If I Ever

by SE Jakes

  Three hours and plenty of silent brooding later, Tom pulled into the driveway of the safe house and Cillian got out to open the gates. He walked through, weapon drawn, and Tom drove slowly behind him. The other cars were parked there, a good sign . . . but the three men who hung out by the front steps were not.

  None of them appeared to be armed or threatening, not at first sight. They were all in their late fifties to early sixties, and deceptively harmless looking . . . definitely so now that Tom was closer.

  Cillian had drawn his weapon on them and they eyed him calmly, for the moment. “Identify yourselves.”

  “He must be Cillian.” One of the men stepped forward and turned his attention to Tom. “Tom?” The black man was the shortest of the three, with a shaved head and a wry smile, and his drawl had a cadence Tom recognized. Another bayou boy, right in the middle of the dark continent.

  “Who wants to know?” Tom walked toward them, hoping to see Prophet pop out of the house but knowing he wasn’t going to. Dammit. “Where are the men who belong to these cars?”

  “Saw them take your boys.” Another man with bright-blue eyes and blond hair mixed with white confirmed, and Tom’s gut tightened, because knowing something was going to happen and having it happen were two different things entirely. He’d been hoping for a Hail Mary.

  “Who are you?” Cillian asked, gun still drawn.

  “Could be your goddamned father,” the first man shot back. “And I sure as shit have more experience than you, so secure your damned weapon, son.”

  “‘Son’?” Cillian repeated in his heavy brogue as Tom put pressure on his arm to lower it.

  “Who’s ‘them’? Do you know our boys?” Tom asked, because this shit had Prophet—or Mal—all over it.

  “One of them,” the first man confirmed.

  Tom practically groaned as Cillian said, “Let me guess which one. Prophet?”

  The men shrugged, neither confirming nor denying, but the smallest one had a smirk on his face worthy of a Special Forces operator.

  “This is either very good,” Tom started.

  “Stop tempting fate.” The dark-skinned man pointed a finger at him, his voice reminiscent of a drill sergeant’s. “I thought you had more sense, being the superstitious one.”

  Had Prophet been talking about Tom to these men? Great.

  “Need anything?” The third man’s voice was a rasp. He was the quietest. Maybe, if what Tom had come to learn, the most dangerous.

  “I need Prophet back. All of them, but Prophet especially,” Tom told them. “And I need him to stop acting like a one-man wrecking ball, but nothing I say to him about that gets through.”

  Cillian stage-whispered, “I feel like they were just offering you a refreshment, not counseling.”

  Tom shot him the finger and realized he’d never felt closer to Mal.

  “I’m Xavier. And Prophet’s working on that one-man-wrecking-ball thing,” the bayou-drawling man told him.

  “They’ll all get out. Right now, they’re where they need to be,” the blond man said vaguely.

  “And you are?” Cillian asked.

  “Elvis.” He pointed to the gravel-voiced man. “He’s Cahill.”

  “Where are they?” Tom demanded. “You have to tell me.”

  The men glanced at each other. “We’re not supposed to,” Elvis admitted. “Normally, we wouldn’t but this time, we’re overriding Prophet. For his own good.”

  “He’s gonna hate that,” Xavier muttered. “But Elvis is right. Come on.” He started walking into the house, motioning for Tom and Cillian to follow. Elvis and Cahill strolled behind them.

  “Make yourself comfortable,” Xavier told them.

  “So, just to clarify—they were all taken?” Tom asked, once inside.

  “They were each taken after they’d parked,” Elvis supplied. “First in were King and Ren. Hook never came this way—he’s a smart one.”

  Xavier nodded. “He’ll be in touch when the time is right.”

  “Wait, you were here when they were taken?” Cillian asked, and Xavier nodded. “So why didn’t they take you?”

  “It’s not like we announced our presence,” Elvis said indignantly. “We’re old, not stupid.”

  Tom sank into one of the closest chairs. “Who took King and Ren?”

