Catch a Ghost (Hell or High Water) Read online

  The guy didn’t crack a smile. One of his eyes was green, the other mostly brown, and it gave him a slightly unbalanced look, like a German shorthaired pointer Prophet’d once owned. But man, could that dog track.

  “I’m Tom Boudreaux.” He ignored the casted hand, and Prophet pulled it back. Saw Phil hovering a few feet away. What did Phil think he’d do, punch him out in the middle of the office?

  “Nice to meet you, Tommy,” he said, smiling, and the guy rolled his eyes at him and wasn’t this going to be fun? Prophet rubbed his fingers along the back of his neck. Getting his head cut off with a machete would be more fun than this, but he forced himself to be semi-human. “What’s your background?”

  “I don’t tell people things like that unless they buy me dinner first.” The drawl sounded deep Cajun. The drawn-out words and the lilting, easy roll of his voice made Prophet want to throw a chair at him, mainly because it had always been an accent he’d found irresistible. On anyone but this guy.

  Okay, a little on this guy. Fucking bayou asshole.

  But I’ll bet he can definitely track.

  “Dude, what’s your area of expertise?” Prophet tried again.

  “What’s yours?”

  “Look, I’m not getting into a pissing contest with you.”

  Tommy narrowed his eyes at him. “Didn’t want a partner?”

  “Never.”

  “Awesome. Glad we got that out of the way. Because neither did I.”

  “Got it, Tommy.”

  “Tom,” the man said evenly.

  “What I said.”

  “This is going to go well,” Phil said, more to himself than to them. “Look, assholes, everyone here works with a partner. Don’t fuck this up or I will fuck you up. Both of you.”

  Prophet didn’t doubt it—the former Marine wasn’t even six feet, but he was stout and muscled. And Prophet had learned a long time ago that bigger didn’t always equal winning, which was good for him.

  Not that he was small, but six foot two was a midget among this land of six foot four–plus giants.

  “I’ve got shit to do,” he told Tommy, turned away from him and toward the copy machine. The paper tray wouldn’t even open, so he banged his casts on it a few times, and the damned thing started working for the first time in days. “I should get some kind of bonus for that,” he told Phil.

  “I’ve got a bonus for you, all right,” Phil shot back.

  “You’re not talking about him, right?” Prophet pointed at Tommy. “Because no.”

  Meeting the man from the video shouldn’t have been so goddamned unexpected.

  You’ve really lost your touch, Boudreaux. You’re off your game.

  Tom hoped he’d get it all back soon. Like riding a bike. Although he felt more like he’d just fallen off one and gotten run over in the process.

  Why the hell someone had sent him that video of his new partner—how anyone knew Prophet would be his new partner a month ago—was the most pressing question.

  Not telling Prophet about it at all was the best course of action until he discovered the answer. He already had the proof that Prophet was a maniac—a lethal one, both things perhaps born from necessity.

  Or maybe he was just born that way.

  He was a couple of inches shorter than Tom, and lankier. And there was no mistaking the fact that the man had war in his eyes. Tom didn’t know if the general population could see it, or if they’d stop at the rugged handsomeness, the way he looked as though he’d just literally rolled out of bed . . . and hadn’t been sleeping.

  But if you watched closely, you’d see that his gaze swallowed whole areas, that he stalked as opposed to simply moved. That he missed nothing.

  The man was trouble. Those eyes had him locked and loaded, and Tom would’ve felt less conspicuous naked on a float in the middle of Mardi Gras. He didn’t scare easily, but this could easily become the most trouble he’d had in his life, and that was saying something.

  As he watched Prophet walk away, Tom rubbed a hand across the back of his neck, then cursed because he was mirroring the man.

  “That went well,” Phil said as he escorted Tom into a large office across from his.

  “Is this the part where you tell me he’ll come around?”

  “Hell, no.”

  At least Phil Butler was an honest man. Five minutes before he’d met Prophet, Phil had told him, “We’re more of a discover-on-your-own type of company. I don’t have time to hand-hold you through a partner or a mission.”

