Daylight Again (Hell or High Water, #3)

by SE Jakes

  “It’s the only way to get in touch with you.” Doc stared him down, pointing for Prophet to move back. Which he did, two steps. Doc sighed.

  “You’re following me?”

  “Because you’re avoiding my calls. You know I don’t play that shit, Prophet.”

  No, Doc didn’t. “What do you want? I’m not working for Phil anymore. And I’ve been busy.”

  “Fuck that not working for Phil shit. You’re still my fucking patient and my friend, asshole. And yes, I’ve heard how busy you’ve been.” Doc was a big man, and he was scary when he glowered. Which he was doing now.

  “Fuck off,” Prophet muttered, fully realizing he was taking his life in his hands and not caring.

  Doc stared up at the ceiling, doing some muttering of his own before leveling his cool gaze on Prophet. “You’re a selfish bastard.”

  “I’m selfish?”

  “Yeah, and I’m going to tell you why, asshole. I know what you’ve been thinking.”

  Prophet shook his head, turned halfway, trying to figure out a way to bolt because he didn’t need this shit. Not now, not ever. “Now you’re a mind reader too. You and Tom could practice your voodoo together.”

  “I’ve known it since the moment I found out about your disease, Prophet. And I know what you’ve been thinking while you were sitting here.”

  Prophet stared at him steadily, trying to keep the venom out of his voice, because it was Doc, for Christsakes. Why the hell was the man doing this to him? “Want a medal?”

  Doc’s eyes flicked over him, flashing with an anger Prophet was more than familiar with. “I want you. To listen. To. Me. I won’t let it happen.”

  “Can’t stop me from going blind.”

  “I can stop you from killing yourself.”

  Prophet inhaled sharply. Wanted to come back at Doc with a smart answer about how Doc wasn’t around twenty-four seven to stop him, but that would give realness to something he didn’t want to admit to. So he shut his mouth, which was pretty much Doc’s intention anyway.

  Doc gave a nod in his direction. “You know, when my injury took me out of the SEALs, I wanted to take my toys and go home too. I fucking hated anyone with good knees. I didn’t want to leave the teams. But I sulked for a while, until someone kicked my ass and reminded me that I had a bigger responsibility. That I couldn’t hoard my knowledge.”

  Prophet rolled his eyes and let sarcasm drip from his words, even though Doc didn’t deserve that. “Right—come work at EE so I can pretend I can do shit. Maybe I could answer phones.”

  “And maybe you could lead operatives home safely over the satellite comms—be their voice in the sky. Maybe you can still save lives. Maybe giving up right now is going to hurt every other operative who relies on you. Because how many calls do you end up getting when you’re not on missions? Even when you are?”

  Prophet thought about his clogged email and voice mail messages when he’d gone off the rails a few months earlier. Operatives had been calling—to check on him. To ask for help. To brainstorm. To see if Prophet could lend a hand. “People think they need me now. That’ll change.”

  Doc sighed, put his fingers on the bridge of his nose, shorthand for Prophet is trying every last bit of my patience, and Prophet was too miserable to even be proud of that. “That shit’s not going to stop. The only one who sees you as damaged is you—and you’d fucking think that with twenty-twenty vision. Because I know you have.”

  “You gonna take your own advice and get over Nico one of these days? It’s only been what, seven years?”

  Doc’s jaw clenched and his expression went stony.

  “Right. So we’ll talk when that happens.”

  Prophet could tell that, if they weren’t in someone else’s office, Doc would’ve fucking rammed him through the wall. As it was, he’d be lucky if Doc didn’t take him out to the parking lot and beat the shit out of him there, and Prophet would deserve it. Maybe that’s what he wanted.

  As if reading his mind, Doc grunted. “Me beating the piss out of you isn’t going to make the fact that you’re going blind any easier to take, you shithead.”

  Prophet took a page from Mal’s playbook and shot him the finger.

  Doc snorted. “What? You want to be left all alone? Is that it? So you’ll have an excuse to take yourself out? Are you pushing Tom away, or do you have a new plan to get rid of him? Because if you want to kill yourself, save him some grief and do it now, before he’s really invested in you.”

  “Fuck you,” Prophet muttered, blinking hard, his throat tightening. Stop it, Doc. Just fucking stop it, he wanted to say, but the words choked on the way out.

  “Come on. I’ll give you the pills. An injection. It’ll be painless. Quick. And exactly what you were trying to do with your missions.”

  “You’re wrong.”

  “Really? Tell me how wrong.”

  Now he wanted to take Doc out to the parking lot and beat the shit out of him. But he didn’t move an inch.

