If I Ever

by SE Jakes

  Tom smiled, then cupped Prophet’s face in his hands. It was a curse he could live with. And then, because arguing wouldn’t do shit, he kissed Prophet, long and hard. At first, he felt Prophet’s surprise—and surprising resistance—but in a second, Prophet was responding . . . the most reassuring feeling in the world.

  When he pulled back, he knew Prophet couldn’t see, and that it wasn’t just the drugs but the disease, the stress, taking its toll. There was a certain look Prophet got—and no doubt didn’t realize he did it, because otherwise Mr. Control Freak would make sure not to do it. Hell, Tom needed to know so he could comfort Prophet without babying him.

  And yeah, it was definitely as complicated as it sounded.

  Finally, Prophet lost it in silent sobs against Tom’s chest. “Make me forget, Tommy. Please.”

  And with that, Prophet finally let go of his hard-won control. Let Tom take him into the shower (no casts yet—just soft wraps to keep the swelling down, to stop him from flexing). Washed him down. Prophet cried until Tom went over him twice with warm soapy water, each swipe of the soft washcloth stripping away a layer of hell.

  “Tommy . . . what you saw . . .”

  “I know.” Tom’s throat tightened. “It’s still a violation, even if you agreed to it.”

  “Yeah,” Prophet said hollowly. “Please . . . just make it go away now . . . can’t sleep until you make it go away.”

  “Yeah,” Tom echoed, gently tugged one of Prophet’s legs up to wrap around his hip.

  He used plenty of lube, because John had been rough and still, he knew no matter how slowly he went, how tenderly, it was going to hurt.

  “It’s okay, Tom. A good hurt,” Prophet assured him as Tom pressed inside of him. His hands rested on Tom’s shoulders, and Tom saw he was still wearing the bracelet. Tom was wearing his in tattoo form. And John was finally gone. Buried. Tom tenderly fucked the ghosts away while Prophet quietly cried out “Tommy,” and finally, they were alone and it was just them. Coming. Holding. Connecting.

  Tom had texted Remy before he and Prophet slept, but ended up calling both him and Doc, because Remy insisted.

  “He’s smart. Wants to hear our voices,” Prophet had murmured as Tom dialed. “It’s something I’d do.”

  “God help us. Hey, Remy,” Tom had said, and after several minutes of both of them reassuring him that they’d be home soon, they managed to find a semicomfortable position.

  After maybe six hours of sleep—if you could call it that, but Tom wouldn’t, since Mal woke them every twenty minutes—it was time for them to get moving again. Although they’d done what they’d promised the CIA, Prophet couldn’t be sure that they’d been cleared yet. For the moment, Prophet was pretty sure everyone still thought John had them, and it was too risky to contact Rylan and blow his cover. Mal wanted to keep them moving, to another safe house, until they were able to speak to both the CIA and LT directly, because as of now, he hadn’t returned Prophet’s call or texts. There’d been no contact with him since the texts about Karen almost twenty-four hours earlier.

  But, as Prophet pointed out, “Who the hell would I call at the CIA? Mal killed all of them.”

  Not all, Mal signed modestly. I only maimed most of them. But with a little more time I’m sure I could exceed expectations.

  “Christ,” Prophet muttered.

  Let’s move, Mal told them.

  Tom wasn’t about to argue with Mal, so at oh dark hundred, he carried his and Prophet’s bags downstairs to bring them out to the waiting truck. He was aching but refused to let Prophet risk hurting himself any more. According to the doctor Mal had brought in during the early morning hours, Tom definitely had a bruised spleen and bruised ribs, which explained the extra level of pain.

  The doctor told Mal that Tom really needed to be monitored at a hospital and Tom had sworn Mal to keep that from Prophet.

  “He’ll just worry. The job’s done. As soon as we get the all clear, I’ll go into the closest hospital and get it thoroughly checked out,” Tom had promised.

  Fine, I’ll agree as long as you stop whining, Mal had signed back.

