun.
“Can’t help who you fall in love with,” Tom murmured.
He didn’t love John. Tom’s head turned sharply as Mal continued to type. Not like that. Maybe in the beginning, a little, but really, it was more like two fucked-up friends who looked out for each other. Proph’s not easy, but John? He took it to a whole other level. And not the wild kind. With Prophet, it’s exciting, but with John, it’s exhausting.
Prophet had pretty much admitted the same thing to Tom. But to hear it from Mal . . . “You can’t think Prophet would let John get away.”
Guilt’s a powerful thing, Mal typed.
“Are you speaking from experience?”
Mal shot him the finger and then mouthed, Asshole. Then typed, I’ll fill Prophet in about this—pointing at his throat—if and when he needs to know.
“Yeah, that and the whole fact that you’ve fallen for Cillian—let’s not forget that. And if you don’t tell him—soon—I’m going to.” Tom shook his head because Mal was mimicking Tom talking with his hand and rolling his eyes. “Okay fine. But Proph’s going to ask what we did here alone. And neither of us have any bruises.”
Make something up, Mal mouthed.
“It was easier when you pretended to hate me.”
Who was pretending? Mal smirked. Tom rolled his eyes, and then Mal typed, Cillian’s going to catch up eventually.
And Tom couldn’t tell if Mal was more worried . . . or if he wanted that to happen.
Something else had gone on between those two, more than the obvious something, to make Mal have fallen like this, but Mal wasn’t spilling. And while Tom was glad they had insider info, he was worried.
Worried about Mal the psycho.
Prophet came into the apartment—and it’s not like he was trying to sneak in, but he found Mal and Tom with their heads together, deep in conversation. Which was fucking weird.
“What’s wrong?” Prophet called over.
Both men turned to look at him. Mal simply stared until finally Tom said, “Mal’s pinpointed Sadiq.”
“Like, an area?”
“Like a specific compound where he’ll be, starting next week,” Tom corrected. “I printed out a map.”
Mal was holding it. Tom grabbed it impatiently, held it up to Prophet. Near Djibouti, definitely, and very close to the Somali border.
And he saw the flame. “Paper’s on fire,” he said calmly, and Tom looked down to see Mal, holding a lighter, looking satisfied.
“What the fuck?” Tom started, and Mal laughed with no sound as Tom tried to put the fire out without destroying the paper he needed because it had the goddamned mission plans on it.
Always burn the evidence, Mal signed. Then he stared at Tommy and flicked the lighter, like he was going to light Tommy on fire. No matter how big it is.
Prophet ignored Tom’s cursing, asked Mal, “Did you find that out from Cillian?”
Cillian’s people, Mal signed.
“How are you involved with Cillian’s people?” Prophet asked. “And does Cillian know that?”
Long story. And I don’t care, Mal signed.
“Where is Cillian?” Prophet practically growled, his patience reaching thin to nonexistent levels.
Which was rewarded with, again, another patented Mal shrug.
“Does Cillian know where Sadiq is?”
Mal shook his head no.
Prophet narrowed his eyes. “And how did you lose Cillian when he’s your job?”
Mal mouthed, I changed the scope of the operation.
And whether or not Tom understood that, he just tried to look innocent and failed. Fucking miserably. Maybe letting him get in tight with the team hadn’t been the best idea, because now he really was just like them.
“You—what do you know?” he asked, pointing at Tom. “Never mind, I’ll torture it out of you later.”
Tom raised his brows and grinned.
So did Mal.
“Okay, what’s going on here?” Prophet demanded.
“What’s going on here is that your friend’s a sick motherfucker,” Tom said. “Is he an assassin?”
“Ask him yourself,” Prophet said, and Tom turned to Mal. “You kill people?”
Mal signed something, and Prophet glanced over. “He said, Not today, but it’s still early.”
Mal held up his fingers like they were a gun and pretended to shoot Tom right between the eyes.
“That’s not even fucking funny,” Tom told him.
Mal signed again.
“Says it’s rea
lly fucking funny to him,” Prophet translated.
Mal smiled.
“Fuckers. The both of you,” Tom muttered.
“Don’t shoot the messenger,” Prophet said, then sat up and pointed at Mal. “Seriously. Don’t.”
Mal shrugged and signed.
“What’d he say?”
Prophet’s lips twisted into a semi-grin. “Says he doesn’t make promises he can’t keep.”
Tom stormed out of the room and Mal rolled his eyes and signed, Drama queen.
Several hours later, with freezing rain hitting the windows with a steady tink-tink-tink, Prophet had got Remy fed and squared away with homework—and his iPod playing at earsplitting decibels. He reconvened with Tom and Mal around the kitchen table.
Mal had spent time talking to Ren and King, discussing the latest chatter surrounding Sadiq. There wasn’t much, which was good. Because terrorists heard the chatter too, and Sadiq got skittish quickly, and often changed his plans at the drop of a hat. According to Ren’s intel, Sadiq still planned a week at the compound, where there was a state-of-the-art lab. All the pieces were there.
But they needed a hook to keep Sadiq from pulling an on-camera move rather than being physically at the compound.
“Seems a guy like that’s got a lot of power without setting foot where he doesn’t want to, so how do we force his hand?” Tom asked.
“By handing him a specialist,” Prophet explained. “Sadiq has tried to kidnap other specialists over the years. He needs someone to build the triggers. Like I showed you with the clippings, Sadiq’s groups are also responsible for small terror attacks around the world.”
“Practice,” Tom repeated after Mal mouthed the word.
“They’re patient,” Prophet added.
“So all this time, Sadiq hasn’t gotten a single specialist?”
“No, he hasn’t,” Prophet said quietly, and flashed back to how close Sadiq had come to grabbing Gary and winced. If it hadn’t been for Cillian’s interference, Gary might be alive and well . . . and working for Sadiq, happily building nuclear triggers.
We’ve got them hidden, Mal typed. First, the CIA helped hide them, and then we re-hid them.
“Which pissed Lansing off,” Prophet added, and Mal nodded, then continued, We’ve only lost one. They came for him before we could get there, and he killed himself rather than be taken.
