Long Time Gone (Hell or High Water )

by SE Jakes

  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?

  Ah, fuck it. Tom does. Gotta check on his aunt.

  Tom’s family isn’t your problem. Neither is Tom.

>   That was all true. “And yet, you’re in a truck headed to help a man who gave you away like yesterday’s news.” Prophet shook his head at himself and dropped the phone into the cupholder without answering Cillian.

  A camouflage-wearing Guardsman strode stiffly over to his truck. “You’re from out of state,” he barked at Prophet.

  “Yes.”

  “Sir, we’re not letting any out-of-state residents past this point. Please turn your truck around.”

  The guy was a former Marine. Even without the tattoo on his forearm of the globe and eagle and snake, Prophet would’ve known it because of his stance. He thought about pulling the military card, decided against it because he was feeling like too much of a dick. Especially after Cillian’s comments.

  He flipped his fake FBI ID badge. “Gonna let me through now, son?”

  Without waiting for the answer, he jerked the old Blazer through the barricade and gunned it, not bothering to look in his rearview.

  Prophet: One. World: Zero.

  Then again, Mother Nature was prepping to be the big bitch she was and would even out that score soon enough.

  And he’d climbed out of hell for this, using Tom’s emails as a lifeline. Maybe just in time too. Because if he’d gone any deeper, he would’ve been unreachable in a way that no email could fix.

  And that’s what he’d been going for, of course. Dig deep, forget anything that happened above ground. Even now, he could turn around. No one was actually expecting him up ahead, so he wouldn’t be missed. But his conscience wouldn’t allow it.

  Goddamned motherfucking thing. If he could’ve cut it out with a knife, he might’ve.

  He’d already argued with himself (and lost, obviously) that he wasn’t fit for human company—and by human, he meant civilian—and that’s who he’d be facing when he drove into New Orleans and the French Quarter and . . . Tom’s wealthy Aunt Della.

  Did she know about him?

  He didn’t know much about Tom’s past, beyond the jobs with the FBI and the sheriff’s department, but what little he did know made him angry. And he was in a really bad place inside his head to be around people who made him angry.

  Who the hell had Tommy been fighting in that ring four months ago? Had to be family. Prophet had seen that same fury too often in John not to know that. And now . . . to have to face someone who had to have known what Tom had been going through as a kid . . .

  Another Carole Morse, who saw nothing but an angry son and didn’t investigate further.

  Another Judie Drews, who couldn’t do anything.

  He mulled that over as he pulled into Della Boudreaux’s driveway but kept the truck running.

  The house was old but refined, well tended, and cared for. Obviously, someone with money lived there, because this was one of the wealthier sections of the city. And he sat in his truck in the driveway, unable to get out and approach the door.

  He hadn’t thought much beyond getting here to help Tommy’s aunt. But that was a start. He would help her because Tom’s words had helped him.

  I’m not sorry. I’m trying to take care of you.

  But I could take better care of you if I was with you. I realize that now.

  I’ve also realized that it’s really never too late. For anything.

  For now, that would have to be enough. He finally shut off the truck, got out, and walked up to the porch.

  There was so much opportunity here, but Tom had grown up in the parishes of the bayou, not in the French Quarter. So why would he be so concerned about Della, who could probably afford the queen’s security?

  He knocked on the door and was greeted by a shotgun to the chest. He stared down at the barrel and then the woman holding it. She was pretty. Cultured. And still somehow fierce, in ways that had nothing to do with the shotgun pointed at him.

  And still, you didn’t protect Tommy.

  He froze his anger, stopped thinking about Tom’s scars and his temper. He’d just have to use what anger he wasn’t able to tamp down to fuel his hurricane prep. “You’re doing it wrong.”

  “Son, I’ve got a gun to your chest and you’re telling me that I’m doing it wrong?”

  “Yes.”

  “How?”

  “Closer isn’t better.” He disarmed her with a swift motion, then offered the weapon back to her. “Further away you are, the less unpredictable I can be.”

  Della’s eyes had opened wide with surprise, but she recovered fast. Took the shotgun back and said, “Okay. Knock again so we can start over.”

  “I’d rather spend time getting you ready for the hurricane.”

  She tilted her head and assessed him. “Friend of my nephew’s?”

  “Tom and I worked together.”

  “Think I won’t notice you avoided the question?” Prophet raised a brow, and she shook her head. “Tom didn’t tell me you were coming.”

  He held up his phone to show the list of messages from Tom, proof that he actually knew the man well. “My name’s Prophet. And that’s his work email, right?”

