Long Time Gone (Hell or High Water ) (3 page)

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: Worried

No one knows where you are.

I’m not going to insult you by saying I’m sorry, because that’s too simple. 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.

Tom was losing his mind. He was resolutely ignoring The Weather Channel on the muted TV, but everything he
was
doing was punctuated with the
thunk thunk thunk
of Cope, lying flat on his back on the floor of EE, Ltd.’s Eritrea office, throwing a tennis ball against the ceiling and catching it. Left-handed. A million fucking times.

He’d told Tom he did it because he was right-handed and needed to up his advantage.

When it had started on day one of their partnership, four months ago, Tom swore Cope did it because he knew it drove Tom nuts. That was, until he’d reminded himself that he wasn’t dealing with Prophet any more. That Cope was as straight a shooter as it got. That Tom had chosen Cope. Deliberately.

Six months of working for EE and he was already on his second partner, just like normal. Except this time, it was his choice, not the curse that had plagued him his entire life.

The two weeks he’d been partnered with Prophet, they’d fought—each other and outsiders—and Tom had, of course, nearly gotten Prophet killed. Then, just to prove a point, he’d nearly gotten them
both
killed.

Finally, Phil had told him to make a choice—Prophet or Cope.

And here you are.

Tom had texted Prophet only a few times right after he’d chosen Cope as his partner. He’d gotten a couple of short, general answers back that he’d later discovered Prophet had sent out as mass texts to get everyone off his back. And then nothing.

Thunk
.

But when he found out that Prophet had quit—or had been forced out of EE, depending on which version you believed—his chances of seeing Prophet again shrank dramatically. What if he never saw the man again?

And that’s when the anger had set in.

“He could at least let me know if he’s dead or alive,” he’d muttered to Cope time and time again.

Cope would tell him that Prophet was fine. “It’s not Prophet you have to worry about. He does the killing.” A half shrug and a smile. “Granted, sometimes Prophet does things that make you want to kill him, so maybe you should worry.”

“Comforting, Cope,” Tom had muttered, and Cope had merely shrugged the shrug of a man used to dealing with Prophet for years.

“I’m sure that wherever he is, he’s driving someone crazy,” Cope offered now, without stopping the throwing-the-ball-against-the-ceiling thing.

Tom sighed, because his first goddamned response was that he wanted Prophet to be driving
him
crazy. He played with the leather bracelet absently, the way he had since Prophet had put it on him, his mind tumbling through the mission, the cage match, the fights, Prophet getting shot . . . “Hey, do you have Mal’s number?”

The ball careened wildly off the wall. Tom ducked and caught it as it zinged by.

“Mal, as in . . .
Mal
?”

Tom threw Cope the ball. “Is there more than one? Dark hair. Tattoos. Can’t speak. Kind of an asshole. Do you know him?”

Cope snorted and started throwing the ball again. “Fucker’s crazy. Like, of all the crazy motherfuckers in the world—and Prophet holds a spot near the very top—Mal is so number one that he’s off the goddamned charts, sealed in a fucking box somewhere that’s lined with silver, encased in cement, and buried so deep in the goddamned ground, you’d hit China looking for it. That’s what I think of motherfucking, crazy-assed, don’t-let-him-on-the-same-goddamned-continent-as-me Mal.”

Thunk
.

“So you don’t like him then?”

Cope shrugged. “He’s all right.”
Thunk
.

Tom sighed. “Can you get in touch with him?”

Thunk
. “Not with a ten-foot pole attached to C4.”

Tom wondered if Natasha could, but he decided against letting everyone in the office know how pathetic he was. It was already pathetic enough that he’d been emailing Prophet every day, sometimes including scanned sketches like a lovesick puppy.

Thunk
.

But writing daily to Prophet since the end of his first week in Eritrea had become the last thing Tom did every night, no matter what. The ritual calmed him and made him feel connected to the man who’d so desperately wanted to disconnect from him.

I might’ve quit you, Proph, but you quit me first. You just didn’t come right out and say it.

He hadn’t said that in his emails, though. Not at first. He’d kept them more focused on the job. Cope. His life in general.

But after the first few emails, he’d let himself say whatever the fuck he wanted. Trying to woo the man with words, making promises he might not be able to keep. But what else was new? If working with Prophet had taught him anything, it was that promises were dangerous, especially if they were worthwhile.

But now, after nearly four months without a single email back from Prophet, he knew he’d have to take things further to get in touch with the guy. If Phil ever gave him time off. It was almost as if Phil was purposefully keeping him too busy with constant training in between missions, so Tom couldn’t even consider going to find Prophet.

Phil did nothing by mistake, so Tom bit back complaints, continued to prove himself with each and every job he’d been assigned.

Cope liked working with him.

Cope was still alive.

