by SE Jakes
“Nice shot, but Mal’s the problem here,” Tom reminded him.
“Prophet’s blocking him,” Hook said, as if that logic explained everything.
“Then shoot him in the ass,” Ren suggested.
Tom sighed with frustration. Then he stopped the entire thing with one word. “Remy!”
The truck screeched to a halt. King almost fell off. Mal opened the door and Prophet went flying, and Mal stormed up the steps, throwing Tom a dirty look.
“Prophet would’ve stopped you eventually,” Hook told him. “King too.”
“Until you shot me in the ass,” King growled, coming up behind Mal, with Prophet following him.
“Rubber rounds,” Hook shot back.
“Still hurt like a bitch,” King grumbled.
Ren nodded at his other half sympathetically. “Want me to rub it for you?”
“Not now, babe,” was all King said, and Tom couldn’t decide if King was utterly serious, sarcastically deadpan, or both.
Prophet slapped a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t think about it too hard. It’ll hurt your brain. Seriously.” Prophet rubbed the side of his head and truth be told, Tom’s head had started to ache that familiar, goddamned ache.
“Who’s psychic now?” Tom muttered.
“C’mon.” Prophet led him away. Tom heard the others arguing, yelling at Mal in the background, but to his surprise, Mal was in this room, running an IV. He motioned for Tom’s arm.
“Are you going to kill me and think I’ll just assist you without a fight?”
Mal rolled his eyes, motioned again for Tom’s arm and Tom decided his head hurt too much to care.
The bag said saline, and the others seemed to be some sort of vitamin concoction, and for all Tom knew there was formaldehyde and he’d be embalmed to death. Slowly.
Mal rolled his eyes again, like he knew what Tom was thinking. Signed, I’d snap your neck—that’s way easier.
“Good to know,” Tom muttered.
“There’s also propofol here,” Prophet told him. “It’ll break the migraine fast.”
Why tell him that shit?
“Why try to leave?” Prophet shot back.
“We going somewhere soon?” Tom managed drowsily, not missing the look that passed between Prophet and Mal before he dozed off . . . and seemed to wake minutes later, with the migraine gone.
He tried to sit up but Mal was there, shaking his head, holding his shoulder. Give it a minute. Might be dizzy.
Tom nodded. “Got it.” He took the water Mal offered and drank some cautiously. When he didn’t get sick, he gulped it like it was the best thing on earth. “Everyone okay?”
Except for King’s ass, yes, Mal signed. But you and Prophet? Not so much.
Tom didn’t even attempt to counter that. All that kept running through his mind was that Prophet knew Ollie . . . and Prophet killed Ollie because he had to. And Tom tried to reconcile Ollie as the dangerous man Prophet knew. Tom knew in his heart that Prophet was doing a necessary job. But the Ollie he’d known, the man who’d shaped his life as an FBI agent, taught him strategies he’d use until the day he died.
Prophet had once told him, “My job is to take out specialists, and the people who knew them and were trained by them. Most of the time their family members are exceptions but not always.”
“You could’ve been my son,” Ollie used to tell him.
If Prophet had known about him—and Prophet never did any kind of half-assed research—he’d have known just how close Ollie had been to him. A mentor, and so much more.
Prophet had drawn a line in the sand. Broken rules. Made judgment calls . . . or Tom wouldn’t be standing next to him today. It was something that Tom both understood . . . and something that infuriated the fuck out of him.
Prophet was so wound up and had already tried to kill him. Tom didn’t know how much worse things could get . . . but he knew they could.
We just need more space between us . . . just until this is done. But Prophet obviously didn’t agree, because suddenly he was in the room with Tom.
“Proph, let’s not do this now.”
“Oh, we’re doing this now. We didn’t get to finish,” Prophet said stubbornly.
“You tried to finish me last night.”
“Good one, Tom. Maximum impact.” Prophet spoke casually, but Tom knew he’d wounded him.
It was the only way to bring the damned wall down, and if Prophet came back to play, Tom wasn’t going to drop the damned ball. “What did he do to you, dammit?”