  Now, Tom heard the whistling again, outside the door, the one he’d heard back at their first safe house. The one that reminded him of the bayou and a specific, niggling memory he couldn’t place. The tune had stayed in his head, breaking through when John had been killed, driving him crazy and finally, his vision seemed to blur and clear and he realized he was staring at the bayou . . . and the house where Phil had come to Louisiana to check on a veteran Marine who had severe PTSD, saw the enemy everywhere at night and subsequently used his trees as target practice. Ultimately, Tom had helped Phil get the guy some much-needed help, and Phil helped Tom step away from the bayou—and the pain—and into EE, Ltd.

  In the house of the rising sun . . .

  When he heard the lyric in his head, he froze. Turned. Because it was Cahill whistling the tune as he leaned against his truck, ever-present cigarette smoke rising as he stared up at the sunrise.

  Cahill.

  He finally unfroze, shuddered as he got his feet to move, toward Cahill, gaining momentum as he went. Cahill remained still—until Tom reached out to grab him and instead, found himself pushed, cheek down, against the truck’s hood.

  “Fuck,” he groaned, because it still hurt even though Cahill had been gentler than he’d expected.

  “Relax, Tom. I’m not here to hurt you.”

  “Then what?” Tom struggled and Cahill let go and helped him straighten up. “What’s going on?”

  Cahill gave a dry smile. “Most of the time I don’t even realize I’m whistling that damned song. I whistled it every day, all day, for the three months I was in captivity in Vietnam. They played the damned thing over and over. I’m not sure if it was torture or if they just really liked the song.”

  “It was you. The crazy vet.”

  Cahill shrugged. “I was just shooting at the stars.”

  “Were you in the bayou . . .?”

  “For you? Yes. So Phil could pretend to stumble on you accidentally.”

  “But how? Why?” Tom demanded, and then noticed that Prophet was now standing behind him and, judging by the look on his face, he’d caught most of the conversation, confirmed it when he told Cahill, “You need to start talking.”

  “I guess now’s as good a time as any.” Cahill took a drag of his cigarette. “Tom, you were brought into the fold because of your association with Anthony Carnes. You knew him as Ollie Harris. Prophet met him as Hal Jones.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Tom muttered and Prophet sighed.

  “Tony was a Marine turned CIA spook during the Vietnam War. He was also a brilliant chemist—and he went undercover, taking a specialist’s identity on in order to expose the selling of assets to the US’s enemies.”

  Prophet frowned. “So Ollie . . . Hal . . . he wasn’t a real specialist?”

  “No. The real man behind Ollie and Hal—and I’m not at liberty to give you his real name—killed himself. Left a note that said he couldn’t live in fear that he might be used to harm his country. So Tony took that opportunity to take his place. He’d been helping to rescue specialists as well as POWs. He realized that the CIA was selling assets for money and saying they were killed in transport. It was blood money. Tony—as Ollie and then Hal—had the list of men involved . . . and the money.”

  “That’s why they took him, in the end,” Tom said, and Cahill nodded.

  “And I killed him,” Prophet said slowly.

  “You had to. You saved him from being tortured to death.” Cahill touched his shoulder. “You saved him from hell.”

  “Small fucking comfort.”

  “I’d imagine yes, for him,” Cahill said calmly.

  “Did you know it was going to be me?” Prophet demanded.

  “I knew who was on the job.” Cahill turned to Tom. “You had potential. Tony saw that. Wanted you safe. Watched.”

  That eased Tom’s mind. His mentor really had been
his mentor. But Tom watched Prophet shift, knowing the question he wanted to ask and knowing he also hated doing so. But finally, Prophet did ask, “You knew John, didn’t you?”

  Cahill stared at Prophet under heavy lids. “I had to hope you weren’t like him.”

  “That was a big risk, Cahill,” Tom asked, still smarting from being part of this game and still, more than grateful.

  “He didn’t have much of a choice. Worse came to worse, the money would never benefit the men who wanted it and the list would never come to light. Best-case scenario?”

  “Those men get what’s coming to them,” Tom said. “If the CIA can be trusted.”

  “Someone can always be trusted.” Cahill gave Prophet a pointed look. “I’d rather be sure of who can’t be.”

  “Who do you work for, Cahill?”

  Cahill smiled. “Myself, these days.”

  “But you used to be CIA?”