Therefore, in Tom’s mind, Prophet had broken his bad luck karma.

Prophet had definitely broken
something
, and goddammit, even though Tom had made the choice, he wanted Prophet to come back and put all the pieces back together.

“The hurricane’s looking to be a direct hit,” Cope told him now, interrupting his rhythm to point at the TV overhead—he’d been watching it upside down all day, with the sound off so Tom wouldn’t worry too much. But the meteorologists had been having a field day with the fact that this hurricane was due to slam directly into New Orleans only days after Katrina’s late August anniversary.

Growing up in Louisiana had given Tom a certain perspective on storms. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t quietly frantic about his aunt. She was just like everyone else in the damn state, even after Katrina. Resilient as hell, stubborn with it, and utterly unwilling to evacuate. But with Della’s heart problems and the storm amping up instead of downgrading like they’d said it would, he was worried. And in Eritrea.

But the storm was still five days out. Anything could happen in five days.

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: Hurricane

I know what you’d do, Proph. Nothing would stop you. I guess that’s what Phil’s worried about, because he told me he’d fire my ass if I even thought about leaving my post. He called my aunt for me, checked in. She’s got her supplies, and he said she’ll be okay. And I guess I’m supposed to be all right with that, but fuck it, something isn’t sitting right with me. Yeah, go ahead and laugh. I can hear you calling me
Cajun
or
voodoo
, clear as day.

The bayou’s my home. It’s where I learned to fight. Every time I head home, I expect things to be different—and they never are. That’s the definition of insanity, right? Doing the same thing over and over and expecting a new result.

It’s a dangerous place for me, Proph. But I keep getting pulled back. Maybe Phil not letting me go home’s for the best. At least that’s what I’m trying to believe.

Otherwise, Cope’s fine. I’ve gone four months without otherwise maiming him or getting him shot. That’s a pretty good record, considering how many times we’ve gone out on small jobs together. He’s a good teacher. Patient. Talks about his girlfriend a lot. I have to wear headphones when they have phone sex.

I always think about you during those times, Proph. Other times, yeah, but that’s when I miss you the most, and not just because you’re decent in bed.

Tom sat in front of his glowing computer screen—with his headphones on—and thought about not sending this one. It would be his one hundred and twenty-second email (and yes, he’d counted) without an answer, but in the end, he let it out into the universe, hoping that it might find its mark.

Twenty-four hours later

Blue slammed through the half-opened window.

On the fourth floor.

Prophet rolled his eyes. Blue, who wore a rope harness over his jeans and long-sleeved, thermal T—all black, of course—along with a black skullcap, even though it was hot as balls, looked unperturbed about having narrowly missed a table. And possibly killing himself.

“You just took out my screen,” Prophet told him. Didn’t bother to ask why Blue hadn’t used the door, because asking Blue that would be like asking God why he’d created the universe—the answer to both being
Why the hell not?
Which was Prophet’s answer to just about everything too.

“
Your
friend’s an asshole,” Blue informed Prophet as he ripped his cap off.

“Why is Mick
my
friend when he’s an asshole?”

“Because—” Blue stopped, pulled out his phone, and dialed. Ran his hands through his wild hair as he waited a beat, then said into the phone, “I just broke into Prophet’s place. Fourth floor. And I didn’t get a lecture. He didn’t say a word about danger. No, I won’t put him on. You can call him yourself.”

He ended the call and raised his hand triumphantly. “I’m going to get something to eat.”

Prophet’s cell phone started to ring.

“I wouldn’t mind dinner,” Prophet called after Blue, then picked up Mick’s call. “I hate it when Mommy and Daddy fight.”

“If you and Tom had fought instead of walking away from each other—”

Prophet interrupted. “I’m siding with Blue on this one.”

“You don’t even know why Blue’s pissed.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Empirically, it matters.”

“Did you hurt your back using that big word?”

“Is he using
empirically
again?” Blue demanded as he came back in from the kitchen.

“Where’s my dinner?” Prophet asked him.

“I put the water on to boil.” Blue motioned for him to hang up.

Prophet did, because he knew it would make Mick mad. “You know he’ll be here soon.”

Blue shrugged out of his shirt, leaving it like a trail along with the rope and his hat. By the time Prophet caught up to him in the kitchen, he had a Coke and was glancing down at his phone one more time before shoving it into his pocket. “Yeah, I know.”

And that’s why Blue could run, because Mick would always go after him. Prophet was semi-blown away by the simplicity of the entire situation.

Then again, neither Mick nor Blue came with much baggage. Not compared to him, anyway. “Steal anything good lately?”

“Lots.” Blue’s eyes lit up like a kid’s on Christmas. He turned to stir the pasta he’d put into a large pot. “I made bottled gravy—you don’t have any tomatoes.”