“What didn’t he do?” Prophet shot back.
“Again with the secrets.” Tom immediately regretted his words at the look on Prophet’s face.
Because he knew exactly what had happened, and while he believed it, he couldn’t believe the levels John had sunk to. “After . . . after he did that, you still looked for him?”
“Fuck you for judging me.”
“I’m not.”
Prophet gazed at him warily. “I can’t afford to hate him, T. Too close to love. I’m indifferent to him—but I can’t be indifferent to the deaths of innocent people. I swore I wouldn’t let that happen. And I’m probably the only one who knows him well enough to take him down. Otherwise the CIA would’ve gotten rid of him a long time ago. They’d all but admitted that.”
Tom suddenly felt weary, all over. The migraine was gone but the aftermath hit him hard and defeat coursed through his body the way the IV had. “I’m in the way.”
“You are the way,” Prophet told him. “The only way.”
“Don’t humor me.” Tom was shoving clothes into his bag. “I’m going home to Remy.”
“Yes, you are. But not today.”
Tom shouldered his bag, ignoring him, walking away.
“You’re doing what you said you never would,” Prophet said.
“I’m doing the best for you, for the team. For Remy. I don’t belong in this.”
“For a while, I thought that too. I wanted to protect you—from John, my past, the ghosts.” Prophet shook his head. “I’ve done things for survival, for the job, but I’ve stopped short of doing things I don’t believe in. I have no regrets. None. But if you leave—if I let you leave . . . I’ll regret it for the rest of my life.”
“I’m bringing you down, Prophet,” Tom yelled. “I’m making things worse. The dreams are getting worse.”
“Maybe. But I don’t care. I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Prophet yelled back before striking.
Tom didn’t see it coming. One minute, Prophet was standing still and the next? Tom got hit by what felt like the wall he’d been so desperate to climb, tackled to the ground. He went flying through the air and slammed down on his back, momentarily knocking the wind out of him. Prophet kept him there with a knee pressing his chest.
“You going to sit on me like this all day?”
“Can’t get out of it with all the training? Guess you weren’t paying close enough attention,” Prophet goaded him, then yanked Tom’s pants open, leaving him exposed, and, of course, hard . . . the way he always was with Prophet when the goddamned man touched him.
Prophet’s hand curled down his cock. “Can’t help yourself, can you?”
Tom averted his eyes to stare at the ceiling. “I’m not doing this.”
“I’m the one doing things. I’m not asking you to do anything . . . but come,” Prophet said reasonably, and Tom was pretty sure he hated him in that moment.
“We don’t have time for this.”
“For this? I’m making time.”
“Let me out of this if you want a fair fight.”
“I don’t want a fair fight—I want you.”
“Afraid I’d kick your ass?”
“You’d try. But I fight dirty.”
“Even in your sleep?” Tom bit out. Prophet stared at him, an expression even Tom’s voodoo shit wouldn’t let him read. It was a low blow, deserved, maybe or maybe not but . . . “Get the fuck out of here.”
Prophe
t just shook his head and smiled like a predator. Tom shifted because he recognized this look, and tried not to get harder.
Prophet stared at him like he knew.
Fucker.
And then Prophet wasn’t letting him recover, was fucking mauling him, sucking hard on his nipples, biting them while grinding pelvis to pelvis. Tom closed his eyes and tried to get his breath but his cock had other ideas. Prophet’s mouth was warm and wet as he alternately bit and sucked his way along Tom’s chest, leaving dark-red marks as he went.
“You’re still pissed,” Prophet informed him.
“Damned straight.” He bucked up and caught Prophet by surprise, and now it was his turn to slam Prophet to the floor. He straddled Prophet, then leaned in and bit Prophet’s shoulder—hard enough to leave marks.
“Fuck, Tom—you’re the one who likes pain, remember?”
“Right. You’re the one who likes to inflict it.” Tom straddled Prophet, a reversal of the way he’d been awakened that morning, and stared down at him.
