If I Ever
Page 16
“For yourself?”
“For you?” He pulled the truck over and turned to Ren, who frowned. “You haven’t asked me a single question about WITSEC.”
“I was waiting for you to be ready to talk about it.”
“I know it’s you, Ren,” King said sharply and Ren just stared at him, almost defiantly. “So tell me.”
“After this is over . . .”
“It might be too late then. Tell me now.”
“So there’s this cartel,” Ren started.
“Cartel?”
“There’s always a cartel.” Ren shook his head. “It’s not the time, King. We’ve got shit to do. One thing at a time. We take care of the first mess, and then we deal with mine.”
“Suppose it’s too late by then?” King demanded, without much heat behind his words.
“It was always too damned late,” Ren told him before turning up the radio.
Two humorless men in suits dropped Prophet off at the airport with tickets, a passport in his own name, and cash. No weapons, since he couldn’t board a plane with any and hell, that’s what the cash was for.
The ticket would get him to Burundi, but he knew he wasn’t going to get that far.
Even so, he acted complicit, went into the airport and checked in through security and then planned on checking out and driving to a secure location where he could decide if they were leading him to the right place or not. But halfway through the packed terminal, his vision began to blur.
It’s just stress. He forced himself forward, concentrating on the people he was following, the air flow, just like Dean taught him to do. He could smell the outside air, which meant he must not be far from the door, and he took a deep, ragged breath to stave off what could easily become an inevitable panic attack.
Finally, he put a hand out to the left, brushing past people, muttering “Excuse me” until his palm found a wall. He stopped. Breathed. And then an arm slung over his shoulders, familiar and yet not at the same time . . . but there was no mistaking John’s voice. “You look good, Prophet. Whatever you’re doing agrees with you.”
Prophet almost said, Losing my sight, but instead he nodded as the haziness took over, the people walking ahead of him with suitcases blurring into one another.
John tensed, then relaxed. “Jesus, Prophet. Come on, I’ve got you.”
Right—lead me to your kidnapping, like fucking Stockholm syndrome . . . but Christ, it was all so familiar. Normal. Civilized.
“Fuck, man, breathe,” John instructed, and Prophet did, until the need to hyperventilate dissipated.
He’d known this was going to be hard. He hadn’t realized it would be impossible. “I’m fine. Let’s go.”
John stopped him by grabbing his wrist and touching the bracelet on Prophet’s wrist. “Anything you need to tell me?”
“Not here.” Prophet’s throat tightened.
John pressed a kiss to his temple. “’S’all right—I’ve got you.”
That’s what Prophet was worried about. But still, he let John lead him through the crowds and out into the air, which cleared his brain a bit but not his eyesight. It was one foot in front of the other, the inevitability driving him onward . . . and into John’s truck.
He settled in, the absurdity of John buckling his damned seat belt not lost on him. “Not a fucking child,” he muttered and John snorted.
Prophet blinked, alone in the truck for seconds until John got into the driver’s side. “The CIA’s long gone, Proph. Just in case you were waiting for the cavalry.”
“They sent me for you.”
“They sent me for you,” John told him and Prophet turned to stare at him—or at least attempt to.
From what he could make out, John looked the same—older, but the same. “Long time no see, brother.”
John smirked, and for a second, a single second, they were fourteen, just finished fighting, headed to a week’s worth of in-school suspension . . .
And then Prophet blinked and he was staring at a man he didn’t know at all anymore . . . and one he’d known better than anyone in the fucking world. Until Tommy.
“Took you long enough.” John lit a cigarette. There were no BDUs, but this was the same John from his dreams and flashbacks, from his waking hours when he saw a ghost of this man leaning against the wall, causally correcting Prophet, taunting him. Forcing him to see truths he never wanted to see. “We’ve got a couple of hours’ worth of driving to do. Make yourself comfortable.”
Prophet put the seat back as John threaded the truck through the dirty, busy streets.
