by SE Jakes
He looked up at Tom, who nodded. Knew he needed to be with Dean right now. That there was plenty of time for them. Plenty of goddamned time.
Tom watched as Ren and King materialized, with Hook and Mal behind them. And Prophet smiled at Tom, a small, tight smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
They were all supposed to be dead today, Tom realized. And they all knew it. And they’d all survived. “Thank fucking Christ,” Tom said.
“Christ and the SAS,” Nico added in a British accent that Tom assumed was his real one.
Eleven years and the CIA had chased the wrong men, because the ones in front of Tom didn’t want power or fame.
They wanted freedom, for themselves. Their country.
They wanted life and love.
“It’s over,” Ren said, like he’d have to repeat it out loud a million times before he truly believed it. King threw an arm around him, and Tom wondered which of them was holding the other up.
In deference to Dean, there was no celebration—it was a solemn acknowledgment that everything they’d gone through had come at a price. And Dean and Prophet had paid a heavy one with their loyalty.
Mal waited as patiently as possible, which wasn’t patiently at all, for Rylan to wake up. He and King had given blood, because Rylan had lost that much. He’d been minutes from bleeding out—Mal could tell that from the amount of blood he’d been lying in.
While he’d waited, he, King, Ren, and Hook had packed up the bodyguards and LT and driven them in their big black SUVs to a remote area just north of Dean’s property. He had no doubt the CIA would swoop in for some cover-up or claim this victory as their own.
Either way, Ahmet and Karen were in the wind.
And Cillian?
“Mal?” Pei said, shaking him from his thoughts. “He’s asking for you. But only for a minute. That’s it.”
That was all he needed. He nodded and walked past her.
Rylan took a pained breath. “Thank you . . .”
It’s okay, Mal mouthed.
Rylan’s hands came up and signed, He was shot. Showing Mal that it was okay to ask questions that way.
Is Cillian alive?
“I don’t know,” Rylan managed. “He was . . . taken. LT . . . saw. Was pissed.”
Taken? By who?
“Big black helo.”
MI6?
Rylan nodded. “Best guess. They got . . . to him. Fast. So maybe . . .”
So maybe. Mal nodded. You need to get some rest.
“He’s on the right side,” Rylan managed.
Later, after the men had showered and rested and eaten, they were all holed up in different rooms. Mal just stayed in the front room, staring, and Tom walked over to him, as painful as that was.
I’m fine, Tom. Go to bed. Prophet’s waiting to fuck you.
“Fuck off. I’m checking on you, whether you like it or not.” He leaned against the wall.
Rylan’s going to make it, Mal signed finally. Cillian was shot by LT. MI6 came and took him away. And no, I have no idea if he’s dead or alive.
“But he’s not a traitor.”
No. But even so, nothing’s that simple between him and me.
“It never is,” Tom told him.
Go to Prophet and get a blowjob or something.
“Glad you’re okay too, Mal,” Tom told him. Mal shot him a middle finger and yes, things were going back to normal.
He made his way into the bedroom where Prophet was. “How’s Dean?”
“As well as can be expected.” Prophet had stripped and showered and Tom lay next to him on the bed, both of them wanting to do more than just lie there . . . and both of them too tired and hurt to do anything but.
Tom contented himself with twining his legs with Prophet’s. “Are you okay? I mean, I know you’re not but . . .”
Prophet gave a small smile. “I will be, T. Are you?”
“I still don’t really . . . understand it. I don’t get why John was willing to give everything and everyone up for . . . for what?”
“Power. Money. Look, John always wanted to be important. Untouchable. When that’s all you’ve ever wanted, you’ll do anything to attain it.” Prophet shrugged. “He wanted to win.”
“But he didn’t,” Tom assured him and when Prophet didn’t answer, he said, “You saved innocent people.”
“And put a lot more at risk.”
“What happened with the specialist—that’s not your fault. That’s another op for another day, Proph. Never-ending. We do what we can.”
