Long Time Gone (Hell or High Water ) (4 page)

“Haven’t been home in a while.”

“I know.”

Prophet winced at the tone of Blue’s voice, but he didn’t say anything. Actually, he was surprised he’d been allowed an entire hour at home to himself.

He padded back into the living room, and after ten minutes, Blue was handing him a dish of pasta, putting the cheese and sodas on the coffee table.

“Nice couch,” Blue said.

Prophet gave a nod of agreement, especially because it had taken so much goddamned work to steal the thing the first several times he’d done so. The last time, Cillian had actually wired the thing to the alarm system, the suspicious bastard. But then Cillian had up and gone and given the couch to him.

He wanted to hate the guy. Wanted to be so freakin’ suspicious of him that he’d get angry if he thought about him. And he
was
goddamned suspicious. But he couldn’t get angry, and he hadn’t been able to figure out why yet.

So he’d kept in contact with Cillian, but in a strictly business capacity.

Well, mostly business. He told himself he needed to keep Cillian on the hook—and busy—but he’d be lying if he didn’t admit that he felt some kind of pull toward the lying bastard.

Because it would be fucking easy between you two.

Because it would be just sex.
And maybe you trying to kill him.
Or vice versa. There wouldn’t be more, not on Prophet’s end. But on Cillian’s? Who knew?

But Cillian was Mal’s job now. Mal was just sadistic enough to enjoy the hell out of it.

Prophet shoved Cillian out of his mind as he and Blue ate in comfortable silence. The spaghetti tasted better than anything he’d had in the past months, especially because Blue had seasoned it. Prophet had basically been eating to live, ignoring taste so he could get proper fuel.

After three bowls of pasta for Blue—who still had the appetite of a teenage boy—and two and counting for Prophet, Blue sat back and said, “So you and Tom . . .”

Prophet gritted his teeth. “There is no me and Tom.” Twirled the spaghetti on his fork. “Pick a new line of questioning.”

Blue ignored the warning. “He didn’t want to be your partner, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t want to fuck.” His gaze took in the sketches that Prophet had printed out and left on the coffee table, since this was his goddamned house, and then glanced back up at Prophet. “Figured you’d like it that way.”

“Want me to call Mick back?”

“Mick said you fell hard and you got scared.”

“Did he, now?”

“No,” Blue admitted, having the decency to look semi-sheepish. “He said that’s what you told him happened to him when he met me. Figured it could safely apply to you.”

“Go climb the building again.”

“Too easy,” Blue scoffed. “Are you home because of that spy downstairs or because of the hurricane?”

“Neither.” Prophet shifted irritably. “And does the entire fucking world know my business?”

“Only the people who give a shit about you,” Blue shot back, and Prophet wondered how such a fucking wiseass could’ve gotten under his skin so quickly.

And then he remembered: because the kid had risked everything to save Mick, and anyone who risked fucking everything—including themselves—was pretty damned okay in his book. And the kid wasn’t a kid at all.

Prophet pushed his bowl away. “Not that you don’t already know, since you obviously broke the fuck into my phone, but Cillian’s coming here tonight.”

Blue raised a brow.

“Not here. Like, to his own apartment. It’s his place too.” For the first time ever, they’d be in the same building at the same time.

Well, other than the warehouse, but that didn’t count.

Blue drawled, “Right.”

“Shut up.” For the first time, Prophet noticed the trail of sand leading from his suitcase to the edge of the couch. Sand would follow him fucking anywhere.

At least something had loyalty.

He snorted, and Blue looked at him strangely, then asked, “So if it’s not for the spy or for the hurricane, why
did
you come home?”

Why did you come home?

His phone echoed from the cup holder in the old Land Rover, his vehicle of choice when he was doing black-ops jobs OUTCONUS. He grabbed it, saw the number, and knew who it was and what they wanted.

“
I’ve got another job for you.”

“
I’m listening.” Prophet watched the specialist who’d been his last mission preparing to board a plane, never to be seen again by his family or friends.

“
It’s an undercover assignment. You want it, get on the plane too.”

Prophet ran a hand over the bandana that he’d wrapped around his head to keep his too-long hair out of his eyes. The Land Rover was suddenly too fucking hot for his liking. “How much?”

The man on the other end of the phone laughed. “More than last time.” Because Prophet didn’t need the money. The question was inane, a way to avoid the inevitable.

“
How long?”

“
A year. No contact. Three specialists. You’re paid if they’re dead or alive.”

“
What’s in it for me?”

“
Besides a very large check? This is your way back into the Agency. Once they know what you’ve been doing—”

Prophet laughed then, and it echoed through the truck, a sound so fucking foreign to him at this point that it made his throat tighten immediately. “I don’t want back in. And trust me, they fucking know.”

“
You must want
something
, because you keep doing this.”

He looked over at the plane—the man he’d brought here safely had already boarded, and the pilot was at the door, pointing between it and Prophet.

In or out?

He’d known this offer was coming—in some ways, he’d been busting his ass just to get the damned thing. But whether he accepted or not wasn’t the point. Proving himself—to himself, to the assholes in the Agency, to the motherfucking world at large—proving that he was still the best one to work with the specialists because he had balls, brains, and a goddamned conscience . . . well, that had always been the point. Not the fucking money. Not getting back in.

Waiting in the safe house last night, with his latest mission snoring in the other room, he’d finally read Tom’s emails—all eleven billion of them—because he figured they’d be full of excuses or “it’s better this way” crap. Reading them was his way of saying good-bye, because, when the offer for the next job came—and he’d known it was coming—he had to be ready to leave everything and everyone behind.

Reading them had been the biggest fucking mistake.