“No bodyguards?” Prophet asked.
John automatically raised his eyes to glance in the rearview, giving Prophet his answer. “You shouldn’t have looked for me.”
“Really?’’ Prophet fought the urge to punch him in the throat—he didn’t need to fucking see for that. They’d go off the road into a ditch but it’d be worth it.
“I’m protecting my throat, so don’t try it,” John said. “Tell me about Tom.”
Prophet’s heart seized. “Not much to tell.”
John laughed. “Right. You’re just fucking him.”
“He’s my partner. Easy access.” God, the bitterness in his mouth as he spoke the lie threatened to choke him.
“Nothing more?”
“I’ve never stopped looking for you,” Prophet said quietly—that was the truth and John knew it. “Where are we going?”
“Someplace nice, Proph. Take a rest.”
John was still a good driver. Prophet closed his eyes. He wouldn’t be free for long. John would cuff him. Maybe break his wrists. It wasn’t all going to be old home week.
It never was.
Inside the newest safe house, tensions were rising. Tom was attempting to keep a lid on his temper—and barely succeeding—and Cillian was trying his best to be patient with him, Tom knew. And it made Tom want to strangle him even more.
“We’ve got to do something else besides sit here,” Tom told Cillian for the fiftieth time in fifteen minutes.
“You’re not sitting,” Cillian pointed out—for the fiftieth time—then reminded him patiently, “We don’t even know where we’d be going, Tom. Waiting here is for the best.”
“Until what? You get something on that stupid computer of yours?”
“I’m still running airport footage,” Cillian said, pointing to the laptop that showed a map and a stupid, stupid whirring circle that Tom supposed meant it was working on something. “And I’m trying to activate his tracker too.”
“If you’re not seeing it, then it’s not working.”
“It’s purposely not that easy to do. It’s not on all the time, in case he’s wanded for it,” Cillian explained. “We’ve only got a short window of time.”
Tom looked over Cillian’s shoulder at the program that showed the device moving a million miles a minute and still too slow. “He shouldn’t be alone.”
“For this, he has to be,” Cillian told him. “He resigned himself to that a long time ago.”
Tom knew it, but he’d hoped Prophet could change his mind, the way he had about bringing Tom along in the first place, the way he’d shared his secrets.
Because you handled that so well.
Cillian banged his hand on the back of the laptop, like that would speed shit along, and the men sitting at the table just shook their heads and continued playing cards.
Two hours later, when Tom had paced a hole into the floor and Cillian had begun muttering to himself in languages Tom didn’t recognize, Elvis’s cell phone beeped.
He took out his reading glasses to peer at it, before looking up at them over the lenses. “Most of them are sprung.”
“How? When?” Tom asked.
“King and Ren were released an hour ago. Prophet before that,” Xavier confirmed.
“And Mal?” Cillian demanded. Cahill gave him a long look that Tom likened to a mental gouging from stem to stern, and judging by the way Cillian paled, it felt lik
e it too.
“I suspect he’ll be out shortly,” Xavier said smoothly.
Tom sighed. “Are they coming here?”
“No.”
“Are they in contact with Prophet, at least?”
“No. Doesn’t matter though. The others will follow the plan,” Xavier said. “There are thousands of people at risk if they abandon what they’re supposed to do in order to save Prophet. He’d never let that happen. Neither would they.”
Tom drew a harsh breath, knowing they were all correct and hating it just the same. All he could do was follow the men into the state-of-the-art bunker in the basement that put doomsday preppers to shame.
Xavier pulled up a computer. “This is the first footage we got.”
Tom and Cillian moved closer. “The airport,” Cillian said. “I goddamned knew it.”
Xavier panned out into the crowd, then began zooming in. “This was two hours ago.”
“There,” Tom said, because he’d recognize Prophet’s walk anywhere.
“What’s wrong with him?” Cillian asked as Prophet lurched. “Is he drunk? Drugged?”
