by SE Jakes
I just fight.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Relationships
I met Cope’s girlfriend on Skype. She’s very . . . perky. Doesn’t seem to fit with Cope. Not that I’m an expert on relationships.
You have to understand why I did it, Proph. I couldn’t risk you. With Cope, it’s different, and I don’t know why.
I know what you’re thinking—by that logic, Cope’s expendable. But that’s not it at all. It’s like . . . you took it, Prophet—you took the goddamned curse, and you wrapped it all up in that tornado of yours, and now it’s a part of you. Which means that staying away from you will keep you safe.
I keep picturing you, hanging there by your wrists in front of Sadiq. Fighting. Keep thinking that you’d been in that exact position before. I wake up in a cold sweat, not worried about me, but searching for you in that warehouse. I swear I can hear your heartbeat.
Maybe it would’ve helped us if I could’ve told you this face-to-face. Maybe you’re not getting these. Maybe everyone at EE is, or maybe you’re showing them to people and laughing your ass off at me. But that’s all right.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Cut the crap
Mick and Blue asked if I’d heard from you. Actually, they asked Cope, and they’re pissed and concerned, and I know the feeling.
I didn’t know two weeks could affect me so much.
I thought I could walk away from our partnership. I ran. I was scared. <—I almost deleted this line, but what the hell do I have to lose that I haven’t already?
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Worried
No one knows where you are.
I’m not going to insult you by saying I’m sorry, because that’s too simple. I’m not sorry. I’m trying to take care of you.
But I could take better care of you if I was with you. I realize that now.
I’ve also realized that it’s really never too late. For anything.
Tom was losing his mind. He was resolutely ignoring The Weather Channel on the muted TV, but everything he was doing was punctuated with the thunk thunk thunk of Cope, lying flat on his back on the floor of EE, Ltd.’s Eritrea office, throwing a tennis ball against the ceiling and catching it. Left-handed. A million fucking times.
He’d told Tom he did it because he was right-handed and needed to up his advantage.
When it had started on day one of their partnership, four months ago, Tom swore Cope did it because he knew it drove Tom nuts. That was, until he’d reminded himself that he wasn’t dealing with Prophet any more. That Cope was as straight a shooter as it got. That Tom had chosen Cope. Deliberately.
Six months of working for EE and he was already on his second partner, just like normal. Except this time, it was his choice, not the curse that had plagued him his entire life.
The two weeks he’d been partnered with Prophet, they’d fought—each other and outsiders—and Tom had, of course, nearly gotten Prophet killed. Then, just to prove a point, he’d nearly gotten them both killed.
Finally, Phil had told him to make a choice—Prophet or Cope.
And here you are.
Tom had texted Prophet only a few times right after he’d chosen Cope as his partner. He’d gotten a couple of short, general answers back that he’d later discovered Prophet had sent out as mass texts to get everyone off his back. And then nothing.
Thunk.
But when he found out that Prophet had quit—or had been forced out of EE, depending on which version you believed—his chances of seeing Prophet again shrank dramatically. What if he never saw the man again?
And that’s when the anger had set in.
“He could at least let me know if he’s dead or alive,” he’d muttered to Cope time and time again.
Cope would tell him that Prophet was fine. “It’s not Prophet you have to worry about. He does the killing.” A half shrug and a smile. “Granted, sometimes Prophet does things that make you want to kill him, so maybe you should worry.”
“Comforting, Cope,” Tom had muttered, and Cope had merely shrugged the shrug of a man used to dealing with Prophet for years.
“I’m sure that wherever he is, he’s driving someone crazy,” Cope offered now, without stopping the throwing-the-ball-against-the-ceiling thing.
Tom sighed, because his first goddamned response was that he wanted Prophet to be driving him crazy. He played with the leather bracelet absently, the way he had since Prophet had put it on him, his mind tumbling through the mission, the cage match, the fights, Prophet getting shot . . . “Hey, do you have Mal’s number?”
The ball careened wildly off the wall. Tom ducked and caught it as it zinged by.
“Mal, as in . . . Mal?”
Tom threw Cope the ball. “Is there more than one? Dark hair. Tattoos. Can’t speak. Kind of an asshole. Do you know him?”
Cope snorted and started throwing the ball again. “Fucker’s crazy. Like, of all the crazy motherfuckers in the world—and Prophet holds a spot near the very top—Mal is so number one that he’s off the goddamned charts, sealed in a fucking box somewhere that’s lined with silver, encased in cement, and buried so deep in the goddamned ground, you’d hit China looking for it. That’s what I think of motherfucking, crazy-assed, don’t-let-him-on-the-same-goddamned-continent-as-me Mal.”
Thunk.
“So you don’t like him then?”
Cope shrugged. “He’s all right.” Thunk.
Tom sighed. “Can you get in touch with him?”
Thunk. “Not with a ten-foot pole attached to C4.”
Tom wondered if Natasha could, but he decided against letting everyone in the office know how pathetic he was. It was already pathetic enough that he’d been emailing Prophet every day, sometimes including scanned sketches like a lovesick puppy.
Thunk.