“Live to fight another day, right?”
“Live to help someone else take up the fight,” Tom corrected gently. “Or at least, gather a team. You saved yours. Freed them.”
“Mission accomplished,” Prophet murmured, and Tom realized he was nearly asleep.
“Night, Proph.” He propped himself up with a book he’d borrowed from Dean—Shōgun, Prophet’s favorite—in order to keep the watch going that night.
Prophet and Tom stayed in Eritrea with Dean for another five days, as did all his teammates and Nico. For Dean, mainly. Tom was still healing but he’d been cleared to fly. Rylan was picked up by a CIA helo, but not before reassuring them that nothing was going to blow back on them.
“For whatever that’s worth,” Ren had told him, but hey, they had good reason to be suspicious. And then they’d all gone with Dean to the clinic to see how bad the damage was, and hell, it could’ve been much worse. They worked together with the locals, and with a little help from the local SAS bunker, they got it up and running in acceptable condition by the time they left.
Dean had sent them off on a private plane with Jin as their pilot.
“I’m only a call away,” Dean had told him as they boarded.
“Same,” Prophet promised. “We’re coming back with Remy, so you can’t get rid of us.”
After they’d landed, their first stop was to pick up Remy from school because he and Tom and Mal couldn’t wait to see him. After dropping him and Mal off at home, along with their gear, they’d headed over to EE, Ltd.
“Prophet!” Natasha was hugging him now in the middle of the lobby, grabbing him around the neck and practically strangling him, and Prophet let her. Behind them, Tom was smiling.
Prophet had told Tom last night about who Natasha really was—the daughter of one of the specialists he’d relocated. It had been a true moment of trust, without Tom having to ask and fuck; it definitely brought them even closer.
Maybe there was something to this trust thing after all. “I’m all right, Natasha,” he told her now, untangling her.
“It’s about time you’re back.” She turned and hugged Tom too. “Phil wants to see you both.”
“That’s why we’re here,” Prophet grumbled. Because really, he hadn’t wanted to come in here, was planning on calling Phil instead, but Tom had practically forced him into the damned truck and drove him here.
More operatives and support staff came out of the woodwork to see him and Tom, and he hated that, because it made him miss this place and he didn’t want to miss it here. He wanted to hate it. And Phil.
But he couldn’t.
Dammit.
When Prophet finally went into Phil’s office, with Tom at his heels, Phil wasn’t sitting behind his desk, but rather, standing in front of it.
Prophet wasn’t sure what to say, but thankfully, and because he knew, Tom started in with, “I hear you know a crazy man who pretended to take up residence in my bayou.”
Phil nodded, unapologetically. “It was the best way for me to assess you.”
“Sure glad I passed your test,” Tom drawled, sarcasm dripping.
Phil glanced at Prophet. “I’m assuming you brought some feelings in with you as well.”
“God forbid,” Prophet muttered, but hell, it was nice to not be treated like glass. Prophet actually welcomed that, for a change. “Why’s your desk so empty?”
“Because I’m moving offices. Actually, I probably won’t ev
en need an office, since I plan to spend more time in the field.”
“So who’s taking over?” Prophet asked.
Phil stared at him. “You are.”
“Fuck that. I quit, remember?”
“I don’t recall, but then again, I’m getting up there in years.” Phil shrugged. “Anyway, the paperwork’s been filed. You’re all set. I’ll be here for another couple of weeks to make the transition smoother, so you really need to get up to speed.”
“Phil—”
“I consulted with Dean. Everything in the offices and the command center is the latest technology,” Phil assured him. “You won’t be going into the field, but you’re the best one to manage it. You can get our men and women home.”
“You knew,” Prophet said. “You knew what was happening . . . the plans. What the CIA wanted.”
“Some of it,” Phil admitted. “Not all. And I couldn’t tell you. That’s not the way it works.”
“So firing me . . .”
“I was trying to save you. Get you out.”
