by SE Jakes
“Good.” Prophet walked away, but just as he got to the door, Cillian said, “You need me.”
Prophet whipped around to him, closing the space between them, stepping over Trent to crowd Cillian. “That’s where you’re wrong—I don’t need anyone to do what I need to. Everyone wants to be involved. It’ll make them feel better. But I know John best. I’m the only one who should be making sacrifices here.”
“Maybe your friends feel you’ve made enough.”
“Where does that leave you, Cillian?”
“You’re still alive, Prophet. Long after you weren’t supposed to be.”
Prophet considered that. “Whatever you did to Mal, I’m going to find out after we take down Sadiq. And then you might not be alive much longer.”
“Threats, Prophet? After all we’ve been through.”
“Promises. And I’m really goddamned good at promises.”
After a long, tense overnight on the plane, they were all restless and far too much in their own minds—a dangerous thing for the warriors Tom was surrounded with. And he had no doubt that’s what they were. Seeing them together like this, ready for the job, made him understand the training they’d received . . . and how Prophet was trying to take him over and above the FBI and EE training he’d had.
It was something to be seen, rather than described. It was in the way Prophet moved once the flight was underway, how Mal’s signs became hand gestures that were concise and easily understood.
It was in the way Cillian held himself, almost ramrod straight, staring straight ahead . . . and still, Tom knew he missed nothing that went on around him on the flight.
Gary was in his seat, and occasionally Prophet would sit with him. At one point, there was laughter, which had to be a good sign. Cillian’s friend, Louis, had a copilot, a woman named Sally who was former military. She would stay with the plane until it was time for them to leave, and she had backup waiting for her at the airport.
After nearly fifteen hours in the air, Prophet sat next to him. “How’re you doing?”
Tom stared at him. “What aren’t you telling me?”
“We can’t land with this plane—Gary and Louis will, but not the rest of us.”
“Is that a new development?”
“No.”
Tom absorbed what Prophet said. “Told you, it’s been a while.”
“I know. So we go together. Tandem chutes.” Prophet squeezed his knee. “Good way to get into the game.”
Tom took a deep breath. “I really fucking hope so.”
Mal and Cillian had their own harnesses, and Tom was to be strapped into a tandem one with Prophet.
Prophet, who sat down after he buckled himself in, patted his thighs, and in his best Cajun drawl instructed Tom, “Come sit on my lap, bébé.”
Tom rolled his eyes at the man, but did as he requested, letting Prophet secure their harness.
“Trust me, I’m a good ride,” Prophet murmured.
Tom glanced over his shoulder. “That thing going to poke me the whole way down?”
“I’d imagine so, yes,” Prophet said calmly.
Together, they stood and shuffled toward the door. Cillian and Mal were already waiting there, standing so close to each other . . . but still so separate. Tom had observed them during the trip, mainly because he’d noted Prophet’s eyes on them.
Of course, Cillian and Mal had noticed that too, so the whole thing was . . . weird. And maybe it would’ve been funny if they hadn’t been about to put themselves directly into Sadiq’s path. And jump out of a plane.
Then Mal jerked the door open, letting in an overwhelmingly loud burst of deafening sound that brought Tom right back to his early days at the academy. He swallowed hard, his body strumming with anticipation as he looked out into the darkness.
Mal nodded to them one last time, then turned to look at Cillian. Something passed between them, something so goddamned palpable that Tom even felt Prophet jerk back slightly. Tom caught sight of Mal’s smile as his head turned to face the open door. For a moment, Mal was still, framed in the doorway . . . and then he jumped and vanished. Seconds later, Cillian was in the same position, following Mal into the eerie darkness that was streaked with white clouds, disappearing immediately.
And then he and Prophet walked together to the edge of the door. He wasn’t supposed to do anything at all to hinder the free fall, just stretch his arms and legs out once they went over the edge and flipped, and then Prophet would mirror him. Which felt so completely right.
Prophet murmured against his ear, counting down.