“You look like you don’t know who the fuck I am,” Prophet snapped.
“Because I don’t.”
“Fuck you and your melodrama,” Prophet told him evenly.
“Right. Forgot you’re all about the job.”
“I thought you were fucking me. Because your talking isn’t going to make me come.”
Tom raised his brows. “Really? Is that a challenge?”
Prophet groaned as Tom put a palm over his throat to hold him in position as he yanked Prophet’s pants down. He grabbed for the lube Prophet had prepared to use on him and spread Prophet’s legs, fingering his ass, spreading him.
“You keep treating me like I’m going to break,” Prophet protested.
“I wasn’t . . . I didn’t—”
“Yeah, you did.” Prophet’s voice was hoarse with lust—and some anger—and he stroked a hand along the side of Tom’s cheek. “I know you’ve thought about leaving.”
“Not . . . not like before,” Tom promised.
Prophet looked unsure. “Seemed like it.”
“I’m bad for you, Proph. I’m bringing your dreams back.”
“It’s not you. It’s John. Dammit—if you’re always going to let him come between us—”
“I’m not.”
Prophet hissed a breath between his teeth, then demanded, “Do it, Tommy.”
Tom’s pants were already open, his cock still hard, and he responded to Prophet’s order by bearing his teeth and hitching Prophet’s legs higher on his hips. Breaching him roughly, causing Prophet to meet Tom’s thrust. In one roll of Tom’s hips, he was fully seated inside of Prophet, and for a long moment, the two of them just stared at each other.
Tom pulled back and entered him again, harder this time. Prophet’s back arched, letting Tom know that the bite of pain to pleasure roared through him. And Tom continued rocking against him, thrusting his hips, holding Prophet’s, calling Prophet’s name as Prophet called his, seeing stars, even as fireworks lit off in his body.
“Don’t leave, Tommy. Please . . .”
“I’m here, Proph. Here,” Tom murmured, dropping Prophet’s legs and leaning forward, letting Prophet grab hold of him as they fucked each other into the ground.
Tom held on to Prophet tightly in the aftermath. He heard Prophet’s breaths return to normal, and then Prophet snarked against his ear, “Told you I wouldn’t break.”
“Asshole.” Tom refused to roll off him, and besides, he was still half-hard and still half-inside of him. And thinking about fucking him again, at least until Prophet was too tired to talk. “You knew, Proph. As soon as you figured out the Ollie thing, you knew you’d have to kill me.”
“We’re back to that?”
“We never left it.”
At his words, Prophet dipped his chin in acknowledgment, but he looked like he’d taken a punch to the gut at Tom’s words. “I wanted you to know . . .”
“But you didn’t think I’d put it together,” Tom finished for him. “And you think partnering us was a simple coincidence.”
Prophet shrugged.
“So the person who put me in Phil’s path is possibly the dead man’s switch,” Tom paused. “Phil found me because of that vet—the crazy one from the bayou, back when I was still sheriff. That wasn’t planned.”
“Fate?” Prophet offered.
“Does John know? Am I part of the dead man’s switch? Is there intel that’s been planted somewhere that I don’t know about that can ruin your life?”
Prophet stared into Tom’s eyes. “I don’t know for sure. Doesn’t even matter, because this kill switch that points to me and Mal and the guys—”
“Also points at me.” Tom stared. “I hate him.”
“You should.”
“You don’t.”
Prophet sighed. “It’s an old wound. Too much wrapped up in it to worry about feelings. But I’m going to take care of him, make no mistake about it.”
“And then?”
“I don’t think you’re a danger to this country. Same way I know I’m not, Mal’s not . . .” He trailed off. “I mean, not really.”
“I’m still pissed at you.”
“I know. Hopefully we’ll have years more time in which you can take it out on my ass,” Prophet reassured him quietly.
“Plan on it.”
“I do.”
Prophet showered and was rubbing his hair with a towel when Tom joined him in the bathroom. Both men bore the bruises from the earlier fight, and although they’d fucked the anger out of each other—and the mistrust too—it was still an odd time for them. The walls had tumbled but there was more than enough left that it was a hike to get over it just to get to each other.