“His eyes,” Tom murmured. “Shit.” He watched Prophet reach for the wall that was too far away and finally, almost by sheer force of will, find it, and Tom needed to be there, dammit.
He froze, a cold chill slamming up his spine as a man momentarily blocked his view of Prophet, a man as tall as Prophet, who threw an arm over his shoulder and gave him what would look like a hug to most.
“I don’t see a gun,” Elvis muttered.
“But it’s John,” Cillian confirmed.
“Prophet wouldn’t put people at risk,” Tom said. “Especially if his vision’s blurry.”
And Prophet, being Prophet, allowed John to touch his wrist and then lead him out of the airport, seeming like they were two old friends.
Because they technically were.
At that moment, John looked up at the camera, like he knew they’d identify him that way. Looked up and smiled, and Tom forced himself to keep watching Prophet and John walk together through the airport toward the exit. “They’re going toward the parking garage. Which means he’s still in country,” Tom breathed. “He never boarded.”
“His seat is filled—ticket was checked. Which means John boarded one of his men in his place,” Cillian added.
“We’ve got someone on the case.” Elvis pointed to a dot on the screen and then opened it up to show . . . Blue. Who waved at them, then reassured the group, “I’m on this. Pinpointing and will send coordinates when I have them.”
The screen went out and Cillian turned to Tom. “Does Phil know about this?”
Blue came back on the screen. “That’s a big N-O. Mick and I are off the grid for this one. We’re technically on vacation.”
The screen went blank again and Elvis shrugged. “Kid’s way better with technology than we are.”
Tom stared down at his phone. “There’s no text here.”
“He wouldn’t send it to a phone John could track,” Cahill informed him, slipping him a burner phone. “It’s here. I think you need to let this play out.”
“For how long? How the fuck can I do that? Sit here and do nothing?” he asked no one, and everyone.
All the men nodded, including Cillian, but remained silent. Tom did a half turn and paced toward the window. Think, Tom, think. Everyone else is getting into their position. By 1300 it will all be over. That’s the amount of time Prophet needed to distract John . . . the amount of time Prophet had left before John killed him. Because even if John still loved Prophet—which was obvious—Prophet was still expendable in a John versus Prophet kind of way.
“Can we get a live feed?” he asked now.
“Audio for now—safer,” came Blue’s voice. “I’m tracing the location as we speak. It’s going to take me some time.”
Tom nodded at the screen as though Blue could see him and wandered out onto the porch, visions of John with his arm around Prophet running through his head, led there in part by a low whistling. He’d heard it somewhere before and was drawn to it now, a tune he could almost place, a tip-of-his-tongue song that escaped him and still managed to bring him back to a moment in time that threatened to crystalize and then, just as suddenly disappeared . . . because the whistling stopped when he walked outside.
Elvis joined him several minutes later, sitting next to him on the low bench and passing him a warm soda in a glass bottle. Fanta. “This is the good stuff.”
Tom took a swig and wished it were scotch. “I’m guessing I won’t hear from any of them until their parts are over.”
“If things go well, you won’t.” Elvis patted him on the shoulder and left him . . . with Cahill. Who Tom didn’t even notice sitting across from him, the ever-present cigarette dangling from his mouth.
Tom figured Cahill would make him work for every word and he didn’t feel like pulling teeth. He’d wait to see Prophet again for that kind of treatment.
Cahill glanced over at him, pulled out a bottle of scotch from under his seat—and two glasses. He poured one for Tom and one for himself, and Tom gladly put the soda aside for the warm burn of the alcohol.
Finally, after an hour, in which Tom traced all possible routes to get to Prophet in his mind and thought of all the terrible forms of torture John could put him through, Cahill broke through his thoughts.
“Feel better now that you’ve run through every possibility?”
“No,” Tom said honestly.