  All Tom had been able to get out of Phil was his partner’s age—thirty-one to Tom’s thirty-six—and the fact that Prophet was probably one of the best operatives Phil had ever seen, hands down. He’d used words like highly skilled, capable, and lots of field experience.

  EE had a reputation for providing their operatives with everything they needed, including what Phil liked to call creative freedom. They’d also given him a lot of training the past month. He’d had his ass kicked by several operatives to get him up to speed on everything from new techniques in hand-to-hand and weaponry, to demolitions and explosives. It was a crash course, one Phil told him would continue in between his missions.

  “What else do I need to know about Prophet?” Tom asked him now. “Real name, maybe?”

  But Phil ignored his question, telling him instead, “You can work here or at home. Most operatives rarely come in unless there’s a meeting. Just know your intel for your first mission. Details are in your secured email.” Phil pointed to the laptop on an empty desk before he left the room.

  Email. Right. He opened the brand new computer and found that his first name popped up, along with a list of passwords for him to reset. He did so quickly, anxious to check that he could get his secured emails, knowing he’d read them when he was out of this place and away from the maniac. He’d figured if he could deal with the Cajuns, he could deal with anything. He might’ve been seriously wrong.

  Someone knocked briefly on the still-open door. He turned to see the woman he’d met earlier—Natasha, from support systems—and motioned for her to come in. She was tall and slim, and he had a feeling her body type belied her capabilities. Phil had told him that even the support staff knew how to kick ass.

  Natasha would run the computers when they were on missions. Get them supplies. And right now, she might be his best friend here, because she asked, “What do you want to know?” with a small smile playing on her lips.

  “Anything.”

  She looked behind her and moved closer, rather than shutting the door. Whispered conspiratorially, “He’s been working here for years. I think he was Phil’s very first recruit when he started EE, but his file’s nowhere to be found. New partners always ask for it. He’s also former Special Forces—SEALs, I think.”

  “Ah, fuck.”

  “Right. And I think he was in the CIA, too.”

  Worse. So much worse. He wanted to bang his head against the desk, and she seemed to sense that. “He’s really not that bad, Tom.”

  Yeah, okay. “What’s his real name?”

  Natasha smiled broadly this time. “Why don’t you ask him?”

  Because I don’t really care. “I will.” He paused. “Wait—you don’t know yourself, right?”

  Natasha shrugged. “I’ve given you more than you’ll get from him in a year.”

  It still didn’t stop him from asking the question he of all people had no right to ask. “Why can’t he keep a partner?”

  “If it helps, they all want to keep him. He’s the one who disengages.”

  Now that was interesting. “He’d kill you for giving this away.”

  “I know. But he messed up my supply order twice. I warned him.”

  Tom couldn’t help but laugh as she slipped out the door. Maybe there was hope for this place yet.

  It was only when he went to shut the door that he realized that the thing on the other side of the fairly large room was a desk. Covered with a tarp of some sort.

  Prophet kicked the door open seconds later, which explained the black scuff marks on both sides. He was carrying a can of Coke and a box of donuts balanced precariously on files. All of it got dumped on Tom’s desk.

  “We’re sharing an office?”

  “Technically, you’re sharing my office,” Prophet pointed out.

  “Are you going to be a dick the entire time we’re working together?”

  Prophet smirked. “I’m what they label ‘not good with authority,’ Tommy.”

  “Great. And it’s Tom.”

  “But you’re not an authority figure, so as long as you don’t act like a dick, we shouldn’t have a problem, right?”

  “Seriously, I’m going to kill you,” Tom told him, then muttered, “If I can’t hide the body well enough, it will be so worth it going to jail.”

  “I heard that,” Prophet called over his shoulder as he left the room with the donuts.

  “I meant you to.”

  So he was stuck with an asshole who happened to be former Special Forces—and a possible POW, according to the mystery video—and CIA to crazy-assed mercenary who’d been allowed to roam the earth shooting things and amassing destruction in his wake.