“And back into rescuing people stuck in hell.”
“Wasn’t John? More so than you?” Phil offered. “The CIA wasn’t going to let him go—or your team either. There was too much getting accomplished. Everyone had to come out of it looking like heroes—the timing had to be right. Otherwise, the only outcome was everyone coming out dead and disgraced.”
Prophet blinked and his throat tightened.
“I never gave up on you, Prophet. I knew you wouldn’t give up on yourself, either. But trust me, it was hard enough to let you go the way I did. The hardest thing I ever had to do. But I knew you were in good hands . . . with Tom. With yourself.”
After a long moment, Prophet cleared his throat. “If I take over EE—and that’s still an if—what, exactly, will you be doing?”
“Working with Cahill and the boys,” Phil said, as though Prophet should’ve known that.
“You’re going back out there, with your friends.” Prophet stared at him like he was an errant child.
Phil shrugged. Like an errant child. “Just make sure you send an old man support when he needs it.”
Tom left Prophet and Phil to settle more of the “EE’s not mine, it’s yours” argument, because, in the end, he knew Phil would get his way. And in doing so, so would Prophet.
He found Doc’s door open, with Doc inside, sitting on the edge of his desk, looking down the hall and not at all surprised to see Tom.
“Guess you heard the news,” Tom said.
Doc smiled. “If I tell you I was in on Phil’s plan from the start, promise not to tell Proph?”
“Yeah, right.” Tom gave him a quick hug.
“You don’t look as terrible as I thought you would,” Doc commented.
“Sorry to disappoint.”
“I’m glad it’s all done. You must be too.”
“Yeah, I am.” It was the first time he’d said that out loud, because really, being glad after all that had happened seemed almost sacrilegious. It was hard when Prophet and Dean were mourning for an LT they thought they knew . . . and hard to celebrate when a terrorist and his accomplice were on the loose.
Doc broke into his thoughts. “You here for a checkup?”
“No—not really. I’m fine.”
“Sit,” Doc ordered. “Or I can’t clear you for work.”
Tom didn’t say anything about possibly not going out on missions, and neither did Doc. Instead, he let Doc check his scars and healing wounds and fuss over him—because he’d actually never seen Doc fuss over anyone but Prophet—and then he got dressed when Doc declared him fit for duty—in another couple of weeks.
“Are you going to check Prophet out?”
“I’m assuming he needs casts?” Doc asked, and Tom nodded. “Send him in when he’s done with Phil.”
“Will do.”
Doc stared at him. “You have something else to say to me?”
“I, ah . . . it’s just that Nico’s staying on with Dean for a bit.”
“Good for him. He can do whatever the fuck he wants. Always did.”
And that was the closest Tom was going to ever get to an explanation, for the moment. “At least you know he’s safe.”
Doc stared at him. “Don’t romanticize this.”
“Me, a romantic?”
“Yeah. From day one. I saw it happening from the first second you and that other asshole started sniping at each other.” Doc rolled his eyes. “It’s not like that for me.”
“Okay,” Tom said mildly. Because something told him it was just like that—his own goddamned eyes when Doc and Nico were in the same vicinity.
“Go away before I hurt you,” Doc muttered.
“Fine. I’m going,” Tom said. “But I wanted to give you this.” He pulled the folded envelope out of his pocket, with Doc written across it, and laid it on the desk between them. “It’s from Nico.”
“You’re a matchmaker now?”
“It’s not like that. This is the letter he wrote in Africa. When the rebels were headed to the clinic.”
“Did you write one?” Doc asked.
“I had it easy—I was in surgery. The rest of them all thought they were going to die.”
“But they didn’t.”
“They never gave up hope, but it was close, Doc.”
Doc pointed to the letter Tom had set down on his desk. “This is a formality. We all write them. And when we come back alive, this is moot. We—”
“Moot?” Tom picked the letter up and slammed it against Doc’s chest, holding it there. “Nico wrote to you in what he thought were his last minutes on this earth. That means something. You asshole.”
