Daylight Again (Hell or High Water, #3)

by SE Jakes

  And he decided that yes, Prophet’s surprises could actually be good for him.

  As they got closer to the ground, Prophet suddenly got more agitated. He buckled in, but he was leaning forward, alternately looking out the window and toward the exit, like if the plane didn’t land fast enough, he was just going to exit anyway. The second the wheels hit solid ground, he unbuckled and started over Tom, even though the plane was bouncing a little along the makeshift runway, and since there was no tarmac, it never got any smoother. He didn’t stop, not even after Mitch yelled at him several times to sit the fuck down, and Tom wondered if maybe the two of them had somehow switched tempers, since Prophet growled at Mitch to “Back the fuck off.”

  And Mitch did.

  Tom collected their papers and as many bags as he could, because Prophet was out on the grass-covered edges of the runway already, gun in hand, checking over the truck that’d been left there for them. Tom waited for Prophet to give the all clear, not wanting him to get any more pissed than he already was.

  Finally, Prophet waved him over. When Tom got to the truck, Proph opened the doors to the backseat, telling him, “I’ll grab the rest of our gear. Don’t want to leave this unattended after I checked it over.”

  And Tom agreed, because even though they were twenty feet from the plane, he knew what Prophet could’ve done with those twenty feet. He loaded their bags onto his shoulders and looked around—the area was deserted but it had definitely been used as an impromptu landing strip many times over.

  “Lot of journalists land here,” Prophet explained, handing him the keys as they loaded up, waved good-bye to Mitch and Jin, and got into the car. Tom set up the address in his phone and let that guide him along the roads, as Prophet tucked his weapons under the seats.

  “So we’re journalists?”

  Prophet nodded, handed him a small portfolio that he knew would contain documentation of his new identity, probably a stamped passport with a new last name. He tucked it into his back pocket and handed Prophet his regular ID information. Prophet tucked it away in his bag so they’d lose all traces of themselves in favor of the new identities.

  “Any voodoo feelings, Cajun?” Prophet asked him suddenly.

  And yeah, there were definitely some, but Tom couldn’t pick them apart from the general heightened awareness that a mission like this brought with it. He shrugged and concentrated on the roads instead.

  After driving for less than an hour, he pulled into the entrance of the small, gated hotel that was most definitely more of a tourist place than not, thanks to the beaches. It was also a terrorist hotbed because of its proximity to water without any major barriers in and out of the country.

  He parked, and they unpacked their gear, not wanting to leave any of it. It didn’t look like much, if you didn’t know what you were looking for.

  “You check in for us, okay? It’s under your badge name.” Prophet was more than a little distracted—he’d pulled out his phone and stopped along the side of the lobby.

  “Got it.” Tom showed the clerk behind the desk his new ID, and the guy didn’t seem to care. Tom was sure a thousand journalists had passed through here.

  He took the keys when they were offered, but before he could turn around, he heard Prophet’s voice—loud, not a yell, but a definite command that rumbled through Tom and made his hackles go up at the same time.

  “Show yourself, motherfucker.”

  Tom turned around to see Prophet standing in the middle of the lobby, his back to the front desk—and to Tom—as he scanned the area in front of him. And there was no one there, but that didn’t stop Prophet from growling, “You’re trailing me? They’ve got you slumming?”

  There was no one else there, besides them and the clerk, who was watching Prophet as though he was crazy.

  Which . . . yeah. But Tom’s senses had been reeling all day, and he’d thought maybe it was from the flight or their upcoming mission, because in general, Prophet turned him inside-fucking-out, but no . . . “Proph—”

  But Prophet didn’t acknowledge Tom. “Come on, you son of a bitch. Show some balls for once in your miserable life.”

  Finally, Prophet moved slightly, turned halfway so Tom could see his profile, and then he stopped. Stared straight ahead toward a grouping of palm trees that shaded the entrance to the long hallway. His arms were at his sides, his hands relaxed instead of fisted, and he was shaking them out slightly. It was a gesture Tom knew all too well.

  Prophet was readying for a fight. Expecting one.

