If I Ever

by SE Jakes

  I think anyone would agree that I’m way more chill than you are, Mal signed.

  “If you keep using the word ‘chill,’ then yes, I’m definitely going to be the more uptight of the two of us.”

  Mal smiled and then signed, What the fuck did you do to Tom?

  “Who says I did anything to him?” Prophet asked. Mal frowned. “What do you know? Did he say something?”

  No, but you just did.

  “Dammit.”

  You need to fix it, whatever it is.

  “What, now you’re on his side? How the hell did that happen?”

  You wanted us to get along.

  Prophet grumbled. “I told him a secret.”

  Mal rolled his eyes. Lots of them to choose from.

  “What? You know most of them, dammit, so it’s not fair of you to judge.”

  But the one you told him involved him, right?

  “So?”

  Reverse the roles. You’d have thrown him through a wall.

  “You don’t know me that well,” Prophet muttered. “Might’ve thrown something at him but I haven’t thrown anyone through a wall since . . .”

  Sully. Camp Lejeune. Joint Forces training.

  “He was an asshole.”

  Mal shrugged. I thought he was chill.

  Prophet rested his head against the back of the wooden chair and sighed. Mal turned his head to the door and mouthed, They’re here.

  When Prophet jumped up, Mal just pointed to him. “I’ll make it right. Maybe not right away though.”

  Mal nodded in concession.

  Prophet was in the main room when the door opened, because it was all he could do not to run out the door and drag Tom in. Cillian came in first, with Tommy behind him, and Prophet realized he was fucking nervous to see him. They hadn’t left on the best note at all, and then Prophet had stopped communicating and hell, if Tom didn’t understand why . . .

  “Thanks for the invite,” Cillian said, and Mal came out of the woodwork. Tom glanced at Prophet and nodded (nodded? What the fuck was that?) and put his bag down.

  Prophet ignored Cillian for the moment, went over to Tom and dragged him into the room he’d taken over, shutting the door behind them. “You okay?” He didn’t wait for Tom to answer, was patting him down, looking for blood or bullet holes, even though he knew the mission had gone fine. But traveling in country could also leave anyone with scars, especially ones that wouldn’t show.

  “I’m fine.”

  “Then why can you barely fucking look at me?” Prophet demanded.

  Tom finally met his gaze, his countenance still slightly stony, but relenting. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “I love you, Tommy,” was all he could think of, touching Tom’s cheek. “Just give me some credit.”

  “I will. I am.”

  “I’m on your goddamned side, okay?”

  Tom nodded, leaned his forehead against Prophet’s. “Fucking missed you.”

  “Same.”

  “How long do we have here?”

  “Maybe forty-eight hours. Everyone’s converging and then . . .”

  Here they were, at and then.

  Again.

  “’S’okay, Proph. Let’s go plan. Maybe we’ll leave some time for later.”

  “Damned straight we will.” Prophet kissed him lightly, but Tom dragged him into a hot kiss that Prophet didn’t want to extricate from. “Don’t have much time—they’re getting restless out there.”

  Then again, so was he, dammit. He shoved Tom into the small bathroom and turned the water on to mask some of the noise. They both were pulling and yanking and tugging clothing off, forgotten weapons clunking as they hit the floor still in pockets.

  Tom was covered in red dust from the drive, but Prophet wasn’t interested in getting him clean. The water was merely warm, but he’d be fine with cold water as long as he could get his dick inside of Tom.

  He bent his head and bit one of Tom’s nipples around the barbell piercing. Tom hissed and grabbed Prophet’s hair, tugging him closer. Fuck, the man loved pain and Prophet had no problem giving it to him—during sex.

  Tom’s dick piercings were on full display, even though Prophet told him that he should take them out for missions. Prophet knew from experience, having helped Tom put them back in, what a pain in the ass that was, and right now, he was grateful Tom ignored him about it. He played with some of the piercings, the Jacob’s Ladder, making Tom groan, beg, push his dick against Prophet’s palm, looking to gain some friction.

  And then Prophet was pushing inside of him, Tom’s leg wrapped around his thighs to help drive Prophet inside of him.