  “Why the fuck are you doing this to me?” he finally managed to blurt out, and heard how raw and hollow his voice sounded. He had to get out of here, but Doc was standing in front of him, hands on his shoulders, and the fucker was built like a bull. Strong. Maybe stronger than Tommy.

  “Finish your shit,” Doc continued. “Find John. End this once and for all. And then open a new chapter.”

  “You’re just doing this to make yourself feel better.”

  “I will fucking punch you, you disabled asshole.”

  Prophet threw his hands in the air. “I swear to Christ, that’s abuse. You can’t yell at a disabled person like that. You can’t call a disabled person disabled asshole. That’s just fucking wrong.”

  “Who says?”

  “I do,” Prophet said indignantly. Doc was biting back a smile. “And it’s not funny.”

  Doc’s voice was quiet, a little rough and choked when he said, “I know, Proph.”

  And that was enough for Prophet to admit, “I don’t think I can do this.” Although he had no real idea what this was. At this point, it translated into everything.

  Doc tucked an arm around the back of Prophet’s neck and Prophet buried his face in Doc’s shoulder as Doc said, “It’s not fair. I know it’s not. But before you do anything else, you have to tell Tom.”

  “How do you know I haven’t?”

  “How do I know the sun rises in the morning?”

  “Fucker,” Prophet muttered against Doc’s shoulder. “Disability-hater.” Doc rubbed the back of his neck but didn’t make a move to let him go. And Prophet was okay with that.

  “Do you want me to tell him?” Doc asked finally.

  “Yeah. But you can’t.” God, it was safe right here, with Doc. And Prophet wanted it to be this safe with Tommy . . . and it was, except for this issue. Which he hadn’t given Tommy the chance to deal with.

  “I can be there with you. I’ll answer the questions he’ll have, so you don’t have to.”

  Prophet lifted his head. “Yeah, I get you’re trying to make it easier on me, but fuck, it’s not going to be at all. I can’t pretend anything will help.”

  “Not pretending is the first step.”

  The flashback was quieter this time—just John, sitting in his usual spot, smoking a cigarette. Watching him while he remained in that half-sleep, half-waking stage.

  “You knew it was going to happen, Proph,” John drawled. “Not such a shock.”

  “Go fuck yourself,” Prophet muttered.

  “I’ve tried, but it’s not nearly as fun as what we used to do.”

  Prophet turned away, turned his back on the guy in a way he hadn’t been able to do in real life. “Maybe when I lose my sight I won’t fucking see you anymore.”

  “You have bigger things than me to concentrate on than me,” John continued. “Deal with your shit.”

  “That would be convenient for you.”

  “It would be. But that’s not why I’m telling you.”

&nbs
p; It was quiet then. Prophet finally yanked himself out of the dream, and found himself sitting up on the edge of the bed, his back to the window. And he was shaking.

  He cursed his weakness and swore he could still smell cigarette smoke. He was moving toward the window when his phone beeped with a text. And something told him to look at it, right fucking now.

  Confirmed.

  Prophet stared at the text, which could’ve been about anything. But it wasn’t. It was telling him something he’d already known for years. It was the reason he’d gone UA all those years ago, roaming third-world countries, risking life and limb, throwing the CIA off his trail at every opportunity.

  He knew they’d questioned King, Mal, Ren, and Hook extensively while he’d been gone. That the men had been in limbo, awaiting a possible court martial. That the CIA had dragged them in and then informed them they could only go free, or a reasonable facsimile thereof, once Prophet came home.

  And that was the reason he did come home. Because those guys would’ve taken the brunt forever. And he couldn’t have lived with that guilt.

  He punched the numbers on the secured line and waited for all the men to hook in. Mal tuned in on Skype and Prophet lay there, surrounded by his team, looking at the spot John had lectured him from moments before.

  “You alone?” King asked.

  “For now, yeah,” Prophet said, resentment building that King was still questioning Tom. He shoved it down where it belonged and turned to Mal. “How?”

  Two of Cillian’s informants had the same intel, Mal signed. I traced it.

  “We’ve traced things before,” Prophet said.

  Mal’s expression hardened. I heard his voice, Proph. I fucking heard his voice. Twice.

  Prophet closed his eyes for a second and sighed. “We wasted a lot of time trying to prove something I’ve known since day one.”

  “No choice,” King broke in.

  “What else did you find out?” Prophet asked Mal.

  Cillian’s informants were on John’s payroll. They met him. And they were tasked with killing Cillian.

  “Does Cillian know this?” Prophet demanded.

  Mal shook his head. Not yet. I don’t have plans to tell him. He’s pretty well freaked out at the moment. And I’m not done with him yet.

  Ren jumped in. “Now we go get John. And we fucking kill him. Although I think we should torture him first.”