  A stocky man dressed in khakis stepped out from seemingly nowhere. Tom wasn’t sure who he’d been expecting. Maybe Cillian?

  But definitely not the guy from the video, the man Prophet had almost killed with a table he’d been cuffed to. Tom had watched that video enough times that he’d know this asshole in the dark.

  His hands fisted as he forced himself not to just blast in and fuck the guy up. But it was only a matter of time.

  “Prophet,” the guy said.

  “About time you showed yourself, Lansing. They pay you for this shit?”

  Lansing smiled. “You know you’re my special project.”

  Something about the way Lansing said that made Tom’s skin crawl, but he remained stock-still. Waiting. Watching. Prophet was way too calm—Lansing had to know that.

  Why the fuck was Prophet so calm?

  “What do you want from me this time?” Prophet asked Lansing.

  “There’s no reason for you to have left the States.”

  “I don’t have a restricted passport,” Prophet shot back.

  Lansing’s eyes shifted, slid over Tom. “You brought your partner in crime,” he said quietly. “You’re slipping, Prophet.”

  Prophet smiled, and Tom knew in that instant that Prophet had made sure Lansing could find him. The fucker. Asking Tom about his voodoo feelings had been a goddamned test, and if he wasn’t ready to rip Lansing’s head off already, Prophet’s would’ve definitely been coming off first.

  Prophet shrugged. Smirked. “You’ve been a step behind for the past ten years. You finally get a foothold and you assume I haven’t let you in purposely.”

  A shadow flitted across Lansing’s expression, so briefly that Tom might not have caught it. But Tom smelled fear, and it wasn’t his or Prophet’s.

  Prophet had planned this, had lured Lansing here. Whatever the reasoning, Tom was pretty sure Prophet hadn’t planned to kill the bastard in the lobby. But that was the problem with old enemies—you never knew how you’d react when confronted by them. Prophet usually had the most control of anyone Tom knew, but Tom wasn’t surprised when Prophet lunged so fast and viciously that he brought Lansing to the ground, mainly from sheer surprise.

  But Lansing wasn’t going down easy. He wasn’t evenly matched against Prophet—although most CIA operatives had to be in damned good shape—but he had the same sheer, unmitigated rage running through Prophet as well, and they’d both stopped hiding it.

  Tom’s stomach clenched. But he wasn’t stepping in to stop it, unless Prophet needed help. Prophet needed to fight this one—and Tom understood fighting.

  From what Tom had seen in the video, Prophet had taken Lansing out in front of his team. Held him hostage, almost killed him, and smiled about it. So for Lansing, like Prophet, this was all personal, and he had no qualms about showing it. Tom’s hands fisted as he watched Prophet and Lansing rolling around, the sound of fists hitting flesh, grunts and curses echoing in the air.

  Tom glanced back to see the clerk, still behind the desk, but inching toward something in a cabinet behind him, no doubt a gun or a security button. Tom whipped around and pulled his weapon. “Back the fuck up. Did you call security?”

  The clerk shook his head, eyes wide.

  “I’m not going to hurt you. I want you to forget you saw any of this.” Tom took out a roll of cash and walked forward, handing it to the man. “Clear?”

  “Very.”

  “Good. Where’s the securit
y footage of the lobby?”

  The clerk pointed.

  “Is security watching the feed?”

  “No, they patrol. I watch the feed and radio them.” He pointed to the cabinet. “That’s where the equipment is. And the walkie-talkie. It’s been a slow night—I didn’t take it out after I came back from dinner.”

  “That saved your life. Get into that closet now.”

  “But—”

  “You’ll be fine. Someone will come let you out. Just don’t make any noise for the next half hour. Not a sound. And that money stays yours. Now give me your keys.”

  The clerk nodded vigorously, handed over the small ring, and went willingly into the closet. Tom locked it and then shoved a chair under the doorknob, all the while the background music of the fight let him know things were still going strong.

  He tried two keys on the cabinet, but the third one was the charm to give him access to the surveillance cams. He rewound and erased the footage of him and Prophet through to the present moment and then he disabled the cameras.