  “I’m a Marine, son. And then I was left behind, only to be rescued by Elvis and Xavier, just like I told you. I got out, and then I went back in. Sometimes the CIA helped us and sometimes they didn’t.”

  “And Tony?”

  Cahill shook his head. “He saved my ass—and a lot of other men too. He knew where all the bodies were buried. So they killed him. At least, they thought they did. He took the place of an asset who’d offed himself before Tony got there. Assumed his identity. And assembled the evidence and the money. No one suspected him—not at first, anyway.”

  “So why not trust you with the intel?”

  “Only one man can keep a secret, Prophet. You know that. All I knew was that I was supposed to put Tom with Phil. We were like the underground railroad—we only knew what our parts were. This way we couldn’t compromise the mission, accidentally or otherwise.”

  Even so, it was unfolding in front of all of them as they spoke, all the years of helping to hide assets, to keep them safe . . . from the very people who’d ordered them dead and yet still prepared to sell them to the highest bidder.

  “Did we get a lot of them back?” Prophet asked.

  “Yes, we did,” Cahill confirmed. “You did, Prophet.”

  “What now?” Tom asked.

  “There’s an asset out there who’s in trouble,” Cahill said. “Karen was one of us. Brilliant mind. I’d hoped she was safe.”

  “Was?” Prophet echoed grimly “She is safe. LT texted to let me know, remember?”

  Cahill shook his head. “Can’t be. Ahmet’s free, according to the chatter. The only one who could’ve gotten him out with no visible means of escape?”

  “The woman who built the site,” Tom murmured. “But this doesn’t make sense. LT would never turn her over to anyone who’d hurt her.”

  Prophet was dialing—first LT, then Rylan, with no answer. “It’s not even going to voice mail for either of them. Like a signal’s jammed.”

  “Try Dean,” Tom suggested.

  At some point during their conversation, Mal had appeared, and judging by the look on his face, he’d heard more than enough.

  “Same deal,” Prophet said, obviously frustrated. “Something’s wrong.”

  “Speaking of wrong . . . where’s Cillian?” Tom asked.

  Prophet turned to Mal, who in turn, sighed and signed, Why’re you looking at me?

  “Because you either killed him . . .”

  You want him dead most of the time too, when you’re not flirting with him, Mal pointed out.

  Tom growled, which made Mal smile.

  Prophet pointed at Mal. “Stop doing that. I invented that shit.”

  And I perfected it.

  “You’re both assholes,” Tom told them. “And there’s no blood.”

  I clean up well.

  Tom rolled his eyes. “Cillian’s gone and Ahmet escaped. What’re the chances this is all a big coincidence?”

  “Zero.” Prophet shook his head. Cillian knew Dean had called him, but would Cillian have known about Karen? He knew a lot about Prophet’s life and work, but Prophet prided himself on his ability to keep national secrets vaulted.

  It would also mean that he had seriously misread Cillian’s intentions.

  Any of them could be anywhere by now, Mal pointed out.

  “I have to look for bodies, at the very least.” Frustratedly, Prophet stared at his phone.

  “Then let’s get going,” Tom said.

  “You gonna be okay? You got pretty beat up.”

  “And you’re not?”

  “Tom, the danger’s over. If you want to stay—”

  “I’m going, asshole. Trying to leave me behind,” Tom muttered as he crawled into the truck.

  I think he misses Cillian, Mal signed.

  “I heard that, you psychotic asshole,” Tom growled.

  “He’s been hanging around us for too long.” Prophet shook his head.

  Mal signed, I’ll drive. You still look like hell and I need you rested when we get close.

  Prophet would allow it, because it was Mal. Because he was right. Cahill was watching all of them, even as Mal readied the truck and checked the systems.

  “What if Karen went rogue on her own?” Cahill asked finally.

  “And took out LT on the way,” Prophet finished.

  “Wasn’t she skilled enough?” Tom asked. “I’d imagine if I was that wanted, I’d make sure I was.”

  “Point taken. But she was limited in her training. It’s not like she could stockpile weapons.”

  Help on the outside, Mal signed one-handed, a shorthand he developed with the team. They had to fill in the blanks, but they were so like-minded on their missions, it worked seamlessly.