  Xavier shrugged. “Maybe SAS. Two different cars took off in two different directions, so they’re separated.”

  “Mal and Prophet?”

  “Looked like CIA. Same MO as the SAS.”

  These guys knew more than they were saying. Tom had no doubt about that, or the fact that he couldn’t push them without running up against a giant brick wall. Fucking Yemen. “Are we safe here until we figure out next steps?”

  “Yes,” Elvis assured them.

  “Elvis, what did you do before you retired?” Tom asked.

  “Navy.”

  “Just Navy?”

  “Various jobs within that scope,” he said vaguely.

  “And Xavier?”

  Xavier murmured, “SAS.”

  “And last but not least.” Tom cut his gaze to Cahill.

  “I built things. Secure things,” he said. “Some of them float.”

  “Things like black sites?” Cillian asked.

  Which meant Cahill could have resources with everyone from the US Marshals to the CIA, not to mention foreign governments. Tom sighed. At least the rest of the team would have backup, which left Tom and Cillian—and these men—free to help Prophet.

  Elvis pressed a light finger to the side of Tom’s head as if he knew what Tom was thinking. “Use this less.” Another finger pressed his gut. “This more. You’ve let go of a lot of your confidence this time around, son. Get it back—and fast.”

  When the hood came off, Prophet tensed for a fight. He didn’t think John would be on the other end of it, but hell, these days he could never be sure.

  But it was Agent Paul—the real one—in his three-piece, looking pissed off, as usual. “Nice of you to join us, Prophet.”

  “Always appreciate the invite. The transportation methods have a few kinks, though.” Prophet rubbed the back of his neck. “The manhandling’s a little much.”

  “Funny, I heard that’s how you like it.”

  Prophet let a smile edge across his face. “You’ve got time? I’ll show you exactly how I like it.”

  Paul frowned a little. “You’re not in control here.”

  “Then why don’t you tell me exactly why I’m here?”

  “You know why.”

  “John.”

  “He needs to be put down,” Paul said bluntly. “You know what he did to Lansing.”

  “You know for sure that was him?”

  “Best guess,” Paul said vaguely. “Lansing was too busy looking out for you to see it coming.”

  “So Lansing didn’t know shit.”

  Paul shrugged. “Part of the plan. But John losing control?”

  “So your protégé is out of control. You take him down.”

  “The master can’t control his creation.” Agent Paul looked loath to admit that.

  “But you think I can?”

  “Yes. That’s why I had to separate you two,” Agent Paul said thoughtfully. “LT thought you were the best. You were, but not for my purposes. We were looking for a different type of black ops soldier. John fit the prototype.”

  “Angry?”

  “Yes,” Agent Paul agreed.

  “How’s the recruitment going these days?” Prophet asked.

  “Varies.”

  “So the project is still in existence?”

  Agent Paul smiled. “I suspect if you’d stayed, you’d be told to find a recruit.”

  Prophet closed his eyes and tried to imagine himself a handler to someone like John. “He’s killing more than just Americans. How’ve you been able to explain that away?”

  “John needed to do a few acts of terror in order to prove himself. Some of his attempts were more toothless than
others.”

  “And you think he’s a double agent?”

  “I wouldn’t expect anything less, although I think he’s more a general spy for hire at this point. He’s good but he’s also left too much damage in his wake . . .”

  “For over ten years, dammit.”

  “In the beginning? No.”

  “He framed me.”

  “Some collateral damage is necessary for the greater good. Always. You know that, Prophet, but your inability to like it is what held you back.”

  Prophet snorted. “I’m fucking fine with that.”

  “Right. Because there was never any collateral damage on your end, right?”

  “Fuck off now. This isn’t Prophet’s life story. You want me to be your clean-up crew. And his.” Prophet took a page from Mal’s book and growled wordlessly.

  It worked, because Agent Paul looked like he wanted to back up a few steps but, to his credit, he didn’t. “That’s exactly what we need. You know as well as I do that military intelligence is all about risk and reward.”

