by SE Jakes
“In the wrong hands? Lethal.”
“Current location?”
Rylan gave coordinates, and Prophet memorized them. “I won’t be in touch when it’s done.”
“Best that way,” Rylan conceded. “But—”
“I’ll play go-between. But not too often.”
“In return, I’ve got something for you,” Rylan said.
“I don’t accept cash.”
“No, it’s intel. I think you need this,” Rylan told him. “It’s about your friend.”
Prophet got a knot in his stomach, knew exactly which friend Rylan was referring to, but he remained casual. “I’ve got a lot of friends.”
“I think this one’s special—you’ve gone AWOL for him, right?”
“Rumor is that he’s alive. I’m pretty sure he’s one of yours.”
Rylan confirmed his suspicions by not answering that question—not directly. “You need to leave him be. If you do what we think you’re trying to do, it’ll be a problem.”
“Like I worry about the CIA and their problems.” Prophet paused. “What exactly is it that you think I’m trying to do?”
“Get him out of hell, anyway you can.” Rylan sat back. “We’ve got similar jobs, Prophet.”
“If I do my job, the CIA’s worried about intel that might go public, right?”
“If we knew that . . .” Rylan shrugged. “The CIA wants him to do what he’s doing.”
“And Lansing?”
“Lansing is about as in the loop as you were.”
“You’re not supposed to share any of this shit with me, right?”
“None.”
Rylan was taking a big chance . . . but he also wasn’t. Because he knew Prophet would gladly take a specialist out of the CIA’s clutches. “Is the intel that might leak . . . is it also about me?”
“No. But it involves members of your team.” Prophet frowned at that. “Two members are under WITSEC.”
“Fuck,” Prophet breathed.
“I can’t give you more than that.”
“No need to.” Prophet waved him off.
“We’ve got the room for the night,” Rylan said.
“That’s enough,” Tom said.
“Why would you stop him when he’s getting to the good parts?” Cillian demanded.
“Who else knows? About WITSEC? And how does Rylan know? How close to John was he?” Ren asked in a machine-gun barrage.
“Close enough to know about the probable dead man’s switch John’s got over the CIA’s heads. Did you stop to think—” King started.
“That it’s Rylan?” Prophet shook his head. “No way. I’ve got enough on him that he wouldn’t risk it. And that’s all I’m saying.”
“And Agent Paul doesn’t suspect Rylan?” Tom asked.
“The entire CIA doesn’t trust itself.” Prophet leaned forward, elbows on his thighs.
“The biggest problem in all of this is Agent Paul. It’s always been him working with John.”
The men were all silent for a long moment, digesting the information.
Finally, Cillian broke the quiet. “So, which one of you two are in WITSEC?”
“Like they’d tell you,” Tom muttered.
“That takes you out of the running,” Cillian said.
“No one say another word about it,” Prophet warned. “Agent Paul discovered the kill switch for his own purpose—to cover the CIA’s ass. Finding out the other intel didn’t further his interests. Giving it over to Lansing would’ve been like admitting Paul’d been lying about his mission, so . . .”
“Fuck.” Hook shook his head. “And you’ve kept this secret for eight years?”
“Nine, technically,” Prophet said.
Asshole, Mal signed.
“Fuck it, Proph. The CIA doesn’t need protection,” King said.
“No, they don’t,” Prophet said quietly.
Mal got it first—judging by the fact that he threw Cillian’s table against the wall and watched it shatter. He always got pissed when he thought Prophet was taking the weight of the world on his shoulders, but Prophet wouldn’t apologize for any of it.
King stared between Mal and Prophet. “Fuck, lad, how long have you known this?”
Prophet shrugged.
“And you kept it to yourself. You knew and you backed off without giving us a chance to know. To do things differently.” King’s brogue was heavy. Tired.
“I’m lost,” Tom said to Cillian.
“John’s got a dead man’s switch,” Cillian told him.
“And I’ve been trying to find out who holds it since then,” Prophet added.