There were several moments of standoff, with Tom still pressing the letter to Doc’s chest, and Doc’s steely gaze locking with his, unmoving.
But finally, Doc reached up and took the letter. Whether he’d actually open it or not was another story, but Tom had his own relationship to heal.
“Oh, one more thing.” Tom pulled out a piece of paper and put it on the desk. “This is Nico’s new number. I think you should use it.
With that, he slammed out of the office.
Doc stared at the number on the paper, then crumpled it angrily. That didn’t matter, because once he’d laid eyes on a number, any number, it was burned into his goddamned brain, scarring it. Fucking him over, good and well, the way his relationship with Nico always had . . . and always would.
“Sometimes secrets are a good thing,” he muttered.
“And sometimes they just fucking suck dick,” Prophet said from behind him.
“Another asshole, coming to brighten my day,” Doc grumbled, but he couldn’t help himself from yanking Prophet into a hug. When he pulled back, Prophet’s eyes were wet, and truth be told, so were his.
“Look at that—you missed me,” Prophet sniffed.
“No one will believe you if you tell them.” Doc studied the soft bandages on Prophet’s wrists. “How bad?”
“The wrists? The eyes? Or everything?”
Doc closed the door and locked it. “We’ve got time for everything.”
They discussed EE when they got home that night, over dinner with Remy. Tom, of course, brought it right up, like he knew if he gave Prophet any time to think about it, he’d say no.
Which he was leaning toward, despite Phil’s insistence. And Doc’s. And Natasha’s . . . and everyone else’s at that damned place.
On the drive home, Prophet had brought up the possibility of Tom running EE by himself.
“We’ll do it together,” Tom was telling him now. “I can’t do this alone, Proph—just because I can see the maps doesn’t mean I can do what you do. You’re running this show—and I get to learn new shit.”
“And me too,” Remy said.
Both men’s necks practically snapped to look at him. “No.”
Remy rolled his eyes and threw his hands up. “Why not?”
“You said you didn’t want to go into the
military,” Prophet reminded him. “And I thought you wanted to tattoo.”
“EE’s not the military,” Remy shot back. “And I can only do one thing now? Because that’s bullshit.”
“Don’t fucking curse,” Prophet called after Remy’s retreating back and was met by the sound of a slammed door. “Christ, he’s moody.”
“Yep.” Tom tried to keep a straight face.
“And fuck you for what you’re thinking.”
“Yep,” Tom repeated.
“Tommy—”
“No, Proph—I’m not going into the field, unless it’s with you, or to rescue you, Remy—”
“Mal?”
Tom snorted. “Maybe. But you get the point.”
How they were suddenly supposed to go back to normal was anyone’s guess. It wasn’t like they could just flip a switch and turn into homebodies who didn’t have people who wanted to kill them.
“You still have people who want to kill you. Lots of them,” Tom assured him, but even that didn’t help. Not completely.
Working at EE wouldn’t be the same when his sight was completely compromised—not by a long shot. But nothing was ever going to be the same.
And hell, maybe it shouldn’t be. Because if things stayed the same, where would he be now? Certainly not with Tom or Remy.
Prophet sighed and sat back. “Is this going to be enough for you?”
Tom stood and leaned in toward Prophet. “You’re enough for me. I’ll say it as many times as you need to hear it, babe. You’re enough for me—always have been.”
Prophet stared up at him like he was trying to memorize his face, this moment . . . and in all honestly, Tom probably was too. “Can I get that in writing?”
“Asshole.” Tom grabbed the front of his shirt roughly and pulled him in for a kiss.
The tortured teenaged groan from behind them seconds later barely registered, until Remy’s voice broke in, asking, “Is this what I’m going to walk into all the time? Because honestly, it’s a lot.”
“I thought you weren’t speaking to us?” Prophet asked and Remy looked at him like he was an idiot.