by SE Jakes
Finally, he installed the generator to the panel, which thankfully wasn’t as old as the house, because otherwise the thing would be useless. Still, he only wired for essentials so he wouldn’t overload anything.
By then, the rain had started in earnest, the wind picking up quickly, a warning that this hurricane wasn’t slowing down.
By 0600, he was sitting at the kitchen table, surrounded by maps and his laptop, making several evac plans, just in case. GPS would be down, and even though—thanks to EE—his was satellite powered and installed directly into his truck, he didn’t trust anything to work the way it was supposed to. He’d also gone through Della’s medications, making sure she had more than enough, and he’d made a few calls to ensure he could get more in a hurry. Because that shit you couldn’t fool around with.
As early morning ambled along, Della wandered into the kitchen. He’d made a full pot of coffee, and she poured herself a cup while he continued to concentrate on what was in front of him.
He didn’t look up, not until she slid sandwiches and a glass of lemonade next to him.
“You haven’t eaten much since you got here, and you can’t live on coffee alone,” she told him, and his stomach growled in agreement with her. He’d had a PowerBar at some point, and some soda, but that wasn’t exactly the breakfast of champions.
“I got wrapped up,” he admitted.
“I’m grateful, but I can’t let you starve.”
Why’d you let Tom get hit? he wanted to ask back, but even he wasn’t that much of a dick. Not when he could stuff a sandwich in his mouth instead.
“You’re close with Tom?” she asked delicately.
“We were partnered up on a job.” That was as truthful an answer as he could give.
She sat across from him at the table, her shoulders squared as if she’d read him and was expecting battle. “And now?”
Prophet was unable to keep the anger out of his voice when he said, “I’ve seen the bottom of his feet.” It was the first time he’d ever let himself actively think about that, never mind speak about it to anyone. The first time he’d allowed himself to dwell on it.
The majority of Tom’s scars were covered up by his tattoos, but his feet . . . There was no way to cover the scars of old cigarette burns on the soles of his feet.
Tom had to know Prophet had seen them. But he’d offered no explanation, and Prophet wouldn’t push something he understood all too well.
“I’ve seen them too,” she said quietly, the kind of quiet that held a carefully concealed rage. “I was the one who took him to the ER. But it was too late to stop them from scarring.”
He didn’t bother to hide his heavy sarcasm. “Right. Can’t let them scar.” He was tired as hell of concealed rage. Hiding shit was where all the trouble started.
She blinked. “Listen up, boy—don’t come in here thinking you know everything.”
“I think I know enough.”
Della sighed. Muttered something that he was pretty sure were Cajun curses before telling him, “Tom stayed with me on and off his whole life. I’m his father’s sister. My brother and I aren’t close. He always said I thought I was too good for the bayou. Maybe that’s true. Or maybe I just didn’t like the violence. Tom’s mother didn’t fit in there either.”
Prophet watched her hands wrap around the delicate teacup in a stranglehold.
“You probably want to know why I didn’t just keep him here all the time.”
“Or why you didn’t call CPS or social services.”
She stared at him, anger flashing in her eyes before spitting out tightly, “Prophet, I don’t owe you an explanation, but I’ll give you one. I was a single woman. Family, yes, but in those days, they wanted a complete family, and that was an extremely narrow definition. Make no mistake about it, I wanted him here. My door was open.” She tapped on the table. “His father didn’t care where he stayed. Tom was the one who chose to go back and forth. It was almost like he’d come here, gain his strength, and then throw himself back into the wild.”
Prophet stared at the scarred table and saw that he’d unconsciously fisted his hands at some point during the conversation. “Yeah, that sounds like the Tommy I know.”
“I’ve never heard anyone call him Tommy, but I like it.” Her drawl was soft. “I don’t know why he felt like he needed to take that kind of punishment. I told him he didn’t, and I know he believed me.”
“He understood it, Della. There’s a difference.”
He unfisted his hands only when she reached out and covered them with her open ones and said, “Sounds like you two have a lot in common.”
“You’ve got that voodoo shit happening too?”
“No, but you don’t hide your anger well.”
“Not when it comes to him.” He paused. “Voodoo or not, you do know about me. About what happened at EE.”
She took her hands off his and pointed to the sandwich. He took a bite and only then did she answer his question. “Yes. He called. He told me that he’d made what felt like the hardest decision he’d ever had to make. I asked him if it felt right, and he said that it hurt, which meant it must be right.” She pressed her lips together. “I told him that sometimes it hurts when it’s wrong, too, and that he had to start learning how to tell the difference.”
“I’m not the easiest man either.”
“No shit.” She grinned and took a sip of her coffee. “What about your family?”
“There’s just my mom. I don’t see her often.”
“By choice, or because of your job?”
“I blame it on the job.” He paused. “Tom’s worried about you.”
“He’s always worried about me. Thinks I’m too alone. But I’ve got tenants who’ve become close friends. That’s all I need.”
Roger stage-whispered into Prophet’s ear (Prophet had heard him coming a mile away), “She needs a man, but she never married, because she was too stubborn.” Della shook her finger at him. “And she’s got this wicked, bat-like hearing.”