  When he straightened, he realized how quiet it had become, and moved quickly around the desk to see Prophet standing over Lansing.

  “He’s not dead,” Prophet said. But he looked like he wanted to change that immediately and was fighting with himself not to do so.

  He was at Prophet’s side in seconds, a hand on his shoulder, forcing him to drag his gaze to Tom’s eyes. “No more.”

  “I can’t leave him like this.” Prophet’s words were ground out as he kept looking between Lansing, who was splayed out with Prophet’s foot on his back, and Tom.

  Tom heard the answer in his own voice when he told Prophet, “You’re not going to do anything. I will. You go to LT. Now.”

  Prophet stared at him steadily. “Like I’m not already implicated?”

  “Not like I’m going to be. I’ll meet you.” Tom knew that if Prophet was ever going to do this, to let Tom truly help him, to trust him like an equal, now was the time.

  Prophet stared at him. “You’re pissed.”

  “Damn straight I’m pissed. You set me up.”

  “You’re fucking kidding me, right, T? I don’t want you anywhere near him.”

  “What did you think you were going to do with him then?”

  “Get the truth out of him, once and for all. I was going to send you along to LT’s.”

  “Just reverse it and we’ll stick to that plan.”

  “Why?”

  Tom ran his fingers gently on Prophet’s bruised cheekbone like he could heal it. “He’s taken too much from you already.”

  “He has. And I won’t let him take more. I’m not letting you do whatever it is—”

  Tom put a hand on Prophet’s shoulder, clapping down hard. “Leave, Prophet. Grab the fucking gear and get the hell out of here. No more discussion. I’m taking care of it.”

  Prophet drew in a sharp breath and seemed to almost come to. He looked down at Lansing and back up at Tom. “How long are you going to be?”

  “Several hours behind you. Maybe more.”

  Prophet nodded. Opened his mouth to say something, but Tom said, “Go, Proph. Now.”

  And Prophet did, shouldering his bags and walking stiffly out of the lobby and toward the car.

  Tom slung Lansing over one shoulder, his bag over the other, and headed for the stairs. He’d taken the keys to a lower level room nowhere near where he’d registered. He’d like to move to a different hotel, because he didn’t know if Lansing was alone. But the guy had been beaten badly and for the past fifteen minutes no one had come to his rescue.

  Tom would make sure no one did.

  “You’re just another pawn in their game,” Lansing told him calmly.

  Another fifteen minutes had passed. Tom had been getting a pitcher of water ready to throw at Lansing to wake his ass up. Now, he turned and stared at the stocky blond man who was watching him intently.

  The fact that he’d taken Prophet’s beating and still roused without help made Tom wary. He hadn’t taken any chances, tying Lansing tightly and keeping all weapons or anything that could be used as one away from him. But Lansing was obviously resilient and he needed to remember that.

  He’d swept the room for bugs. Turned on the TV. They were on the upper level, facing the beach. The ocean was the perfect white noise–machine, and would hopefully drown out Lansing’s screams if Tom dragged him onto the balcony later.

  Later. For now . . . “The CIA reports claim that John Morse was KIA.”

  Lansing snorted. “That’s what Prophet told you.”

  “The CIA said there’s a body.” Cillian had actually told Prophet this, but the CIA had never confirmed or denied it.

  “That’s what Prophet told you. I wouldn’t be here if there’d been any bodies at all.”

  “So your own agency’s lying to you?”

  “Or whoever gave you that intel was.”

  Touché, since it was Cillian they were talking about. “Prophet told you he killed Azar.”

  “And there’s no body. So he admits to an unauthorized kill—”

  “To save his own goddamned life.”

  “He could’ve disarmed him, brought him in for questioning. But he didn’t. And suddenly, Azar is missing.”

  “You really think Prophet’s in on this with John?”

  Lansing smiled. “I really do. You’re under his spell. Just like John was. Did you ever stop to consider that John’s not the one calling the shots? That your partner’s pulling all the strings, the way he always has. The way he always does?”