On one, Tom breathed and crossed his arms to his chest, fingers touching his shoulders.
On two, they crouched together, and three came fast on the heels of that. There wasn’t time to think, just let his body jump with the force of Prophet’s behind it, pushing him out and at the same time, balancing their weight. They had to act like one.
Which, hell, wasn’t hard at all.
It was a slow-motion leap into the nothingness, and, for a moment, it was like they were frozen. But then their bodies pushed forward into a weightless front flip that disoriented the fuck out of him. The darkness didn’t help. He let Prophet guide them and after what seemed like a long moment but was no doubt mere seconds, they were horizontal. Prophet tapped on his shoulder, reminding him to spread his arms and legs out, so he did. And that’s when the pulse-pounding, almost painfully euphoric adrenaline hit his bloodstream.
He stretched his arms and legs out as the wind battered upward against him. They hung for what seemed like minutes but was, in reality, maybe half a second before they accelerated down fast. But they weren’t hurtling. Not yet.
The wind buoyed them even as their bodies slammed down against its force. It was so goddamned loud that it was impossible to hear anything at all . . . and at the same time, strangely peaceful.
It was almost too much sensation—the build of pressure, flying in a blind hurtle . . . like an orgasm denied, the pleasure building to an almost unbearable level.
When Prophet pulled the chute, there was a dizzying, dramatic slowdown, the force of it yanked them upward hard. It was slightly disorienting, and that was the part he remembered most in training, one of the danger zones where you could lose it. But Prophet was there and Tom wasn’t lost. Not anymore.
The chute spiraled as Prophet steered toward their makeshift LZ. The dizziness returned and Tom’s ears popped. The view was jaw-dropping, especially because it appeared they were making their descent directly into a black hole of nothing. Which, of course, they basically were . . . but Prophet kept them on course, until Tom saw the lights that Cillian or Mal must’ve put down on the ground, and then a wide patch of ground appeared, hurtling up toward them. It happened so goddamned fast—one minute hovering, the next, hitting the ground at what seemed like one hundred miles an hour but definitely wasn’t—before coming to a complete, heart-pounding stop. The chute leveled and their boots slid in the dirt, both of them stumble-walking forward with the weight of their own bodies.
As Prophet unbuckled them from the harness, Tom smiled, his mind still somewhere in that blissed-out place. Prophet hung onto his biceps, checking to make sure he was all right and laughing. “Sick motherfucker.”
“Oh yeah.”
Tom still hadn’t come down from the free fall, not until they arrived at the airstrip where Sadiq’s men would take custody of Gary. Prophet liberated a vehicle to get them from the LZ, but they’d abandoned it a mile back in favor of quietly edging toward their target. And that’s when Tom fully came back down to earth, just in time to watch the plane land on the private airstrip, to be surrounded by Sadiq’s guards. In the dark, Gary and Louis exited, Gary in handcuffs.
He and Prophet were belly down in the bushes, rifles aimed at Sadiq’s guards, whose posture made them look menacing. But none of them had weapons drawn on Gary. On Cillian’s man, yes. Both were patted down, and then there was a brief argument when Louis tried to leave. Just as Cillia
n had promised, that wasn’t allowed to happen. Louis was handcuffed and, alongside Gary, guided into a waiting car.
He and Prophet had already decided it was better to simply track Gary and make sure he was headed to the compound they’d been given intel on. After lying in silence for two hours, letting Sally turn the plane around and head to the airport, Prophet checked in with Cillian.
There was a crackle in his earpiece, and he heard Cillian’s voice saying, “We’re at the location—Gary’s chip is functioning perfectly. They’re on their way to the compound.”
So he and Prophet would head to the compound and wait for the next phase of the plan. They went back to the stolen car and drove through the back roads, stopping several miles outside of the compound, just out of range of potential monitors. They moved closer, found a sheltered spot to wait out the next hours, which would, by their best estimates, turn into at least a full day.