“So go back and think through every possible way you can rescue him and kill John. Every single way. And think up some new ways too, just for good measure. That shit’s going to keep you alive.” Cahill poured them each a second drink, and Tom figured it wasn’t the scotch that made him talkative. So he listened carefully to the man who was speaking more now than he probably had in the last month. “You know, I was the one left behind once.”
“What does that mean?”
Cahill’s lips pulled to the left, which was probably the closest to a smile he’d ever get. “I was left behind in country. Military units pulled out fast—too many skirmishes. I was a spook, so I got left behind with no cover. No money. Nothing. I didn’t need much, mind you. But hell, getting out of this place with no help?” He shook his head. “Those two? Elvis and Xavier? They were tasked with bringing me out alive.”
“They did what Prophet did,” Tom breathed. “Is that why you’re all still here?”
Cahill grunted. “We don’t only stay here, but I stayed with these guys. Helped them, because there were a lot more people who needed help getting out. Prophet’s official work is a little different . . . but what he does on his off time . . .”
“He’s worked with you guys.”
“Prophet doesn’t really work well with others. Guessing you know that.” Cahill took a sip. “Then again, you’re still around, so he hasn’t killed you yet. Good sign.”
“Yeah, thanks.” Tom downed the scotch. “Did you ever meet John?”
Cahill turned to face him, his dark eyes turning endless. “Met him once. Never wanted the pleasure of doing it again. I applaud Prophet’s loyalty but I would’ve stopped supporting this mission long ago if it wasn’t a danger to people I care about.”
Tom nodded. “I’ve never met him and I hate him.”
“Start thinking of all the ways you can kill him. Over and over again, until you can do it in your sleep. Feel free to get creative.” Cahill lifted a glass toward Tom. “When in doubt, let the scotch help you.”
Tom snorted softly.
“You don’t understand why Prophet has to be the one to find John.”
“Of course I do.”
“Logically, you do. But in here.” Cahill tapped his heart. “You still think if he would just give that up, everything would be better.”
“I know it wouldn’t be, Cahill.”
“You know, I was almost John,” Cahill said finally, his voice a rasp in the dark. “If these guys hadn’t gotten to me in
time . . .” He shook his head and then stared at Tom. “You understand—they still would’ve come for me if it hadn’t been in time, right? It’s something they have to do.”
“Rescue men from hell,” Tom said.
“Even if it’s of their own making,” Cahill agreed.
Mal had learned early in life to never rely on actually seeing the outside to know what time of day or night it was. Being locked into terrifyingly small places as both punishment and necessity had forced him to learn to count minutes and hours, to reorient himself the way one might after taking a tumble in the ocean—you had to quickly trust yourself to find which way was up.
By his calculations, he’d been locked inside this floating fucking box for twenty hours—and counting. Prophet had no doubt come and gone. They were doing catch and release for him because they needed him to kill John. As for Mal, and the rest of the team, he supposed it was a crapshoot.
He was definitely the one not getting released until last, if at all. If Agent Paul had anything to say about it, the terms would not be anything Mal would agree to.
After another forty-six minutes, a knock on the door was a preview of that young agent—Warren something—coming in. Mal thought about convincing him that not knocking was most effective, that knocking gave Mal an easy chance to kill him . . . but he saved his sage advice for someone who’d actual benefit from it.
Finally, the agent poked his head in, murmuring that his name was Warren. Like they were fucking best friends in the making. Warren was armed—and easily disarmable, but patience was good for the soul.
He came bearing food, or something that resembled it. Something sandwich-like with water, which Mal ate because it wasn’t drugged—fuck, he could only hope. He’d asked for drugs immediately, which of course insured he got none.
“Your friend’s gone,” the agent murmured as Mal ate. “Didn’t even look back or think of asking about you.”
Right. Like Mal was going to believe this dumb-shit’s dumb shit. He stared hard at Agent Warren, who looked like a fucking puppy dog, and wondered what kind of experience it would take to rip the big-eyed innocence out of his expression, wanted to meet this man again when he was dead-eyed and steely, and then say, Now you fucking get it.