If I Ever

by SE Jakes

  “I designed them, yes. From the ground up. I supervised every single detail. Different crews. I was the only one who knew the full floorplans for any of them.”

  “Rumor has it that there are back doors in every single black site you built,” Nico said.

  “Rumors like that are why I’m on the run,” she said wanly.

  “Which is why it’s not just a rumor, right?” Dean ran a hand through his hair and wasn’t surprised when she didn’t give a definitive answer. Because he had what he needed to know—Karen Sutter was going to be forced to break one of the world’s biggest terrorists out of a black site she designed . . . but for who? “You think the person after you now is the same person who tried to sell you all those years ago?”

  “Yes,” she said softly. “Like I said, not many people know I wasn’t killed.”

  “What now?” Nico asked. “Because the longer we keep her . . .”

  “The more danger I bring to all of you, as well as myself,” she finished. “I could keep running, but if I’m caught . . .”

  “I’ll call my brother. He’s the one who sets up jobs like this—the relocations.”

  “Not Prophet?” she asked. “Is he okay?”

  “I haven’t heard from him. He’s got a job of his own, and I’m not sure how long it will take.” He’d been dialing the man’s number and getting his voice mail, and he’d left texts to no avail. “We’ll get this taken care of.”

  “I don’t know who to trust.”

  “You can trust me. And you can trust my brother to get you to safety. That’s what we do. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Wait with her, Nico.” He went into the next room to dial LT and explain the time bomb that just landed on his doorstep. “LT? We’ve got a big problem. Whoever told you that Karen Sutter was taken care of lied. She escaped . . . and now she’s here. With me. And no, I’m not kidding.”

  Tom stood frozen and watched the live feed, refusing to look away from what was happening to Prophet. Everything around him went still. It was only Tom and the screen and it was as if he’d been sucked inside of it and was hovering, witnessing exactly what was happening, could see the sweat slicking Prophet’s skin, could hear the punches hitting flesh as clearly as if he were standing right on the mat with them.

  And finally—finally—Tom’s phone beeped.

  It was Blue. Got his location.

  Give it to me, Tom texted back. Because nothing would stop him from going to Prophet. And when Blue gave him the coordinates, Tom announced, “I’m going to him.”

  And realized he was talking to an empty room—with a closed and, he was soon to find out, locked door. A metal door, dammit. “Let me out, Cillian, or I’ll destroy everything in this room and get myself out.”

  In between watching Prophet fighting for his life and knowing that by going he was playing right into John’s hands, he planned on ripping the door off its hinges, when it opened . . . and he came face-to-face with Cahill.

  “Let me get you to Prophet in one piece.”

  “And once I’m there?”

  “God help you, son,” was all Cahill said before turning tail and heading out the door.

  Tom grabbed his go-bag and was right behind him, ignoring Cillian cursing in the background. He caught up with Cahill, demanded, “Why are you helping me?”

  “Looking a gift horse in the mouth’s not the smartest thing you can do.” Cahill glanced back toward the house, where Elvis came out, carrying a bag of his own.

  “Xavier’s staying with Cillian,” he confirmed as he put his bag in the back.

  “Neither of you are coming in with me,” Tom told them.

  “He telling us what to do?” Elvis drawled to Cahill, who rolled his eyes and got into the driver’s seat.

  Tom stopped arguing and got in next to Cahill. “I’m telling you, I’m going in alone. It’s the only way.”

  “We know that better than you do. We’ve got different jobs to do. This is just a quick stop to let you go do what you need to do,” Elvis explained. “We’ve all got our parts.”

  “It looks like John is alone with Prophet.” Tom was thinking out loud.

  “Appears that way, yes. Because he knows—or thinks—that everything else is happening around him like clockwork. He planned his time alone with Prophet. He knows that even if things go wrong between them, Prophet can’t singlehandedly stop what’s already in motion.” Elvis patted Tom’s shoulder from the back seat.

  “So that’s why you’re helping me,” Tom muttered. “You know Cillian’s right behind us, don’t you?”