  “Help, like Ahmet’s team,” Prophet muttered. “Where the fuck is Rylan?”

  “How can they all be out of pocket?”

  All together?

  “I can’t see Cillian and LT playing well together,” Tom said wryly.

  Whether he did or didn’t, something’s wrong, Mal reasoned. Why just disappear without telling any of us . . . at the same time we can’t find LT or Rylan?

  “I think we need to slow this down,” Prophet said calmly. “Listen, if LT’s compromised, by anyone, Dean’s going to need protection.”

  And that at least, was one thing they could get behind wholeheartedly. The rest? Speculation that none of them wanted to believe, even though they couldn’t just ignore it.

  Speaking of not ignoring, Tom asked, “What if it’s LT who’s doing the compromising?”

  “Dean’s going to need protection,” Prophet repeated.

  “Then what the hell are you all doing standing here?” Cahill asked.

  Dean and Reggie had waited for LT’s plane take off in the hours before dawn, taking Karen to safety, and Dean had been restless ever since. Finally, he’d slept . . . until the nightmare woke him, had him sitting straight up in bed, yelling into the darkness as he recalled the night he’d lost his sight. And yeah, he guessed when the woman who was responsible for that came back from the dead and into his house, he needed to expect some fucking feelings.

  He paced around aimlessly until 0500 and then he woke Reggie and Nico. He and Reggie decided to head to the closest clinic to check on the new construction, but mainly for Dean to clear his head. It was an hour away, the road between his house and the structure was more than half paved—a rarity—and Dean spent time talking with the doctors—Pei, who’d been here for over a year now, and Dr. Ron, who’d arrived six months ago, and the two nurses, discussing a plan for community outreach and vaccinations.

  He always felt right when he was on these grounds, could picture them from memory, since he’d been coming to these clinics for much longer than he’d been without sight. He knew the low, white buildings were simple, signaled medical help to the community and that they were kept pristine by all the staff. He felt the rough fabric of the brightly colored kangas they used as blankets when they could, because they washed better and seemed less like a hospital, which comforted a lot of the local men, women, and
children who came through here for medical help. The lilt of Swahili dialects in the air, the fact that he swore he could hear the broad smiles of a people who never gave up despite seemingly insurmountable odds, all of it combining to center him.

  This was exactly where he belonged.

  Several hours after arriving, they’d vaccinated about twenty children whose parents brought them by, and he took a break and stepped outside into the sunlight as he heard a truck pull up. He waited on the porch of the main building, hand on his weapon until Reggie came up beside him and said, “It’s Nico.”

  “Did you call him?”

  “No—he was staying back at the house today,” Reggie confirmed. LT had wanted Nico to shadow Dean and Reggie for the next several days, had insisted on it, actually, but when morning came, Nico’d said he wasn’t feeling well and Dean hadn’t pushed it. He refused to fuck with anyone’s intuition, which he suspected was happening.

  He’d been confident that everything was fine and so far, it had been.

  “Everything okay, Nico?” Dean called to him now. “We were going to head back home within the hour.”

  He heard Nico’s boots come up onto the porch, but Nico waited until they were close before telling him, “No, it’s not. And it couldn’t wait—Ahmet’s escaped the black site.”

  The world swayed. “Can’t be. You must be hearing old chatter—they probably leaked it like a red herring.”

  “Yeah, I thought so too but . . .” Nico paused and put a hand on Dean’s shoulder.

  “That’s why you stayed behind.”

  “I had a feeling I couldn’t shake,” Nico admitted. “Look, I’ve got good sources. I don’t know what the fuck’s going on, but it’s not good.”

  “That’s not possible.” Dean stood and grabbed his phone. “I’ve got to call LT. He said he got her to safety. Maybe something happened to both of them.”

  “I tried to call, but something’s jamming the signal out here,” Nico said. “I’m going to find out if something happened during construction. I put in a call to Prophet too, but he’s not answering. Neither’s Tom.”

  He walked away as LT’s phone went to voice mail. Dean sank down to sit on the steps, dialing the phone again. “Come on, LT. What the fuck happened?”