  “Fuck, we’re going to die in here,” Tom grunted as he almost lost his footing.

  “Not a bad way to go.” Prophet leaned into Tom’s neck, resisting the urge to mark him where everyone could see it, instead moving down to the skin between neck and shoulder, marking him hard, sucking and laving as his orgasm coursed through him, and Tom’s between them, spurting up their chests only to be quickly washed away.

  They needed more time—in the shower, inside each other. Prophet knew that because as they quickly toweled off and re-dressed, the silence hung between them again. Prophet had no problem with silence, treasured it during an op, because it meant everyone was focused. But Tom’s quiet was still an angry one.

  Tom wandered out of the bedroom before Prophet, who said he’d be out in a few minutes. He’d been on his phone, and although Tom wanted to know everything he was doing, he didn’t push his luck in that regard. This uneasy truce was too fragile for him to push—not until Prophet shared the next steps. Too many people were counting on his plans, and Tom wouldn’t let their personal drama get in the way of that.

  Even though your personal drama is very much a part of all of this shit.

  He shook his head and wandered down the hall and through the kitchen, finding the main room through which he and Cillian had entered an hour before.

  This place was definitely on the higher end for a safe house, with the high gates, stuccoed walls, and open design. It wasn’t as nice as Dean’s, but the similarities in furnishings, the colors and the dark ebony wood–carved furniture echoed the same feel.

  Although they technically weren’t far from Dean’s house, they might as well have been a million miles away. There was no easy way to get to the safe house in Khartoum (and the irony of anything being safe in Khartoum wasn’t lost on him) except by plane, so Tom and Cillian had paid a pilot to get them there as fast as possible . . . and to forget he ever saw either man.

  Still, they’d had a couple of hours’ worth of driving to do beyond that, past rebels, police and other dangerous types. It was all a crapshoot and men like them stuck out like sore thumbs for being exactly what they were. Sometimes that served them well. Other times, merc equaled soldier, which prompted payback to their government.

  Traveling with a guide, someone from the area, was typically a good idea. The man who’d been with them since they’d deplaned was still with them at the safe house today, and he’d worked at various times for Dean and the clinics. Prophet knew him and the other men seemed to as well.

  Now, Tom stepped into the main room and all the men glanced over at him. “Hey, guys. How’s it going?”

  Cillian nodded, then went back to his laptop. He was in the corner at a small table, slightly separated from the rest of the group.

  “Hey Tom,” Ren said. King nodded and Hook smiled. Mal shot him the finger. So yeah, business as usual.

  The last time he’d seen them all together had been months ago in Amsterdam, in a gay bar in the heart of the city. Cillian had been there as well, although he hadn’t known that at the time.

  King sat in a high-back chair with elaborate carvings. Tom thought of him as shadows and stealth. He wore a black bandana wrapped around his head instead of his usual black skullcap, probably because of the heat, with his dark hair escaping and curling around his ears. He was tanned, which made his eyes stand
out even more. When Tom had first met King, he thought King had green eyes, but on closer inspection, he’d realized they were more of a bluish-green, like the color of the Irish sea.

  Next to him, sprawled on the couch, was Ren, a stocky blond with piercing green eyes and a buzz of energy that carried everyone near him along with it. He and King were rarely separated, according to Prophet.

  Hook’s long, lanky body was stretched out on the floor, his back against Ren’s couch. Even though he appeared to be the most laid-back, Tom knew that meant he was probably more lethal than Mal. He was married to his high school sweetheart, and he was magic at finding transportation, according to Prophet.

  And then there was good old Uncle Crazy. Mal was wearing his usual black, but he’d stripped to a black wifebeater so all his tattoos showed. He and Cillian were across the room from each other, but Tom would bet they were having a hard time not looking at each other.

  “Come on in, sit down and stay awhile. Prophet’s going to come fill us in any minute now, I’m guessing,” Ren told him.

  King rolled his eyes and grumbled and muttered something about “beating it out of Prophet” and Tom realized he wasn’t the only one pissed at Prophet at the moment.