Tom ran a hand over Prophet’s chest. “Hey.”
“You okay?”
“Better now. You?”
Tom nodded. “Everyone’s back.”
“Figured that. Come on.” Prophet motioned for Tom to follow him. He found everyone gathered again in the main room, sprawled on couches and in chairs, go-bags packed and ready. The tension in the air came from what lay ahead of them, not between them. No, they were all ready, willing, and able.
“What’s the good word, Proph?” Ren asked.
“Because I feel like we’re being herded,” King said.
“Yeah, by me,” Prophet told him.
“You sure?” Ren asked.
“For now, yes. John thinks I’m somewhere else.”
“You know that—for sure?” King demanded.
“I have a theory.” Prophet crossed his arms.
“He has a theory,” King repeated slowly, brogue heavy, which never boded well.
How do we know they’re not sending a clean-up crew to get us this time? Mal signed.
“They tried that before twice,” Ren reminded them. “They lose too many men on us and decide it’s easier to leave us alone.”
Prophet sat on the back of the couch Mal was reclined on. “It’s not a clean-up crew—but they are coming—for all of us. Except for Cillian and Tom, not yet.”
“Then Cillian and Tom need to get the hell out of here,” Hook confirmed. “And I’m not letting myself get taken.”
They all nodded. Hook was better off free.
“If some of us aren’t out within forty-eight hours . . .” Prophet began and Hook waved a hand.
“Point taken.” Still, Hook looked serious and a serious Hook was never what any of them wanted to see. “And then what? Once we’re all free?”
“Yemen,” Ren reminded them and everyone groaned again.
“At least we know what we’re in for,” Hook said then turned to Tom and Cillian. “Well, you guys don’t but trust me . . . you’re better off.”
“I still want to know exactly what happened in Yemen that makes it so bad,” Tom said.
It’s because we weren’t actually in Yemen, Mal signed.
“I give up.” Tom turned to Prophet. “Is this all Agent Paul’s doing?”
Prophet nodded. “Agent Paul’s taking his orders from John—or vice versa.”
“So you’re going to surrender yourself—and us—and wait till Paul releases you to go kill John?” King asked, and Prophet nodded.
“And then I buy time until you escape and take out the triggers. I guarantee John’s got a system in place—if I kill him too soon, the bombs will trigger,” Prophet said heavily.
“How do we know that that’s not exactly what Agent Paul wants?” Ren asked. “He needs someone to take the fall. You fit the bill. Let’s say they offer you money and you refuse. Then there’s no trail. And if you take money, there’s a trail to you. He’s good.”
“We’re better,” Prophet insisted. “We’ll do this and then deal with the new fallout.”
“I’d feel better if we could figure out a way to lay blame at Agent Paul’s feet, where it belongs,” Ren said.
“Two birds, one stone,” Hook murmured.
“If only we got him on tape,” Cillian mused.
I’d rather kill him, Mal signed.
“Cillian or Agent Paul?” Prophet attempted to clarify, because he’d lost track.
“I’m sitting right here,” Cillian reminded him.
So does that mean you don’t want the answer? Mal signed. Cillian rolled his eyes, and Prophet made a mental note to get to the bottom of that mess once the current one had been sufficiently mopped up.
Plans were made fast after Tom walked out of the bedroom with Prophet. Trucks were arranged and the men set out two by two, in staggered intervals, to the new safe house several cities away. Which could take hours on the short side.
Tom and Cillian were the last ones to leave. Cillian had been tense during the wait, and Tom had been too, but for other reasons. Mainly because there was something else happening during this transfer of houses, something he couldn’t put his finger on.
Something Prophet wouldn’t tell him.
“Feels like you’re saying goodbye,” Tom told him.
Prophet leaned in and nipped his shoulder. “Feels fucking good to me.”
Tom had let it go but couldn’t help feeling Prophet was slipping away. Then he told himself to shake it off, stop being dramatic. They’d made up. Held each other.