“I was not stubborn. Connor wouldn’t have been a good choice.”
“He was hot,” Roger said. “Hot is always the good choice.”
“That’s been going on for thirty years. If it hasn’t happened already . . .” Della waved her hand and trailed off.
“Where’s Connor now?” Prophet asked.
“I hear from him every once in a while.” Della shrugged. “He’s a wanderer. And I knew he’d break my heart if I let him. So I didn’t.”
Prophet saw the pain in her face. His chest squeezed a little, because it was obvious she still loved the guy after all these years.
He excused himself, went out onto the covered back porch, despite the rain and wind that still managed to find its way underneath, and sat with his phone in hand, staring at the number on the screen but refusing to hit Call.
The dread got worse each month, even though he knew what his mother would say. She’d complain about the pills and the hospital, but first, she’d tell him that a man called, looking for him. He hadn’t bothered changing her number. Because if they were still bothering her, it meant they were no closer to finding him.
Besides that, he made sure her phone and internet signals bounced off enough towers that they would never be traced back to her. The last thing he needed was his mother in the middle of a ransom war. The facility she was in received similar treatment in regards to their internet systems. His mom’s doctors too.
Finally, he sent the call and let the phone ring while he held his breath.
She answered with, “You’re late.”
“By four minutes.”
“Late is late.”
He put his head back against the cushions of the wicker couch and didn’t say anything. Sweat trickled down his face and neck—the humidity was fucking wicked, and the only way to get his body used to it was to let his body get used to it.
“Now you’re not speaking to me?” she asked.
“Never said that.”
“That man called again, looking for you.”
His gut tightened. “And what’d you tell him?”
“That you weren’t here. That I didn’t know where you were. Then I told him to fuck off.” She sounded so proud.
“That’s good, Mom. Thanks.”
She sighed, an exaggeratedly exasperated sound. “I don’t like it here.”
Same thing, every time, but he answered that the same way he always did. “Why not?”
“They won’t give me my pills.”
At least she was taking her meds regularly. He spoke to her doctors weekly to ensure that.
“They give you the pills you need.”
“Not always. They forget. You never forgot.”
No, he hadn’t. And that reminder made him feel worse, not better. “I’ll remind them, okay? I’ll take care of it.”
Because he always took care of it.
The rain from the outer bands of the hurricane slammed the house in muted thumps like fists against a punching bag. The world had begun its standstill as the chaos crept slowly in the darkness toward New Orleans.
In the background, The Weather Channel played on a continuous loop. Della had left it on when she’d gone to bed hours before. Roger and Dave had as well, after offering to stay up and keep him company, but Prophet had told them to go on ahead and get their sleep.
Because even though he’d prepped the house, once this monster hit, you never knew what the hell would happen. And the worst would happen toward dawn. Always did. Lines would come down, streets would flood, and there would always be some idiots who felt confident enough to go chasing the storm. And they were all too casual about this. It was like talking to Blue about climbing, and Prophet never did bother with that.
The storm surrounded the house, the windows washing with water, distorting what little he could see outside.
His wrists ached. When they stopped hurting, it would mean the storm had definitely arrived, because when the pressure was high, there wasn’t any pain.
Just massive destruction—a typical metaphor for his life.
Restless, he stuck his hands in the pockets of his army green cargos and paced the first floor barefoot. He’d tried to settle in to read, but even his old standbys couldn’t keep his attention tonight.
The house shook and lightning lit up the sky, and it was just like being back in the Sudan. For a few minutes, he was frozen in the living room.
Not gonna matter when you lose your sight. You’ll be so fucked up by then you won’t be fit for work anyway.
He blinked as the lights flickered . . . wondered if that’s what it would be like at first. His father hadn’t talked about it. Neither had his grandfather. Both killed themselves before it got too bad.
Was he expected to? Drews men always followed the family traditions. And from where Prophet stood, it wasn’t a half-bad one.
Tom was better off with the choice he’d made.
But Prophet couldn’t deny that it hurt, so instead he’d denied everything else he felt about the man, so he could steel himself to come to this house. Thought of it like a mission, which helped his focus.
Finding peace would be considerably harder and not something he planned on trying to do this trip. It was an impossible feat, really, and Prophet figured that he should probably stop trying. But something inside wouldn’t let him, continued to search for it with the rabid intensity of a shark with the scent of blood.
“You know sharks keep moving, even when they sleep?” John told him.
“No,” he muttered, refusing to look up to see his personal walking, talking flashback. From the time he’d walked into Sadiq’s trap until this point, he’d kept too busy to have them.
Guess you don’t need flashbacks if you’re living the real thing.
“Yeah, you’re peaceful—just like Hal,” John continued.
“I really don’t need your fucking sarcasm.” Prophet stared at the wall in front of him, watching the patterns change depending on the force of the wind on the raindrops.
But John was right about Hal—he’d appeared to be a peaceful guy. Even John had been taken in by him, and Prophet hadn’t wanted to give anything away.