“
Decent in bed,” he growled into the phone, realizing Tom had gotten the rise out of him that he’d probably been looking for.

The man on the other end of the phone told him, “That’s not an answer.”

“
It is for me.”

He blinked and finally answered Blue. “I came home because the jobs were done.”

“Uh-huh.” Blue crossed his arms. “Not sure why you lie to me, of all people. I’m the first one to admit that I still need to steal. And that I know Mick will chase me.”

There was so much truth in what Blue said that he couldn’t even look at the guy. And Blue also understood that and mercifully didn’t comment further on it. Prophet was pretty sure he’d bring it up again, but he was also pretty sure he didn’t like Blue taking pity on him now. “How’s working with Mick been? I mean, besides your need to break into other people’s houses to prove something to him?”

Blue shrugged. “For the most part, it’s pretty fucking cool.”

“Yeah, I figured you’d like it.” Prophet paused. “Cut him a break, all right? If he didn’t give a shit . . .”

“Was he this tough on a regular partner?”

“He never had one.”

“Just like you.”

“Right.”

“Same reasons?”

“We both enjoy working alone.”

“Because watching someone else’s back makes you vulnerable?” Blue asked, and it was a sincere question.

“Yeah, it does, Blue. But for Mick, I know it’s worth it, okay?”

Blue nodded, looking down at his plate, a flush blossoming on his cheeks. He’d had a rough year—lost his sister, nearly got killed, went mostly legit, and fell in love.

Prophet clapped a hand on Blue’s shoulder, was about to get up and bring the dishes back into the kitchen when Blue asked, “When are you leaving for New Orleans?”

“I’m not.”

“Okay,” Blue said agreeably, then muttered, “And if you think I believe you, you’re dumber than you look.”

“You deserve to get beaten,” Prophet told him.

“That’s my job.” At the sound of Mick’s voice coming up from the bottom of the staircase, Blue’s shoulders stiffened.

“Shit,” he muttered.

“Busted,” Prophet told him, but Blue was already up, dressed, the rope wrapped around him with a grace that Prophet couldn’t help but admire.

“I’ll pay you if you give me a head start,” Blue said from the window ledge, his body half hanging out.

“I don’t need money.”

Blue fumbled into his pocket and tossed a small bag to Prophet. He opened it to find a beat-up gold ring with some kind of green stone with a scarab inscribed into it. “Where the fuck did you get this?”

“You know, around.” Blue waved, as if things of that caliber just dropped from the sky.

“This is an Egyptian artifact, isn’t it?”

“Maybe.”

“Blue . . .”

“Tell yourself it’s from the gift shop, if you have to.”

Prophet stuck it into his jeans pocket. “He’s going to find you.”

“Eventually.” Blue dropped out of sight, like a tattooed Santa Claus, just as Mick burst into the room.

“I don’t ever remember giving you a key,” Prophet told him.

“There are a lot of things you have selective memory about,” Mick started, and Prophet began to see the benefits of being able to drop out a window at any given time.

Less than twenty hours after Mick left to chase down Blue, Prophet rolled into the Louisiana sunshine, the dog tags clanking randomly around the floor of his old Blazer. Sometimes they were under his feet and at others, they rattled around the floor of the backseat. Occasionally they’d get caught up under the driver’s seat and he wouldn’t see them for weeks, and then they’d reappear.

Ten-plus years and they hadn’t gotten caught in the pedals once. He’d thrown them into the truck the morning of John’s memorial service, and he hadn’t touched them since.

Not that he was superstitious or anything.

He had the windows rolled down, the sunroof open, and the sunshine felt good on his face as the breeze ruffled his too-long hair. Music blared, and he dodged slower moving cars at a good clip, all while keeping an eye out for cops, which was how he’d made the normally twenty-one-plus-hour trip in under eighteen.

It also helped that most law enforcement was being pulled in to handle storm-related shit. And that’s why Prophet was here after all, running toward the storm, rather than away from it, dragging an inconspicuous U-Haul behind his truck. The U-Haul held two generators. Food. Water. Guns. Cash. Enough to keep them safe and big enough to evacuate if necessary.

The French Quarter was one of the safer spots in terms of rising water. The biggest problems they’d face were loss of water and power. And looting.

The National Guard was directing people out of the city. Mandatory evacuation that half the residents wouldn’t follow. Of those remaining, half would call for help when it started to get bad, and more would call when it was too late for rescue.

But a significant number wouldn’t call ever. They’d live or die here. Tom’s aunt was among that group. Maybe Tom had more family in the actual bayou parish he’d been born in, but this aunt was the only one he’d been concerned with.

Prophet’s fingers drummed the wheel as Jackson Browne blared “Doctor My Eyes.”

“Got to be fucking kidding me,” he muttered, but he kept the song on anyway because he liked it. He’d had his regular check-up with the eye doctor just before he’d left for parts unknown.

Needed to schedule another one, but hell, it’s not like the doctors could do anything. The genetic disease that predestined him to some degree of blindness was already progressing, according to his last exam, and Prophet was pretty sure he’d know when it actually affected his day-to-day vision before they did.

When traffic slowed down, he noted the checkpoint, which meant he was right outside NOLA. In between the stop-and-go crawl, he checked his phone and saw Cillian’s text.

Did you run from me?
Cillian had sent the text an hour after Prophet had packed and left. Because, contrary to what he’d told Blue, Prophet
was
supposed to meet Cillian. In his apartment. On Cillian’s couch.

“I ran from
me
,” Prophet muttered as he approached the checkpoint. Typed in
Hurricane.

In your apartment?

Asshole.
In Louisiana.

You have family there?