Once settled, Tom stared off toward the lights they could still see, even through the thickly wired fence around the compound. “And now we just wait for the signs.”
“It’s always about signs, Tommy.” Prophet was turned on his side, facing toward him and the lights. “This is really going to happen.”
Tom knew what he meant. It was always a reality, but now, it was close enough to touch. Questions were getting answered. And men would die. “I want to protect you. From everything.”
Prophet smiled, said, “Me too,” without a trace of sarcasm.
And that was all Tom needed to hear to get him through the rest of this mission.
King and Ren were close by, ready to help. Mal would remain with Cillian on the west end of the compound. Tom didn’t think that was the best idea, but Mal hadn’t fought it, and neither had Cillian. So for the next twenty-four hours, he and Prophet lay in a foxhole-like ditch on the north outskirts of the compound, monitoring movements and looking for signs of Sadiq.
They’d been prepared for Gary to be unable to give them the signs they needed—in which case, Prophet readied him to look for other signs: sudden movements of guards, more cars entering or exiting the compound . . . and of course, Tom’s voodoo was a sign all its own.
“Anything hinky, tell me,” Prophet had warned. And Tom would’ve, but aside from nerves, he’d felt nothing but calm and ready. And then, just hours past the projected time, Gary managed to get them two signals—one, that the layout was exactly as they’d studied it on the plans, and two, that he’d started building the triggers.
Tom breathed, letting the relief of those messages wash over him. “I really don’t know how you do this—the waiting.”
Prophet turned to him, his face serious. “I know you trust me.”
“With my life.”
“Keep that in mind.” With that, Prophet pulled out the listening device in Tom’s ear, then took out his own, took both of them and buried them in the dirt. He turned off the sat phone that connected them to Mal and Cillian and disconnected the wires inside.
And then Prophet leaned in and murmured in Tom’s ear.
Three hours later, the click of a gun made Prophet stiffen. He didn’t have time to look at Tom before a hood was put over his head and the muzzle of the gun was stuck into his neck.
Right before the capture, he’d been sitting in basically total darkness with Tom by his side, the way he’d done last night too. But this . . . of course it was different. The stuff of all his goddamned nightmares.
If you let it be.
One of his captors yanked him up, out of the hole, then forced him to kneel.
Prophet reached for the gun, grabbed it, and slammed his attacker to the ground. He was tackled by several more men.
“You want your friend to live?” one of them asked, and Prophet stilled. He heard sounds of a semi-struggle, Tom trying to gain a little leverage and not succeeding, based on the sharp commands from the other guards.
He was half-dragged along for several feet before he was dumped inside the trunk of a car. Alone. The trunk slammed, and he forced his breathing steady. Shifted to see if he could hear anything that was happening in the car itself.
They were keeping Tom with them, which meant they thought Prophet was the bigger threat. At one time, Prophet might’ve agreed.
He was being driven in circles. Even though he knew where the compound was, they were trying to disorient him, throw his concentration off. Make him worry.
Classic mindfuck.
Finally, he was roughly grabbed out of the trunk. His ankles were chained, and he was prodded to shuffle along blindly. The temperature change told him they were inside. The floor was concrete, not dirt . . . and it was quiet, save for the hum of computer monitors that would no doubt show security footage of the perimeter around the compound. And then a door opened, and he was shoved through. He smelled chemicals, heard hushed voices, and then silence.
He was forced to his knees, heard a barked, “Down,” and Tom’s grunt as he hit the ground maybe ten feet from him. He’d kept his eyes closed against the roughness of the bag once he’d realized he wasn’t going to see any light through it anyway, and now he focused on the conversations around him. Pictured the room from the floor plan he’d studied.
Tom had gone silent next to him, tension ricocheting off him as they both listened and waited.
Judging by the low murmur he’d heard before, Gary was in the middle of the room, surrounded by Sadiq’s men and other scientists who were helping him. Three scientists, three guards next to them. Gary. Sadiq. A guard outside each of the three doors.