“You really thought I didn’t know?” John asked now, and Prophet still refused to look in the direction of the ghost of his one-time best friend and lover.
In reality, Hal had been one of the angriest guys on the fucking planet. Prophet couldn’t say if he’d been like that before the CIA and FBI started crawling up his asshole, but Hal Jones was one of the few projects the CIA, FBI, and Homeland Security actually played nicely on together. Hal was a specialist, knew how to build nuclear triggers, and that made him something of an asset—or a liability—everyone had worked hard to control.
Up until the whole CIA fuckup, and then everything went to shit. There were guys at the Bureau and Homeland who were still pissed at Prophet for choosing the Agency after that whole clusterfuck. Prophet couldn’t tell them that he hadn’t had any other choice if he’d wanted his teammates—the men who’d become his friends—left in one piece.
As it stood, they all were, albeit scattered around the globe. Last time he’d checked. Which was a few hours ago. And they were all pissed at him.
So, nothing had really changed, and that in and of itself was comforting. But it wouldn’t stop the flashback from coming. And he hadn’t even been sleeping. Then again, the sleeping flashbacks were the fucking worst, because if he couldn’t control himself when he was awake, he had no hope of it unconscious.
He put his hands out, like if he could put them on something real and stable in the house—Della’s rounded sofa or her old Victrola—he’d snap out of it and stop seeing the fucking desert in front of him, miles and miles of sand with no end in sight.
“Four hours,” John called back to him. The ground underneath Prophet’s feet felt like it was moving, and he tried to tell himself it was the wind and not a moving truck, but it was no use.
He turned his head cautiously and found Hal sitting next to him, his face drawn, obviously done with the entire trip.
Four hours wasn’t that bad—they’d made good time, until this point. Until 1543. That’s when everything went to complete shit.
“I don’t want to do this,” Prophet told Hal. “I won’t do it.”
Hal just stared through him, his eyes watching something in the distance. Gunfire. Cars coming over the rise.
John, firing wildly. Prophet took position and helped cover them but the car’s radiator was blown. The rest of their SEAL team—their backup—was gone.
“We lost them,” John said, and they couldn’t go back, couldn’t risk transmitting a signal over the radio.
It was the last time Prophet saw his team in one place.
“It’s a setup, Proph,” John told him.
Hal grabbed for Prophet’s gun, but Prophet pushed him back, pinned him down to the seat. “Don’t fucking do that.”
“If it’s a setup, you can’t kill me,” Hal yelled. He wasn’t ready to die. Was anyone, ever?
If you looked at Prophet’s family tree, someone might say yes.
Prophet didn’t know how much longer he stood there, staring at the desert, the blood and sand, until the sights and sounds of the explosions turned back to booms of thunder and lightning.
Gradually, Hal faded.
Prophet blinked. Saw the desert.
Blinked again, and it was Della’s kitchen and his phone beeping. He grabbed it with shaking hands like it was a lifeline, wondering how and when he’d left the living room.
Cillian was on the other end of the text. Not exactly the best flotation device but not the worst. Now someone’s trying to kill me.
Karma’s a bitch, Prophet typed. Where are you?
In a bathroom.
Dude, TMI.
I’m waiting for the opportunity . . .
Again, TMI.
To kill the man hunting me.
Prophet snorted. Oh.
A particularly loud burst of thunder shook the house. Going to hell, man.
You’ve been drinking?
No. I’m trying to live through a hurricane.
Prophet could hear Cillian’s British accent in his head when the spook typed, Just duck. And swim. You can swim, correct?
Little bit.
Here’s to reaching shore quickly.
Prophet was about to answer with something about Cillian sticking his head in the toilet when a creak stopped him.
The entire house had been fucking groaning all night, but that creak was different. It was the sound of a storm door opening.
He stilled. Put the phone down and reached for his KA-BAR simultaneously.
Something—someone—scratched at the back door. And since Della’s yard was completely enclosed by a nine-foot wrought iron fence with spiked tops, that was no mean feat.
What the hell kind of crazy-ass freak tries to break in during a hurricane?
He blinked and looked around, trying to reassure himself that this wasn’t a flashback, but everything looked normal. And flashbacks typically didn’t use the door.
He turned his focus back to the door and watched the top lock turn slowly. Someone was using a key. Or a lockpick.
He turned his gaze back around and saw nothing but kitchen and living room beyond that.
Definitely not a flashback.
He moved decisively to the door, jerked it open, and slammed hard against whoever was attempting to push in. His adrenaline surged when the person grabbed his forearms. Prophet pushed at the man’s shoulders as they both started to fall, thanks to the slippery steps. He landed on top of the guy on the grass. The rain pelted him with fine needles on the bare skin of his arms as they rolled together, grunting and fighting.
He got in a few good punches before a strong arm wound around his neck. He grabbed it as the other guy—because this was definitely a guy—attempted to flip him onto his stomach. Instead, Prophet bore down with his weight, then elbowed the intruder in the stomach. Freed momentarily, he turned and pinned the man underneath him, efficiently and effectively immobilizing the guy—