“Yeah, I got that. Maybe it’s just software?” Tom suggested.
Prophet shook his head. “Too easily destroyed.”
“Like people aren’t?” Ren asked.
“Maybe it’s a bluff,” Tom argued. “He’s enough of an asshole to do that.”
“Want to take that risk? Because I wasn’t willing to expose two of my teammates. Two of my best friends,” Prophet answered, his voice tight. “And I’m still not. I’d do it again in a second.”
How do you know the intel is airtight? Mal signed.
Prophet sighed. Pinched the bridge of his nose.
Tom looked like he wanted to punch all of them, but he probably also understood their frustration better than anyone. “Proph—”
“Yeah, I know.” He knew that Tom’s voodoo was on the rise—that he agreed that Prophet’s guy was on the money. “I couldn’t let you all get any more hurt.”
“Isn’t it enough that he worked for the CIA to help you?” Tom asked and all heads swung in Prophet’s direction. Except for Prophet’s, whose swung toward Tom.
“You’ve got to stop mentioning that.” Prophet slowly edged away but was stopped by Mal, who’d somehow gotten behind him. “Hey, Mal, didn’t see you back there.”
Tom continued, “I’m just defending you. Because you were helping—”
“And you’re not,” Prophet told him. “You’ve done enough, T.”
“Yes,” Ren echoed. “Thankfully you’ve done the dirty work by exposing Mr. Weight-of-the-World-On-Our-Shoulders. Now answer Mal’s question—how do you know the intel is correct?”
Prophet looked at Mal. Mal looked at King, who semifroze. Prophet admitted, “I didn’t want to believe it either, but the files had been hacked. Rylan showed me the code.”
Who else knows? Mal signed.
Prophet sighed. “Well, now I do. You. King. John. And I’m guessing the dead man’s switch person might—or might just let it all out into the world mindlessly.”
And Rylan?
“He gave me the intel in exchange for something. He’ll never give up what he knows.”
Why’s that?
“I have a kill switch on him.” Prophet sat back down.
Everyone groaned.
Cillian looked impressed.
“Christ, Prophet.” Hook downed his beer. “Anything else you’re holding back on?”
When Prophet didn’t answer, another collective groan went up.
“What the fuck am I missing?” Tom demanded.
“Kinda wondering the same thing,” Ren asked. Hook nodded in agreement and Mal and King—and Prophet—all looked like proverbial deer in the headlights.
“Apparently, they’re the reasons for the dead man’s switch. Mal and King—and their WITSEC protection,” Cillian clarified. “Prophet could be on John’s death list too, but I doubt it.”
“He’s definitely on mine,” King muttered.
“I’m guessing this is because of the Irish thing,” Cillian offered.
And you’d know about that, being from Belgrade and all, Mal signed.
“I was stolen from Ireland. Brought to Belgrade,” Cillian corrected.
Mal shot him the finger and Cillian grunted.
Tom stared at Prophet. “You didn’t know before Rylan told you?”
Prophet shook his head. “I didn’t know for sure after Ryl
an either but . . .”
“The Irish,” Cillian finished. King took the knife out again and Mal pretended to bang his head against the wall again. Or maybe he wasn’t pretending this time since they could hear the actual sound of a head hitting a wall.
“Wait, so if you knew this already, then what was the most recent meeting with Rylan about?” Tom asked, turning to Prophet.
Prophet glared in Tom’s direction. “Jesus Christ, Tommy—maybe you could not point unanswered shit out among the psychos.”
King jumped off the table carrying the knife. Ren got in front of him to ostensibly slow him down and Prophet put his hands up. “Fine—okay? The specialist that I hid for him? Disappeared forty-eight hours ago.”
“Taken?” Cillian asked.
Prophet shook his head. “Ran.”
King cursed. “So there’s a threat.”
“A big one,” Prophet agreed.
“Your specialist’s left the building,” Prophet told Rylan as soon as he sat down across from him. The restaurant was small—open air—with lots of noise around them from the surrounding markets.