  “Tell me more.”

  Lansing’s smile twisted. “You have no idea what you’re asking.”

  Tom backhanded Lansing without warning, hard enough to bounce the chair to the ground. After several moments, Lansing ground out, “I will fucking kill you, Tom Boudreaux. I made that promise to Prophet, years ago. I promised to make his goddamned life a living hell, and I’m going to follow through with it. And you’re first on that list.”

  Tom yanked Lansing—and the chair—upright, then hit him again, this time aiming for the diaphragm and the ribs, hitting both with a one-two punch, hard enough to temporarily stun the man speechless. When he spoke again, his voice was low and monotone. “You want me to pass out . . . because you’re afraid you’re going to learn things about Elijah Drews that you don’t want to. Think you’re the first partner he’s slept with? The first partner he’s gotten to help cover his tracks? Think again.”

  Tom crossed his arms and studied the man so intent on destroying Prophet. And then he walked behind Lansing and reached for one of the man’s fingers.

  “If you value your life, Tom—”

  Lansing didn’t finish—he howled when Tom snapped two of his fingers in quick succession, then demanded, “Can you prove John helped Azar plan the attack on his own team?”

  Lansing stared at him, his eyes glazed. “Yes.”

  “And you can’t prove that Prophet was.”

  “The CIA’s let me work this for years. That’s enough proof.”

  “So why torture Prophet and let him loose?”

  “So I can follow him. Eventually, he’ll lead me to John. He’s already gotten me close. I’m sure you’d think that was just coincidence.”

  Tom itched to backhand him, but no, he wouldn’t give Lansing the satisfaction of knowing that last jab stung. “You know, you keep talking about Prophet, but I can’t seem to get a straight answer from the CIA. You tell Prophet that John’s dead. Then you accuse John of running a terrorist organization. With Prophet. And yet you leave Prophet loose. None of that makes sense.”

  “You only know the bits and pieces he throws out to you. Did you ever stop to think he’s using you to do his dirty work? You and all of EE and his SEAL team?” Lansing smirked. “Ask Prophet how his old team’s managing so well with no real source of income for the past eleven years.”

  “I’m sure they’ve got their ways. But you’re making my point—eleven years. Yo
u’ve met Prophet—patience isn’t his strong suit.”

  Lansing sneered at him like he was a fool. “Think with your head, not your dick. Prophet’s patient when it counts. So is Morse. Two sides of the same coin. Prophet looks like a concerned friend. You all go in to try to kill John—you end up killing other terrorists.”

  “I thought killing terrorists was top priority?” Tom asked.

  “Bringing terrorists in is top priority,” Lansing corrected. “Prophet and John need to get rid of Sadiq—he’d the only one standing in their way now. And then they’re the only ones who have the intel they need to do what Sadiq and the others couldn’t.”

  Lansing attempted to shift in his chair and Tom watched him carefully, walking around to make sure the bindings weren’t loosening, that he hadn’t somehow procured a weapon. Lansing looked over his shoulder then, asking, “Don’t you know that Prophet’s collected specialists over the years? Claims he’s protecting them. Do you really think one person should have that much power?”

  Tom hadn’t thought about it like that. “Isn’t that better than those specialists being at the mercy of the CIA?”

  “He’s got you so turned around,” Lansing spat.

  Blood streamed from his nose. His lip was split in three places.

  But his eyes still glowed with determination.

  He really believes in what he’s doing . . .

  Fucking prick.

  Lansing studied Tom for a long moment. “You didn’t know he was hiding specialists, did you?”

  Tom had known about Gary and his family, yes. But he hadn’t known there were others that Prophet was still watching over. It made sense—those weren’t jobs that finished after a month. Definitely not something Prophet would just abandon, given his loyalty, the never-ending sense of duty that hung like a weight around his neck. And it also made sense that Prophet couldn’t tell him about those specialists. That would compromise them, their families, and Tom.

  He stared at Lansing, his mind spinning. There was no real new information, but that didn’t matter. Having the CIA talk about John being alive . . .