  And he rescues people too. Helps those who can’t help themselves, Tom reminded himself. Because this job paid well, sure, but the missions weren’t frivolous, and they were never against the interests of the United States.

  Yeah, so the bastard is a walking paradox.

  He’d partner with the guy for this job, prove himself to Butler, and then he’d ask to work with someone new. For all he knew, Prophet the Great would do the same thing.

  How bad could it possibly be?

  He opened the one email he found and stared at the ticket that popped up, revealing his first tri
p.

  To Eritrea.

  With Prophet.

  In a small office.

  For three months.

  So yeah, it was bad. Really, really goddamned, motherfucking horribly bad.

  Then he saw the actual email, which started, “Prophet will share the mission plans with you.”

  Yeah, right.

  Because Prophet, of course, was nowhere to be found.

  There was nothing else of any help to him but a “what to pack for the extended trip” missive and a “don’t bring your own weapons” clause. He slammed down the lid of the computer, grabbed the cord, and walked out of the EE offices to his Harley. Maybe a long-assed ride would make everything better.

  He had to move forward, because there was nothing to go back to. Sometimes, having no choice made every decision, no matter how bad it seemed, easier.

  No weapons his ass. Prophet never went on a trip without a little something of his own, didn’t give a shit that the Eritrea office had enough C-4 to blow up the country and then some. He liked something on his own person at all times, and the ceramic knife would pass muster easily enough. His go bag was always packed, one at home and one here at the office. Now he locked away some of the weapons he wouldn’t risk, and prepared to do nothing but prep until takeoff. Which should’ve been tonight, as far as he was concerned, but there were always reasons.

  His new partner had gone home. Emailed him and said he’d meet him on the plane, as if Prophet gave a shit. Asked for the mission plans, which Prophet reluctantly had Natasha deliver to him. They didn’t send shit by email when they didn’t have to, no matter how secure. Messenger and then burning the evidence was the way Phil had learned to do things, and it was still the man’s preference.

  It was also his preference to have EE tucked away from the busier cities. That’s why EE’s main office was a large house located several hours outside of Manhattan. Moderate weather for a good portion of the year, easy access to both the small local airports and the major international ones too. Ten support staff worked the day shift on a rotating basis—same with the night staff—and on any given day there were a couple of operatives wandering through the halls. And, he supposed, Phil Butler was ever present.

  The office also had a twenty-four-hour on-call support staff in case they needed backup. EE was a twenty-four-seven job, and everyone who worked here treated it as seriously as if they were an operative in the field. Because the operatives in the field depended on those men and women behind the desks.

  Phil had a real hard-on about the buddy system lately. Yeah, it was safer for most, but Prophet had left that team shit behind. Didn’t mind being anyone’s backup on and off, but he’d be damned if he’d rely on someone like that.

  Have to start relying on someone soon enough, as Phil liked to remind him.

  Instead of going home, he hung out in one of the bedrooms on the upper floors of the office building. He’d gone over the file four times. Didn’t need the map to tell him shit about the area, not like the fucking new guy, and as much as Prophet wanted back in the field, he could think of a zillion other places he’d rather go.

  He paced the floor like an angry lion, tugging alternately at the casts. Felt like they each weighed a thousand pounds, and Doc had refused to take them off for the mission.

  “You can shoot with casts—use both hands. Or use a knife. Or let your partner cover you,” was all Doc had said. And dammit all to hell, he knew Prophet didn’t need a partner, could do a proper job of hand-to-hand and wetwork with the casts by himself, a skill learned by necessity. And when Prophet had told him so in his most disgruntled tone, Doc had responded easily, “So you don’t really need the casts off, do you?”

  “So what, this is like a life lesson? Because I don’t like those,” Prophet had told him, and Doc’d merely grunted.