Rylan didn’t look surprised as much as troubled. “Then my needing to contact you seems to make more sense—to me, at least. Your expertise is needed to take care of a problem. One we discussed many years ago.”
Yeah, none of this was a coincidence. “Funny, since you all told me to back off.”
“You didn’t exactly listen—and I didn’t tell you to back off. I just gave you reasons to consider.”
“Right. An even exchange,” Prophet groused, but there was no heat behind it. “He’s alive, right?”
Rylan gave a small smile. “If we have our way, not for much longer.”
“You’re going to have to do better than that,” Prophet told him. “You know why I haven’t finished the job. You know what’s going to be uncovered when he dies.”
“We know. And we’ve decided it’s worth the risk.” Rylan stared at the sky. “If we could control him, we would’ve.”
Which meant that Mal’s and King’s days of anonymity were about to be over. All the enemies held at bay before would be unleashed. But if the CIA was willing to let it happen to their secrets, then whatever John was planning? Must be really fucking bad. Worse-than-they-thought bad.
“So now the CIA wants us to do their dirty work with no promises that we’ll be free once it’s done?” King glowered threateningly and threw the knife so it wedged into the wooden front door . . . but not before it whizzed directly past Prophet’s head.
“Way to keep it under control,” Prophet muttered.
King looked him in the eyes. “I missed.”
“What the fuck do you want me to do? We had to do this anyway. Agent Paul wants us to kill John because he’s lost control of him. He won’t interfere. And if we do our jobs right, we’ll have intel on the CIA . . . enough for them to leave us alone for good.”
“Right—because they’ve always been so transparent in the past,” Hook drawled.
“So we’ve got Agent Paul—who, for all intents and purposes is working with John,” Cillian started. “And John’s got triggers, but was never able to find a specialist to complete the bombs.”
“He’s found a substitute,” Prophet said.
“The new specialist?” Ren asked.
“Not a bomb-maker. The substitute is the substance of the bomb.” Prophet paused. “Rylan said there was a break-in at a government facility. He won’t say where or how, but what’s missing? Sarin.”
Fuck me, Mal signed, and it rang out as clearly as if they’d all yelled it.
“So we’ve got active triggers and a missing specialist who . . .” Cillian trailed off.
“Builds black sites . . . with secret exits only she knows about,” Prophet finished.
It was like the air was sucked out of the room. For a long moment, no one spoke. King and Mal both made the sign of the cross, an instinctive reaction for both men, who probably hadn’t set foot in a church since boyhood.
“Jesus,” Ren muttered finally. “And Agent Paul doesn’t seem to give a shit about the bombs. Or the specialist.”
“Which is why we need to,” Prophet emphasized.
“If we split up to look for her, we’re stretched too thin,” Tom said.
King nodded. “He’s right. Besides that, there’s too many high-value targets locked up in black sites—some we don’t even know about—to choose from. We’re going to have to stop the immediate threat, which is the triggers.”
“Do we know where they’re placed?”
“We will,” Prophet assured him.
“There’s too many variables,” King started. “Too much can go wrong.”
Prophet stood. “You can all figure out right now if you’re in or out. Either way, there are triggers out there and I know we all agree we can’t let thousands of people die because we’re pissed at the CIA.”
Tom remained among the disgruntled after Prophet walked away, mainly so he could avoid Prophet for a little longer, but also so he could give his partner the general mood of the discussion post-departure.
Dramatic departure at that.
It had made them all shut up, for several minutes at least, until finally Ren sighed. “I hate when he does that.”
“Which part?” Tom asked.
“All of it,” Ren confirmed. “But especially that last bit.”
“Because it gets you every time,” Hook added.
Mal nodded and leaned back. He seemed the least upset by all the revelations, which made Tom immediately suspicious that he probably knew about most of them anyway.
Which also made Tom angry. Unreasonably so, perhaps, but angry nonetheless. It wasn’t a great way to start out his evening with Prophet, but it was close to midnight and they no doubt planned for an early morning. They were all on constant alert, go-bags packed and at the ready for evac.