  After a semisheepish and still slightly wet return to the main room, where everyone had gathered—and had no doubt heard everything—Prophet simply sat on the edge of a couch and motioned for Tom to take an actual seat.

  “Thanks for joining us,” Ren said with a grin. “You’re fucking loud, man.”

  Prophet shot him the finger. “You already knew that, so deal with it.”

  “Any other comments? Let’s get them out of the way,” King asked.

  “I’ve got one,” Cillian offered. “Anything new and interesting to share with the class, Prophet? Perhaps something we’ve not been privy to?”

  “No,” Prophet answered flatly, but of course, Cillian had a reason for asking. And that reason was a photo on his iPhone that he held up to show Prophet walking with a mystery man in a suit. Prophet frowned and shook his head. “And still, no.”

  “Really?” Cillian asked dryly. “Doesn’t look like anyone you might know?”

  “Maybe it’s photoshopped?” Prophet asked.

  “A friend?” Cillian persisted. “Tom, perhaps you know this man?”

  “That’s Agent Paul,” Tom said and Cillian nodded, and then showed it to Mal, who glanced at Prophet.

  Not Agent Paul, Mal signed.

  “Bullshit. That’s the man I met as Agent Paul,” Cillian told Mal pointedly before turning back to Prophet. “Remember when he came to your apartment, Prophet? I saved you and Tom by pretending to be your lawyer.”

  Tom glanced at the picture and back at Prophet. But like Mal and King and Ren and Hook, Tom continued to wait as well. All of them knew that waiting Prophet out was never the easiest idea, and at least that thought made him happy and momentarily distracted him from strangling Cillian.

  Finally, Mal grabbed the phone from Cillian, studied the picture more closely and frowned. Prophet gave Mal a side-eye and Mal rolled his eyes and pointed at Prophet.

  “New language I don’t know about?” Ren drawled. King shook his head at the whole thing but his posture belied any relaxation.

  Mal finally signed, His name is Rylan.

  “Oh, Rylan. Right. Shoulda just said so from the start,” Ren said sarcastically. “Who the fuck is Rylan?”

  “Guy in the picture,” Prophet said.

  Tom made a fist and gave him a pointed look as he ground out, “So Agent Paul doesn’t exist?”

  “He exists. And he hates me, more than Lansing did,” Prophet added.

  “Proph—” Tom warned.

  “Okay, look, you’ve never met the real Agent Paul. It was Rylan who came to our apartment that day posing as Agent Paul. Sounded just like him too—”

  Tom interrupted him. “I know we found bugs after he left. What if Agent Paul—the real one—had heard the recordings . . .?”

  “Rylan took care of it on his end, the way we took care of it on ours,” Prophet explained. “It was the only way for him to safely let me know I was on Paul’s radar. Making contact as himself was too risky.”

  “And we’re just learning about this now because?” Tom motioned with his hand as if pulling the answer from Prophet.

  “Plausible deniability,” Prophet answered confidently.

  “When was this picture with Rylan taken then?” Cillian asked, holding his phone.

  “Yesterday afternoon.”

  “You made plans to meet him?”

  “After I became aware of certain intel, yes, I contacted him. He met with me. I gave him a heads-up and he returned the favor.” Prophet rolled his shoulders in an attempt to release some of the tension, but hell, it radiated through the entire damned room.

  “And he just happened to be in the right place at the right time?” Tom asked.

  “He would’ve found me if I hadn’t reached out first.”

  “Because of John,” King said.

  Prophet shrugged. “We just . . . caught up on some things.”

  King stared at him for a long beat and finally said, “I’m going to beat the hell out of you if you don’t start telling the entire story, without skipping shit.”

  Prophet wanted to say, You and what army, but looking at the small one amassed around him, he figured he would be hard-pressed to get out completely unscathed. Still, the door was closest to him . . .

  Until Tom went to it and closed it firmly. Stood in front of it. Fucking voodoo bastard.

  Tom smiled, as if reading his mind. Because the asshole probably was.

  “Proph?” Ren asked.