  “Figured that.” Cahill lit a cigarette as he drove over the rutted roads like the seasoned professional he was. “I knew you were getting out of that room—that house—and to Prophet, even if it was literally over all our dead bodies. If I thought you couldn’t handle it, I’d risk my life to stop you from risking yours. But I know what I’d risk for someone I loved. In this life, you’ve got to know what you’re willing to die for. You know what that is.”

  Tom sighed, mainly in relief, as he leaned his head back against the seat to collect his thoughts while the truck rumbled through the night.

  “You know we used to do the jobs Prophet does,” Elvis continued.

  Tom turned around to stare at him. “The asset jobs?” Cahill nodded. “You worked for LT?”

  Cahill snorted. “That asshole? No. We found Prophet after he left LT. If he hadn’t, we were prepared to take him aside and help him exit gracefully. Prophet was too good to stay working with LT, not with all the shit he pulled.”

  “I’m glad Prophet found you.”

  Cahill gave him the side-eye. “You don’t understand what Prophet did—what he does, why he does it, and that’s okay. Classified is hard to wrap your mind around, especially when you’re close with someone. But when you are, that’s when you’ve got to understand.”

  “What would Prophet say if he knew you were bringing me to him?” Tom asked.

  “He’d kill us,” Elvis admitted.

  “Then why are you doing it?”

  “Because Prophet doesn’t always know what’s best for him. Turn here,” Xavier instructed.

  “I know that,” Cahill growled as he lit another cigarette from the butt of the first. “Fucking bossy asshole.”

  “Someone needs to be,” Elvis murmured as the truck pulled over and stopped, and Tom felt like he was looking into a time machine of what would happen years from now . . . because he knew this would be Prophet’s team’s idea of retirement. Like Elvis said earlier, old men like them didn’t grow old gracefully, nor did they want to.

  Right now, Tom was damned grateful for that.

  “Prophet’s location is in a warehouse ten minutes from here. Take this truck and go alone.” Cahill got out as Cillian pulled up behind Tom. “I’ll make sure Cillian stays here. Go in there and buy some time,” he ordered as Tom climbed into the driver’s seat.

  “I thought—”

  “Don’t think. Instincts,” Cahill told him. “And fight like hell.”

  Cillian waited inside the car, with Xavier and Elvis having pulled their truck to a different location to watch for incoming enemies. Cahill remained with him, but outside the truck, smoking and waiting. They were in a fairly deserted area, and Mal was supposed to meet them here. In the meantime, Cillian kept his eyes glued to the computer, watching Prophet struggle.

  And all the while, John continued to spar with Prophet. Cillian wanted to believe that Prophet was playing at being hurt more than actually being so . . . he had to believe that, because every blow? Cillian swore he felt it.

  Half an hour later—a lifetime, at this point—and John stopped beating Prophet long enough to take a phone call. Cillian tensed, waiting for John to acknowledge that Tom was there, but all John did was listen, nod and then put the phone back down. He was headed back toward Prophet when a knock on the door distracted him. He called for whoever it was to “Come in,” and a man popped his head in and said
, “He’s here,” and John told him, “You know what to do.”

  Only then did he turn toward the camera and say, “Cillian, are you out there? Waiting? Watching? Disapproving that Tom is coming in?” John smiled through his split lip. “Listen, I’m sorry we couldn’t formally meet, but hey, I guess I owe you one for almost finishing the job and killing that fucker, Mal.”

  Cillian wanted to smash the computer to the ground but he restrained himself, because it was his only window to Prophet and Tom.

  “Listen, I’m just letting you know that we’ve received Tom, alive and well, for now. And word to the wise—this place is wired to blow. Don’t think about storming in unless you want Prophet and Tom to die, all right? With that, I’m afraid I’ve got what I want, so I’m ending your viewing experience.”

  The screen went black, cutting off all access. Cillian knew where he was but could do nothing to stop John without risking Prophet’s and Tom’s lives, and now he prepared to smash the computer, but Mal caught his wrists.