  “I think you all need to stop using the word ‘intelligence,’” Prophet muttered. “Is this a one-off? Because I suspect saying no to this job means a sudden death.”

  Agent Paul’s smile didn’t reach his eyes this time, and Prophet wondered how many men had been sent to their deaths, promised backup and never seeing any. “This job is what I need done. Let’s not bullshit each other—you were going to kill him anyway.”

  “So now I’ll get paid to do it?”

  “When I see a body.”

  Prophet closed his eyes. He’d never take the money, but he’d do the job. Whether the CIA ever saw a body was questionable, because he’d make sure nothing would be traced back to him. “What about my team? The consequences?”

  “I’ll do the best I can,” Agent Paul said. “No promises.”

  “You sent me and John into the desert to get captured. It was a test, for John more so than for me. You didn’t count on how much John could exploit you. Underestimating John proved to be your biggest mistake.” Prophet wondered how much longer it would be before John killed Agent Paul . . . and if that was why he was being pulled in now. “I hope your family is protected.”

  “You don’t need to concern yourself with me.”

  “Right. But see, since you had John’s brother killed in order to try to get his head back in the game”—Prophet knew he was right on the money by the look on Paul’s face—“John’s not going to be in a forgiving mood.”

  “He’ll never forgive you.”

  “I know. I’m content to live with that.”

  “I don’t understand you, Prophet.”

  “Something to be grateful for.”

  Agent Paul snorted. “Someone will be in to let you go. You’ll be on your way to find your mark immediately.”

  “Alone.”

  “You’ll have an escort.”

  “Figures,” Prophet muttered.

  Still, he wished the black site luck on his way out. If they wanted Mal to escape on his own, he wasn’t sure the place would remain afloat for much longer.

  “Remember that time we were in Yemen?”

  Prophet’s words rang in his ears as King was separated from Ren, hooded, tied and tossed unceremoniously into the trunk of a car. It slammed shut and the car moved at a sickening pace—King judged it was going at least 100 MPH for about half an hour. Over these roads, that was a miracle, which meant they were in the more populated parts of the closest cities.

  Which still meant middle of nowhere.

  At one point, there was a bone-breaking slam—not an accident, he realized when his body had stopped fucking bouncing, but a giant pothole of some kind. He heard cursing and then the truck was being raised and he realized they were changing a tire. In the background, he also heard music—rhythmic, native to the region for sure.

  They’d gotten back on the road quickly. After driving at least ten more miles, if his assessment was correct, the car finally stopped. He’d been taken from the trunk, finally, and walked blindly into a tent with a cot, as he’d learned when his hood was taken off. His wrists and legs remained bound and he’d been told to “Lie there and keep your mouth shut.”

  The men around him were so silent that if King hadn’t seen them move with his own eyes, he’d think he was alone in the room. Most of them were born into circumstances that necessitated them disappearing into the woodwork—to avoid abuse, the police, and anything or anyone that could harm them. Now, that silence helped them gain the upper hand, and King didn’t intend to let them keep it.

  Still, he lay back against the cot, his hands cuffed to the metal pole embedded in the dirt with cement, and surveyed them carefully. There were five, which meant there could easily be ten more in the wings. Then again, SAS traveled in small groups because they didn’t need the manpower. One man could equal ten with their kind of training, especially in this type of situation.

  “So.” One of the men pulled a chair next to the cot and sat. “Want to tell me about it?”

  King watched him as dispassionately as he could, and in his best American accent said, “I don’t even know why I’m here.”

  “Because you’re a threat to national security.” The man’s brogue wasn’t as thick as King’s—when King let it out. “Why’re you playing an average American former military man?”

  “I’m not playing.”

  The man laughed. “Ah, don’t be like that, lad.”

  “Not your lad.” King could be out of the chains in seconds and he’d already cursed Prophet left, right, and center for forcing him to lie here and pretend to be helpless. “Do you have any intel for me?”