Then the hood was pulled roughly from his head. He blinked under the florescent lights, his vision blurring slightly. But he’d know Sadiq anywhere. It didn’t matter that this was the first time being in the man’s physical presence.
“Welcome.” Sadiq opened his arms and Prophet scanned the room, made out a blur that looked to be Gary. In his peripheral vision, he could see Tom glaring at Sadiq.
“You think I don’t know?” Sadiq smiled. Turned to Gary and motioned to the innocuous metal that was the start of the triggers. Gary didn’t move, which forced an impatient Sadiq forward to grab the trigger himself.
He turned back to Prophet and Tom, shifting the trigger from palm to palm. “I know the rest of your team’s out there. You don’t think I have men on them, ready to pull the trigger, so to speak?”
“I try not to worry about what you think,” Prophet said calmly. His wrists were lashed tightly behind him, and the guards had jerked them viciously. He’d need casts again—he knew that. But right now, he had bigger concerns.
“I’m just watching your other friends for now. And this man next to you, he’s risking his life again. For you. Are you worth it?”
“More than you’ll ever be,” Tom muttered.
“So you’re sticking with him, then? Not taking a way out?” Sadiq asked.
“Like you’re going to let me walk out of here?”
“Stranger things have happened. What’s happening with Prophet is karma, pure and simple. An eye for an eye,” Sadiq said, and Prophet closed his eyes for a second at the blow of irony.
“I’m staying with him,” Tom said, and Prophet’s eyes opened again.
“Then you’ll both die.” Sadiq’s words were casually cold, which made them harsher than if he’d snarled them.
Prophet forced himself not to react, to hear Tom’s words . . . to know he’d let Tom do for him what he’d do for Tom.
He blinked again and his vision cleared.
Sadiq turned to point to Gary, telling Prophet, “Your friend here sold you right back out. Almost the second he came in here. He’s been a good boy. And we’ve been watching you the whole time.”
“He’s not my friend—he’s a job,” Prophet snarled. “And good for you.”
“Your best friend knows you as well as you know him. Did you really think I didn’t know this was a setup? That John didn’t know from the start?”
To hear John’s name out of Sadiq’s mouth made a red-ho
t anger shoot through him. Of course, Sadiq noticed. He turned back to Gary. “You’re going to keep working.”
“Gary . . .” Prophet shook his head, tilted it to the left slightly.
Gary stared at him. Blinked. “There was never any other choice, Prophet. If you weren’t smart enough to know that,” Gary said, and Tom spat on the floor in front of him.
Sadiq smiled again, opened his mouth to speak . . . and stumbled forward. The trigger dropped from his hand, hitting the floor and breaking apart as Sadiq went to his knees, his eyes on level with Prophet’s.
It was Prophet’s turn to smile.
Prophet’s “Go” was a quiet command but a command nonetheless. As the guards moved to help Sadiq, Gary used the chaos to come around to Tom and Prophet and cut their bindings.
“Stay down, Gary,” Prophet ordered, then nodded in Tom’s direction. Tom lunged for the nearest guard, slammed him to the ground, grabbed his weapon. Two clean shots to the head—and Prophet was doing the same to the other guards.
They were frantically trying to help Sadiq, rather than being worried about defending themselves. Their lives were over, no matter what.
Tom heard shots echoing from other parts of the building. He wasn’t surprised when Mal kicked the door in several moments later, surveyed the scene, and nodded in approval. He motioned toward the scientists who’d been working with Gary over the last couple of days. There were three of them, two men and one woman.
Tom walked over to them and smiled. Nodded, as if in sympathy, and they visibly relaxed.
He took them out in rapid succession—single bullets to the brain—without question. They’d been traced as working with Sadiq for years, which meant they weren’t unwilling hostages. They were in the unique position of somehow knowing both too much and still having no real information that could help in the search for John, given the way Sadiq compartmentalized. Since there was no way to bring them back home without hindering their own safe escape, no time to remain here to interrogate them, they had to die.