  Cillian stared into those damned dark-as-coal eyes and went still, let Mal subdue him subtly and take the computer from him. “It’s not good.”

  Mal put the computer down on the hood of the truck, then signed, But it might be at some point.

  “How the hell did you get here so fast?”

  I have my ways, Mal signed.

  “I tried to stop Tom,” Cillian told him.

  No one can stop Tom. Or this. Sometimes, the only way to get through hell is to walk right through it.

  Tom had pulled up to the building and the truck was immediately surrounded. He stuck his hands out the window and let the men open the truck door. One of them wrenched him out and tried to throw him on the ground—and Tom lunged up and slammed him against the concrete, his hands around the man’s throat.

  A hood went over his head. A slam to the kidneys and he was being dragged, hands behind his back, up some stairs and thrown unceremoniously into a room. He was patted down, his boots taken, his shirt ripped off. And then his hands were suddenly untied and he yanked the hood away . . . and saw the six men standing there, watching him.

  He looked around and realized he was inside of a fighting ring. “Where’s John?”

  One man stepped forward and got into the ring with Tom. “You will need to get through us first. If you cannot?”

  “Bring it,” Tom told him with a sneer. “I’ve got some extra energy to burn.”

  Two hours.

  Six men down.

  They’d taken themselves out of the fight before he could totally incapacitate any of them, and he’d called them fucking cowards. He was hurt, of course, but he’d crawl naked over broken glass to get to Prophet . . . and that’s basically the gauntlet he’d just run.

  Now, broken, they’d bring him to John.

  Cahill made him run the scenarios the other night purposely, knowing what Tom would be up against, and still it wasn’t enough preparation. Nothing would be to find Prophet strung up—again—bleeding and bruised—and John, waiting for him in the ring.

  John looked like the pictures of him Tom had seen, except older, leaner, and still Tom hated him on sight. There was a palpable energy radiating off him, and as good of a judge of character as Prophet was, how the hell had he gotten so taken in?

  Prophet thought he and John were alike. For a long time, this was how Prophet had seen himself.

  Tom was looking at what Prophet’d thought he was, and whether he ever could have turned out like John had he chosen a different path wasn’t something they’d ever know.

  Well, Tom supposed they were all just a couple of steps away from John’s chosen path at any given time.

  “Tom, so great to finally meet you,” John boomed. “Hear you’ve got an anger problem.”

  “Hear you’re a fucking asshole,” Tom shot back.

  “I’m definitely going to enjoy this. You picked a good one, Prophet.” John smiled. “You’ve made it through the gauntlet, I see.”

  “Just so I can have the pleasure of killing you.”

  “You don’t have it in you to kill, Tom. Not me. Not when you know Prophet will never forgive you for it. Not really.” John’s goading dug deep. Tom kept his expression neutral as he moved forward. He had a small knife that he’d pickpocketed off one of the men who’d strip-searched him and it was now hidden in the waistband of his boxer briefs. He figured it could too easily be turned against him and instead, he palmed it off, dropping it as he passed Prophet.

  In perfect synchronized motion, Prophet pushed his bound hands back and caught it . . . letting Tom know he wasn’t as hurt as he appeared.

  “Back away from him or I kill him on the spot,” John said, holding a gun pointed at Prophet’s head.

  Tom put his hands up and moved away from Prophet, who’d turned to look at him.

  Tom could see the look in Prophet’s eyes. He was having trouble seeing, but he was also tired. Not from the fight or lack of sleep, but rather from the internal war that’d been waged inside his mind for years. His brain was exhausted, and, for the first time in all of this, Tom was really and truly worried about Prophet.

  But Tom also knew what he needed to do, and anything else that was happening was merely a distraction to the one goal he’d come here to accomplish: kill John.

  It surprised him that it wasn’t save Prophet . . . but his subconscious knew that killing John was the only way to accomplish that.