  “Maybe. Hungry?” He reached up and undid the chains. “Figure I’ll save you the trouble, but thanks for officially playing along.”

  “There’s something important I need to do from here,” King said, finally letting his brogue out. “I need confirmation.”

  The man stuck his hand out. “I’m Brock. I’ll be glad to help you out. But first things first.” And then he pulled a knife from his pocket and moved in toward King.

  Cillian made a few inquiries while Tom sat, watching their three hosts chat quietly among themselves. Those men were both to be admired and feared, and Tom was glad he was on the right side of them. For the moment, at least.

  Cillian hung up the phone. “Got a little intel. They were definitely taken as they arrived here. Prophet and Mal were taken by the CIA. They’re in a black site.”

  Tom shook his head. “King?”

  “SAS has him. And God fucking help them,” Cillian added.

  “Ren?”

  “Last I heard, the NSA nabbed him. Which means they’re in worse shape than the SAS . . . especially once King gets there. Although they might welcome King taking Ren by the time that happens.”

  Even after only meeting Ren a handful of times, Tom could still confirm that Cillian was right—about all of it. “Hook?”

  “He’s, ah, MIA.”

  “Still in play then. And Prophet and Mal are still definitely at the black site?”

  Cillian’s expression tightened. “Yes. I’m sure they’ll release Prophet to get John—he was banking on that. But Mal? They’re not going to let him go that easily.”

  And that was what worried him—and obviously Cillian—the most. “Can you get him out?”

  “I could, but I’m guessing he’d rather us spend our energy finding Prophet—and John. He’s got his job to do and he knows that.”

  Tom nodded, his fists clenching at the mention of John’s name. “Will Mal be all right?”

  “If he doesn’t act like himself, he’ll be fine.”

  “Shit,” Tom muttered.

  Cillian just looked grim.

  Brock let King go and commandeered him a vehicle—because he knew King would do it on his own anyway. King was never more grateful to the SAS in his life, especially when Brock added, “I think the NSA is done with your friend. Done interrogating hi
m, I mean. Sounds like they’re partying with him.”

  “Christ,” King muttered.

  “Doesn’t seem like it’s the first time. Good luck with that.”

  “Thanks for the intel.” King shook his hand—and those of the other men who’d been silently listening to what he and Brock discussed—and then he grabbed Ren and got the rest of the mission moving.

  “So John thinks we’ve been picked up by the CIA?” Ren asked. True to form, Ren had quickly endeared himself to the NSA and had informed King that he’d gotten multiple job offers before he left.

  “He believes we’re all out of commission,” King said. “And he’s probably on his way to Prophet.”

  Ren grew quiet then. “I guess we knew that would happen. I was hoping . . . that there was another way.”

  “There’s not,” King said shortly.

  “Is Mal out?”

  “Not yet. I’d give it another few hours. Let’s get into place. I heard from Hook—he’s where he needs to be. We’ll get in touch with Cillian and Tom and loop them in.”

  “So we’re still going after the triggers,” Ren confirmed. “And John has no idea we’re coming.”

  “Best-case scenario,” King told him. “So . . .”

  “So . . .” Ren echoed.

  King rolled his eyes. “I’m waiting.”

  “For what? Applause? I got myself out of there.”

  King stared at him, wondering where he got the patience from when it came to his friend and teammate. Because there really was no one else he could deal with—not like he did with Ren. And Because he used all his patience up with Ren, it often made King want to strangle Prophet. “I’m talking about me. Prophet’s announcement.”

  “Oh.” Ren glanced out the back window, as if checking their rear, but something made King come up cold. “I figured you’d talk about it when you were ready.”

  King gripped the wheel tighter. “Prophet never came out and said it was me. Everyone just assumed, and I didn’t say anything to challenge it.”

  “If it’s not you, then who is it?” Ren asked carefully.

  King looked over at him. “Why didn’t you tell me before this, Ren? How worried do I have to be?”