Prophet was lying on the bed, legs crossed, arms behind his head and staring at the ceiling. He didn’t look at Tom when he came in through the door, not even when Tom closed the door and asked, “The specialist disappeared forty-eight hours ago, right?”
“Uh-huh.”
“That’s around the same time you got that message. The one about Judie.”
“Oh. Right.” Prophet nodded. “Did I tell you that I got another call? She’s back in place. It was just a momentary lapse.”
“Really?” Tom’s drawl was exaggerated. “Isn’t it funny how both your mom and the specialist disappeared on the same exact day?”
“I know. Life is funny sometimes.”
“How do you even say that shit with a straight face?”
“How about you keep your dirty voodoo shit to yourself?” Prophet barked. “Okay, fine. Judie—the real Judie—is safe.”
“And you knew that when you got Remy’s message on the plane. That’s why you weren’t more worried.”
“Trust me, I was worried.”
“So the specialist?”
“In the wind.”
“Jesus, Prophet.”
“Fuck you, Tom. I’ve had enough people doubting me today.”
“I’m not doubting you. I’m trying to help.”
“Sadiq, when he was alive—or John—they were calling Judie,” Prophet admitted after a pause. “The real one.”
“If they have the number . . .”
Prophet shook his head. “Until now, they’ve been unable to find her. I bounce the signal too well. But the numbers . . .”
“You know how they get them?”
“Someone in the CIA’s giving them out.”
“And you know who.”
“Agent Paul.”
“That’s why you don’t visit her—the real Judie.”
“That’s not the only reason, but yeah. I mean, there’s only one person who knows me well enough to track me.”
“John.” Tom shook his head. “Proph, you really think?”
“I didn’t want to. I tried not to for the longest ti
me. But I don’t see any way around it.”
“Is that how the specialist was compromised?” Tom asked.
Prophet shook his head. “There are more than two Judie Drews. And the real one isn’t under her real name. Listen, the specialist ran. Maybe she caught wind of a threat or maybe she got an offer she couldn’t refuse. She wasn’t a recluse there. She had access to the dark web, mainly to keep track of chatter and keep herself safe.”
“So why now? You have to know that.”
“You don’t think my team’s thinking the same thing, Tom? The difference is, they trust me.” Prophet’s voice was cold and Tom hated that. “If we all know the same intel, then the intel’s compromised. But since you have a burning need to check my work . . . Rylan said that someone tracked down and threatened the specialist’s son. That would be enough for her to turn herself over in exchange.”
“And she’s counting on you to find her and save her—and her son.”
“Her son’s safe. Rylan’s got him secured,” Prophet said.
“Did Rylan tell you that John was recruited by the CIA?”
“Not exactly. It’s more implied. It’s always gray with that agency.”
And with you, Tom almost bit out. Instead, he managed, “John never told you either? Didn’t even hint that they’d tried to recruit him?”
Prophet shook his head. “He wouldn’t have been able to. And by that point, he was angry with me.” He winced at whatever memory he’d had and Tom instinctively moved toward him. But when he put a hand on him, Prophet brushed it off.
“Sorry.” Tom pulled back and Prophet stared at the ceiling again.
“I’m tired, T. Really fucking tired.”
“So let’s get some sleep.”
Prophet moved over and let Tom lie next to him. Neither man touched the other. “Did you talk to Remy today?”
“Yeah. You?”
“Yeah. He sounds good.”
“Time with Della will do that to you,” Tom agreed. He tried to stay awake for a while after Prophet fell asleep but the past days proved too much for that. And he dreamed his own dreams, none of them good at all, with faceless men trying to drag Prophet away and Tom running after him, only to realize he’d lost him.
He woke with a jolt, sucking in a deep breath, the awful sense of foreboding pervading every pore. It seemed like Prophet felt it too, was in a restless sleep of his own, tossing and turning, arguing loudly.