  Kill John equaled killing the ghosts. Prophet would say it wasn’t that simple but right now it seemed it was. Didn’t matter that the others were out there, righting John’s wrongs, that John dead or alive didn’t matter to anyone but the people in this room (because he was basically toothless now, dead either way) and he was fighting the fight of the desperate. Which made him very dangerous.

  That made two of them. Two very desperate and dangerous men ready to face off tonight.

  “Center of the ring, Tom,” John ordered, and Tom did as he was told, because it was one step closer to freedom. His body ached but need burned inside of him, hot and ready.

  John nodded when Tom stood in place, and he put the gun on a high shelf behind him, out of both their reach if they were on the ground, struggling.

  Buy time.

  This was the beginning of the end for their plan. This fight to the death would be the culmination. Tom said a quick prayer as he moved toward John, fighting every urge to break the man’s neck on impact.

  In the middle of this hellhole of a city, in a continent of complete unrest and sudden, unexpected beauty, Mal waited less than five klicks from the place where his best friend was going through hell.

  Again.

  The dense humidity closed around him, cloaking him. Choking him. Restless, he paced. He wasn’t helpless. He was doing what Prophet had asked, had made him promise to do: stand down. And he’d agreed, knowing what would happen inside John’s house of no fun . . . and now he knew there was only one way they were getting Prophet and Tom out in one piece. Even if they killed John, their escape was dependent on how everything was rigged. John wasn’t going to let Prophet go that easily, if at all.

  “He’s going to be okay.” Cillian’s smooth brogue interrupted his thoughts.

  Mind reader now?

  “You don’t believe I’m thinking the same things you are?”

  Sit and wait goes against how I’m made.

  “Again, Mal, tell me something I don’t know.” Cillian leaned against the car and Mal stopped pacing, trying to translate his words into thoughts rather than the action he wanted.

  Something isn’t right here, he finally signed. John’s too confident. He had to have known Agent Paul might be compromised, but he wanted Prophet anyway.

  “He’s confident because he’s got a fortress that self-destructs,” Cillian growled, then stopped. “But does it really matter if there’s another reason? We can’t concern ourselves with whether or not he has the missing specialist now.”

  No, it doesn’t matter. The t
ime for buying time? Just ended, Mal announced. You drive.

  Cillian nodded and neither man wasted time getting into the truck, Cillian already calling Cahill, who, along with Xavier and Elvis, was parked far enough away to avoid suspicion, and they soon pulled behind to follow, Cahill in the driver’s seat, window opened, asking, “What now?”

  Get as close as you can. I’m going in there, Mal signed.

  “And do what?” Cillian asked, although he didn’t seem averse to the idea.

  I’ll take apart any bombs I can get to quietly. That way, if he wants to blow the place . . .

  “There are less explosives that could kill them,” Cillian finished.

  “I’m sure he’s rigged the inside too,” Cahill added.

  We’ve got to start somewhere. Then we figure out how to get Prophet and Tom out when the time’s right—but make sure we keep John and his men in.

  “Then let’s get started,” Cillian agreed and made his way through the city in the darkness. “Blue’s trying to disable the bombs at John’s, but says they’re too low tech.”

  Low tech can still cause a hell of a lot of damage.

  “He’s also trying to get eyes inside, to see Prophet and Tom, but no luck.”

  I’m not surprised. John always was a control freak—he’d cover that base first thing.

  “You always hated him.”

  On sight, Mal agreed.

  “What did he do to you?”

  To me? Nothing. But have you ever just looked at someone and seen their demons on the surface? he asked, and Cillian nodded. John? He was the demon.

  Cillian stopped asking questions after that.

  The music hummed in the background, the hard drumline beating in time with Mal’s pulse. He stayed inside his own head as Cillian navigated, going over his knowledge of explosives, ruminating briefly over what could go wrong and what could go right and everything in between. There were pros and cons to this plan, and Mal comforted himself that taking out the explosives outside the building wasn’t the same as breaking his promise to Prophet.

  “They’re going to be okay,” Cillian said finally, when Mal’s mind cleared and fuck, maybe the guy was a mind reader.