  Around one in the morning, he showered with plastic bags on his hands and arms, which was a pain in the ass for washing anything, grabbed the well-worn Shogun paperback from his desk to tuck into his bag along with his computer, thought about going out for a drink, and decided on the diner for food instead. Ordered enough to put him into a comfortable food coma, and flirted with the waitress who was forty years older and kept squeezing his cheek.

  He opened his laptop, logged in using his phone’s secure Wi-Fi, and then entered the surveillance code into the private program that allowed him to check on his apartment. It had been wired six months earlier so he could monitor it without ever having to set foot in there. His was a second-floor walk-up with open loft space. It had once been an industrial building, and he’d bought the top two floors. The bottom two belonged to an international financier, which Prophet assumed meant spy. And Prophet assumed the guy, named Cillian—and yeah, he’d made fun of his name already—knew what he was too. They looked out for one another and the building, but they’d never actually met face to face.

  He hadn’t even known Cillian had wired the damned place until he got the guy’s IM late one night.

  Hope you don’t mind, but I took several security measures you hadn’t considered. Here’s the link to your alarms and cams.

  Usually, you ask if someone would mind before you do shit like that, he’d IM’d back.

  Better to ask forgiveness than permission. I’ve heard that’s your motto.

  It’s a good motto when I’m the one doing things I’m not supposed to. Good alarms, though, Prophet had conceded.

  From there, they’d checked in often enough. Flirted, really. Prophet had even considered IM sex once, when he’d been bored out of his mind in Eritrea, but there had been a bombing outside his door just when things had gotten hot. Kind of ruined the whole moment.

  This time, Cillian had been gone a week, according to his last message. There was nothing out of place except he’d stolen his lamp back.

  Prophet had never actually seen Cillian without his buttoned-up businessman disguise. Knew the guy was dark haired and clean-cut. Former SAS, judging by the way he carried himself.

  It was a very distinctive stance.

  He typed, You took the lamp.

  After a few seconds, Cillian IM’d back, I imagine you sound indignant as you’re saying that.

  You broke into my place.

  Several times. And are we having a bit of selective memory that you broke into my place to steal it first?

  Life runs more smoothly on selective memory. He decided against telling Cillian that the couch would be his next acquisition. I’m leaving for a while.

  New case?

  New case. New partner. Why he’d typed that, he didn’t know.

  Cillian was too sharp to let it pass. You’ve never mentioned a partner before.

  I’ve had several.

  I’d imagine.

  Work partners, Cill. Mind out of the gutter.

  It’s more fun there. You and I both know it.

  Prophet grinned at the truth in that.

  So, you’ve had several partners but never mentioned any of them before. What is it about him?

  Fuck, he’d gone this far. Might be a permanent pairing. That’s what’s being threatened anyway.

  And how is he?

  Pain in the ass.

  Can’t imagine he’s not saying the same thing about you. There was a long pause and then, Must run. Someone just tried to kill me.

  Can’t imagine why.

  Prophet clicked off to have the last word and continued eating.

  His cell rang a little after two. He juggled three phones: EE’s, a private one Phil didn’t know about and therefore couldn’t trace, and a third that only one other person in the entire world had the number to. A person who tied Prophet to his past so thoroughly that the yoke could choke him if he thought about it hard enough.

  But tonight Prophet noted that it was quiet on that front. As it should be. As it needed to be. He didn’t want any ghosts coming out of the woodwork.

  This was the EE phone, the ring set specifically for Butler—Nazareth’s Hair of the Dog—and he picked it up on the first ring.

  “Mission’s changed.”

  “To what?”

  Phil paused. “I didn’t want to tell you over the phone, but I’m on my way cross-country and didn’t want to sit on this. I’ve got some bad news. It’s about Christopher Morse.”

  “Is he hurt?”

  “He’s dead, Proph.” Prophet closed his eyes as Phil’s words hit him like a physical punch. As if Phil knew, he paused momentarily before continuing. “The police found his body in a dumpster a few days ago, but there was no ID. They had to use dental records, so he’s already been autopsied.”