But writing daily to Prophet since the end of his first week in Eritrea had become the last thing Tom did every night, no matter what. The ritual calmed him and made him feel connected to the man who’d so desperately wanted to disconnect from him.
I might’ve quit you, Proph, but you quit me first. You just didn’t come right out and say it.
He hadn’t said that in his emails, though. Not at first. He’d kept them more focused on the job. Cope. His life in general.
But after the first few emails, he’d let himself say whatever the fuck he wanted. Trying to woo the man with words, making promises he might not be able to keep. But what else was new? If working with Prophet had taught him anything, it was that promises were dangerous, especially if they were worthwhile.
But now, after nearly four months without a single email back from Prophet, he knew he’d have to take things further to get in touch with the guy. If Phil ever gave him time off. It was almost as if Phil was purposefully keeping him too busy with constant training in between missions, so Tom couldn’t even consider going to find Prophet.
Phil did nothing by mistake, so Tom bit back complaints, continued to prove himself with each and every job he’d been assigned.
Cope liked working with him.
Cope was still alive.
Therefore, in Tom’s mind, Prophet had broken his bad luck karma.
Prophet had definitely broken something, and goddammit, even though Tom had made the choice, he wanted Prophet to come back and put all the pieces back together.
“The hurricane’s looking to be a direct hit,” Cope told him now, interrupting his rhythm to point at the TV overhead—he’d been watching it upside down all day, with the sound off so Tom wouldn’t worry too much. But the meteorologists had been having a field day with the fact that this hurricane was due to slam directly into New Orleans only days after Katrina’s late August anniversary.
Growing up in Louisiana had given Tom a certain perspective on storms. But
that didn’t mean he wasn’t quietly frantic about his aunt. She was just like everyone else in the damn state, even after Katrina. Resilient as hell, stubborn with it, and utterly unwilling to evacuate. But with Della’s heart problems and the storm amping up instead of downgrading like they’d said it would, he was worried. And in Eritrea.
But the storm was still five days out. Anything could happen in five days.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Hurricane
I know what you’d do, Proph. Nothing would stop you. I guess that’s what Phil’s worried about, because he told me he’d fire my ass if I even thought about leaving my post. He called my aunt for me, checked in. She’s got her supplies, and he said she’ll be okay. And I guess I’m supposed to be all right with that, but fuck it, something isn’t sitting right with me. Yeah, go ahead and laugh. I can hear you calling me Cajun or voodoo, clear as day.
The bayou’s my home. It’s where I learned to fight. Every time I head home, I expect things to be different—and they never are. That’s the definition of insanity, right? Doing the same thing over and over and expecting a new result.
It’s a dangerous place for me, Proph. But I keep getting pulled back. Maybe Phil not letting me go home’s for the best. At least that’s what I’m trying to believe.
Otherwise, Cope’s fine. I’ve gone four months without otherwise maiming him or getting him shot. That’s a pretty good record, considering how many times we’ve gone out on small jobs together. He’s a good teacher. Patient. Talks about his girlfriend a lot. I have to wear headphones when they have phone sex.
I always think about you during those times, Proph. Other times, yeah, but that’s when I miss you the most, and not just because you’re decent in bed.
Tom sat in front of his glowing computer screen—with his headphones on—and thought about not sending this one. It would be his one hundred and twenty-second email (and yes, he’d counted) without an answer, but in the end, he let it out into the universe, hoping that it might find its mark.
Twenty-four hours later
Blue slammed through the half-opened window.
On the fourth floor.
Prophet rolled his eyes. Blue, who wore a rope harness over his jeans and long-sleeved, thermal T—all black, of course—along with a black skullcap, even though it was hot as balls, looked unperturbed about having narrowly missed a table. And possibly killing himself.
“You just took out my screen,” Prophet told him. Didn’t bother to ask why Blue hadn’t used the door, because asking Blue that would be like asking God why he’d created the universe—the answer to both being Why the hell not? Which was Prophet’s answer to just about everything too.
“Your friend’s an asshole,” Blue informed Prophet as he ripped his cap off.
“Why is Mick my friend when he’s an asshole?”
“Because—” Blue stopped, pulled out his phone, and dialed. Ran his hands through his wild hair as he waited a beat, then said into the phone, “I just broke into Prophet’s place. Fourth floor. And I didn’t get a lecture. He didn’t say a word about danger. No, I won’t put him on. You can call him yourself.”
He ended the call and raised his hand triumphantly. “I’m going to get something to eat.”
Prophet’s cell phone started to ring.
“I wouldn’t mind dinner,” Prophet called after Blue, then picked up Mick’s call. “I hate it when Mommy and Daddy fight.”
“If you and Tom had fought instead of walking away from each other—”
Prophet interrupted. “I’m siding with Blue on this one.”
“You don’t even know why Blue’s pissed.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Empirically, it matters.”
“Did you hurt your back using that big word?”
“Is he using empirically again?” Blue demanded as he came back in from the kitchen.
“Where’s my dinner?” Prophet asked him.
“I put the water on to boil.” Blue motioned for him to hang up.
Prophet did, because he knew it would make Mick mad. “You know he’ll be here soon.”