  “I thought he was busy with work, but I see he’s got a lot of time to send emails,” she said coolly. “Nice to meet you, Prophet. Why did you bring a U-Haul? Are you also moving in?”

  “Supplies. Unless you’d like to evacuate?”

  “Never have. Never will. And I have supplies, you know. This isn’t my first hurricane.”

  “You don’t have supplies like mine.”

  She moved aside to let him in, and, after a brief pause as he realized there had never been any escape, he entered.

  The house was just as nice inside. He thought back to Tommy’s rental apartment, half an old Victorian near EE’s HQ and wondered if that was a conscious thing, if somehow this home pulled to Tommy that badly.

  “Is there anyone else who’ll be staying with you during the storm?” he asked, taking in the portable oxygen concentrator a few feet away.

  “Roger and Dave rent the third floor. They’ve lived with me for the past ten years, but they’re completely useless during storms.”

  “I heard that.”

  Prophet had seen the man coming down the stairs before he’d spoken. Della simply rolled her eyes. “Prophet, meet Roger. Prophet is Tom’s friend—he’s got supplies and he’ll get us through the worst of the storm.”

  “Is that right?” Roger asked.

  “I’ll do my best,” Prophet said as he shook hands with Roger.

  He looked to be in his late sixties. A man Prophet assumed to be Dave followed closely behind. Both men were still handsome—Dave was taller and thinner, Roger shorter and mouthier—and Prophet liked that they had no problem holding hands, in front of a stranger or otherwise.

  Roger saw him glance at their hands. “We’ve been together thirty years.”

  Prophet had known John for nine—best friends for all of it, lovers for four years. Add to that teammates and confidantes. Sometimes Prophet had loved him, and sometimes it had been just the opposite, which he suspected happened in every long-term relationship.

  “You didn’t ask what it feels like to be with the same person for so long,” Roger noted. “Which means either you are or were in a long-term relationship yourself, so you know what it feels like, or you’re built for one.”

  “Please ignore his rambling pontifications—they’re well-meaning but totally insane.” Dave dropped his voice to a stage whisper. “He’s already been drinking.”

  “Hurricanes frighten me,” Roger said.

  “We’ve got him,” Dave said, pointing to Prophet. “Does it look like anything frightens him?”

  “Well, does it? Wait, don’t answer that.” Roger held up a hand. “I need more wine.”

  Yes, they had a great hurricane plan—drink themselves silly. Granted, from where Prophet stood, it seemed like a decent way to go.

  “So, you work with Tom,” Roger continued. “And your wife or girlfriend doesn’t mind that you’re here?”

  Prophet gave a smile that was harder than
he thought to muster because Tom’s face flashed in front of his eyes. And then it got easier because Tom would get pissed being associated with the word girl. “I’m single at the moment.”

  They weren’t trying to dig—they’d read him as straight. Most did, and Prophet liked it only because he never liked anyone knowing things about him.

  He also liked surprising the hell out of people.

  Dave sighed. “Before we interrogate the man, why don’t we let him get settled so he can save us.”

  Roger lifted a wineglass in Prophet’s direction.

  Della had pointed him in the direction of a bedroom on the second floor, and Prophet checked it out quickly. He only planned on using it for scoping rather than sleeping, but he didn’t tell her that. Just like he didn’t mention the inflatable boat and the power engine and oars he’d keep on the second floor, in case they needed to float the hell out of there.

  And then he got to work. He wore his iPod most of the day, blasting lots of classic rock so he could pretend not to hear Della or Roger or Dave trying to engage him in conversation—as he’d predicted, he just wasn’t there yet. Back from battle and not ready for civilians. And it would pass, but not before the hurricane hit. And maybe he wasn’t good at hiding his thousand-yard stare, because they really hadn’t tried to talk to him much anyway.

  They did, however, talk about him a little, because they thought he couldn’t hear, and Della said she was worried about Tom, but other than that, they went about their business.

  Mainly, they were helpful and unobtrusive.

  It took him the rest of the day and overnight to finish his prep sufficiently enough in his eyes. First, he built the pad for the generator, and while it set, he worked on everything else.

  Eventually, the groceries were inside. Prophet’s truck was in back, away from the trees and wires, ready for an evac, if necessary. Radios, batteries, just-in-case flashlights, and water were set up.

  “Neighbors?” he’d asked earlier.

  Della had rolled her eyes. “Most of them evacuated. They like to follow rules.”

  He knew he couldn’t say something like rules are important with a straight face, so he didn’t bother.