  “Fine.” Prophet turned his attention from the door and gave his most put-upon sigh. “I’ve known Rylan for a while.”

  “How long?” Cillian asked.

  “Let’s say eight or so years. Maybe nine.” Prophet started counting on his fingers, a sure distraction technique he’d perfected, but the men surrounding him wouldn’t fall for it.

  “Just around the time you stopped looking for John,” King added.

  “Technically I never really stopped looking,” Prophet said.

  “Just around the time you joined the CIA,” Tom pointed out, no doubt thinking he was being helpful, and Prophet froze as Mal’s, King’s, Ren’s and Hook’s heads swung in his direction. Tom’s eyebrows rose. “Ah, was that a secret?”

  “Kinda was,” Prophet said under his breath without moving his lips.

  “Sorry.” Tom shrugged. “Not sorry.”

  “You said you were working in a joint task force with them through the Navy,” Ren reminded him. “You said you’d never ever sign on with the agency.”

  “I remember that,” King echoed.

  “Anyway,” Prophet said loudly, trying to move forward and knowing it was impossible. “I met Rylan—”

  “When you were working for the CIA?”

  “Kinda yes, kinda no. It was a time of . . . indecision,” Prophet offered. “The best of times, the worst of—”

  “Stop quoting Dickens.” King’s brogue was thick. “He pulls that shit whenever he’s caught doing something he shouldn’t.”

  “Are you going to shut up so I can tell you what I need to tell you?” Prophet demanded and they basically all crossed their arms and stared at him with this better be good looks on their faces.

  And hell, it was.

  “I’m not joining those fuckers, so if you’re here to talk me into it . . .” Prophet started at the tall, good-looking spy who sat across from him at the café in Rome.

  The man took his dark glasses off and smirked. “They told me to look for the biggest asshole and that would be my mark.”

  “I’m nobody’s fucking mark. Asshole,” Prophet muttered. But the guy was staring at him, and flirting with him too, because Prophet knew the difference between being recruited and being recruited to fuck. “You could buy me a coffee though.”

  The guy smiled as
the waitress appeared with Prophet’s favorite coffee. And a piece of cheesecake. Prophet sighed and began to eat. “Go ahead, give me the whole ‘why I should work for the agency,’ spiel. I’ll pretend to consider it and then we can go do whatever else we’re going to do.”

  The man leaned forward on his elbows. “I knew I’d like you. I’m Rylan. And I’m not trying to talk you into shit. I’m here to ask for a favor.”

  “Really?” Prophet pushed his plate back. “You don’t look like you’ve got to beg for it.”

  “Yeah, I don’t.” Rylan gave a subtle glance around, like he was enjoying the view. “Can’t discuss it here. But it’s outside the purview of the agency. I think it’s something you’d be comfortable doing.”

  A favor for a man he barely knew. But Rylan was right about one thing—the favor was something Prophet was uniquely qualified for.

  “So you slept with him,” Tom interrupted.

  “Who’s telling this story?” Prophet crossed his arms now.

  Mal pretended to bang his head against the wall.

  Cillian pretended to snore.

  King took out a knife and exposed the long blade. Ren put a hand on his arm, then shrugged and took it away.

  “Fine,” Prophet said.

  Rylan waited until after they’d slept together to ask for the favor. And Christ, the guy was good.

  Rylan snorted, like he knew what Prophet was thinking. “Trust me, you’re pretty damned good yourself.”

  “‘Good’? Christ, defame me more, why don’t you?” Prophet groused, secretly pleased with the look on Rylan’s face.

  “I need you to hide someone. Bury them completely.”

  “I can do that.”

  “It’s someone already in CIA custody.”

  “Is this a setup?” Prophet asked mildly.

  “No.”

  “Okay.” Prophet stared at him, knowing he was going on gut instinct by trusting Rylan. And hell, if he’d listened to instincts about John all those years ago . . . “Is this person going to be killed otherwise?”

  “Yes.” Rylan’s eyes clouded then.

  “This is personal.” It wasn’t a question. “Is the specialist dangerous?”