Blue shrugged out of his shirt, leaving it like a trail along with the rope and his hat. By the time Prophet caught up to him in the kitchen, he had a Coke and was glancing down at his phone one more time before shoving it into his pocket. “Yeah, I know.”
And that’s why Blue could run, because Mick would always go after him. Prophet was semi-blown away by the simplicity of the entire situation.
Then again, neither Mick nor Blue came with much baggage. Not compared to him, anyway. “Steal anything good lately?”
“Lots.” Blue’s eyes lit up like a kid’s on Christmas. He turned to stir the pasta he’d put into a large pot. “I made bottled gravy—you don’t have any tomatoes.”
“Haven’t been home in a while.”
“I know.”
Prophet winced at the tone of Blue’s voice, but he didn’t say anything. Actually, he was surprised he’d been allowed an entire hour at home to himself.
He padded back into the living room, and after ten minutes, Blue was handing him a dish of pasta, putting the cheese and sodas on the coffee table.
“Nice couch,” Blue said.
Prophet gave a nod of agreement, especially because it had taken so much goddamned work to steal the thing the first several times he’d done so. The last time, Cillian had actually wired the thing to the alarm system, the suspicious bastard. But then Cillian had up and gone and given the couch to him.
He wanted to hate the guy. Wanted to be so freakin’ suspicious of him that he’d get angry if he thought about him. And he was goddamned suspicious. But he couldn’t get angry, and he hadn’t been able to figure out why yet.
So he’d kept in contact with Cillian, but in a strictly business capacity.
Well, mostly business. He told himself he needed to keep Cillian on the hook—and busy—but he’d be lying if he didn’t admit that he felt some kind of pull toward the lying bastard.
Because it would be fucking easy between you two.
Because it would be just sex. And maybe you trying to kill him. Or vice versa. There wouldn’t be more, not on Prophet’s end. But on Cillian’s? Who knew?
But Cillian was Mal’s job now. Mal was just sadistic enough to enjoy the hell out of it.
Prophet shoved Cillian out of his mind as he and Blue ate in comfortable silence. The spaghetti tasted better than anything he’d had in the past months, especially because Blue had seasoned it. Prophet had basically been eating to live, ignoring taste so he could get proper fuel.
After three bowls of pasta for Blue—who still had the appetite of a teenage boy—and two and counting for Prophet, Blue sat back and said, “So you and Tom . . .”
Prophet gritted his teeth. “There is no me and Tom.” Twirled the spaghetti on his fork. “Pick a new line of questioning.”
Blue ignored the warning. “He didn’t want to be your partner, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t want to fuck.” His gaze took in the sketches that Prophet had printed out and left on the coffee table, since this was his goddamned house, and then glanced back up at Prophet. “Figured you’d like it that way.”
“Want me to call Mick back?”
“Mick said you fell hard and you got scared.”
“Did he, now?”
“No,” Blue admitted, having the decency to look semi-sheepish. “He said that’s what you told him happened to him when he met me. Figured it could safely apply to you.”
“Go climb the building again.”
“Too easy,” Blue scoffed. “Are you home because of that spy downstairs or because of the hurricane?”
“Neither.” Prophet shifted irritably. “And does the entire fucking world know my business?”
“Only the people who give a shit about you,” Blue shot back, and Prophet wondered how such a fucking wiseass could’ve gotten under his ski
n so quickly.
And then he remembered: because the kid had risked everything to save Mick, and anyone who risked fucking everything—including themselves—was pretty damned okay in his book. And the kid wasn’t a kid at all.
Prophet pushed his bowl away. “Not that you don’t already know, since you obviously broke the fuck into my phone, but Cillian’s coming here tonight.”
Blue raised a brow.
“Not here. Like, to his own apartment. It’s his place too.” For the first time ever, they’d be in the same building at the same time.
Well, other than the warehouse, but that didn’t count.
Blue drawled, “Right.”
“Shut up.” For the first time, Prophet noticed the trail of sand leading from his suitcase to the edge of the couch. Sand would follow him fucking anywhere.
At least something had loyalty.
He snorted, and Blue looked at him strangely, then asked, “So if it’s not for the spy or for the hurricane, why did you come home?”
Why did you come home?
His phone echoed from the cup holder in the old Land Rover, his vehicle of choice when he was doing black-ops jobs OUTCONUS. He grabbed it, saw the number, and knew who it was and what they wanted.
“I’ve got another job for you.”
“I’m listening.” Prophet watched the specialist who’d been his last mission preparing to board a plane, never to be seen again by his family or friends.
“It’s an undercover assignment. You want it, get on the plane too.”
Prophet ran a hand over the bandana that he’d wrapped around his head to keep his too-long hair out of his eyes. The Land Rover was suddenly too fucking hot for his liking. “How much?”
The man on the other end of the phone laughed. “More than last time.” Because Prophet didn’t need the money. The question was inane, a way to avoid the inevitable.
“How long?”
“A year. No contact. Three specialists. You’re paid if they’re dead or alive.”
“What’s in it for me?”
“Besides a very large check? This is your way back into the Agency. Once they know what you’ve been doing—”