  While the others agreed, the way they always did, Prophet remained quiet. Normally he’d join in, because he didn’t want to deal with them all silently judging him.

  Although he was pretty damned sure they discussed this shit amongst themselves all the time.

  “Prophet?” King asked.

  “I’m here.”

  “You sure you’re with us?” King probed. “I know it must be hard, hearing this about the guy you loved. Your best friend.”

  “Jam the knife in deeper, King,” Prophet said quietly, and King exploded.

  “After all this goddamned time, you still think he was forced, Proph? Come the fuck on. We’ve been coddling you, knowing you feel guilty about the guy you loved fucking us all over, but you have to open your eyes.” King’s brogue was strongest when he was angry, and Prophet hadn’t ever had King this angry at him.

  He avoided Mal’s gaze, because he could feel Mal’s fucking pity. He gave the guy the finger instead and told them all, “I never said I thought he was forced. And I never asked you to fucking coddle me. And I don’t get why it matters to you—I never said we weren’t going after him.”

  “Can we trust you to kill him if you’re the first one to see him?” Hook asked.

  “Yes,” Prophet ground out without hesitation.

  “You’ve always been a good liar, Proph,” King said.

  “Fuck all of you.” He cut both of the lines at once, turned them off, and went into the living room. It was dark and quiet, and he thought about calling Tom, asking him to come home. But Phil let him get all that time off, and would let him leave at a moment’s notice. Taking a few hours to do paperwork wasn’t something Prophet would get in the middle of.

  But fifteen minutes later, Tom went by the cameras, not trying to be stealthy. He came into the house and went right to Prophet, yanking his jacket off along the way.

  For a long moment he stared at Prophet, and then he tugged him close, asking, “What happened?”

  For a second, Prophet thought Doc had told him. Then he realized that he must’ve been giving off a come home now vibe . . . and obviously, message received. He buried his face against Tom’s shoulder for a few more seconds before pulling back. “John’s alive. Mal heard his voice. He’s alive and well, and I’m going to have to kill him.”

  When Tom had gotten the hinky feeling, he’d known it was Prophet. It hadn’t felt like immediate danger, but these days, who the fuck knew? Prophet had been gone when he’d woken up—a prior appointment he couldn’t miss, the note said, and so Tom figured he’d go into EE and deal with leftover paperwork.

  Luckily, he’d avoided Phil, who’d been taking the morning off. Because he had nothing new to report to the man except he’d told LT off.

  Which Phil might give him a promotion for.

  Now, looking at the storm warring in Prophet’s eyes, he knew he was right to be here.

  “John’s alive. And it’s what you’ve believed all this time,” Tom said quietly, because what else was there to say? What else could Prophet hope for—that John had died that day Azar was supposed to have shot him? How different would things have been? And what a fucking thing to have to wish for.

  “It’s what I wanted to believe,” Prophet corrected.

  “Because you didn’t think the man you knew would do this. You were convinced there had to be another reason.” He led Prophet to the couch, sat next to him.

  “Just because Lansing told you that, doesn’t mean it’s true.”

  “I know. But John’s been alive all this time. And if he’s sending Sadiq after you . . . it doesn’t make sense. He’s had eleven years, and you’re not exactly living off the grid, which means he can find you easily enough. He’s had plenty of time to kill you, Proph. He didn’t. So something’s going on with him. He might not be the man you knew entirely but . . .”

  Prophet acknowledged that with a glance at Tom before he turned his gaze toward the window. “Thanks for not thinking I’m in some kind of denial.”

  “Does your team think that?”

  “Yeah. They’re fucking pissed at me right now. I told them I’d kill him. They don’t believe that. But goddamned, if I couldn’t, I wouldn’t lie. It’s too important.” His voice was tight, his shoulders stiff.

  “Ah, Proph. Suppose . . .” Tom’s question remained unasked, hanging between them, but Prophet obviously knew what he was trying to say, because he turned to him and said, “I’ll kill him if it needs to be done.”

  “But you’re hoping it doesn’t need that?”

  “I don’t think it’s possible.”

  “Proph, what do you think happened to John, really and truly? Do you think he sold you out and went with Azar?”

  Prophet stared at Tom as though making a decision, his expression tight. Finally, he admitted, “I think it started out as a highly classified mission, a way to put a US military man into a terrorist organization so he could work his way up the ranks.”

  “So John might have been working undercover, all this time?”

  “It’s the kind of job I would’ve been tapped for,” Prophet said quietly.

  “So why weren’t you?”

  Prophet shrugged, so Tom didn’t push him. “Does your team think that too?”

  “It was one of the theories, sure. But there had to be a way to do this without fucking all of us over. And if there wasn’t . . .” Prophet stopped, his eyes flashing with anger. “So I thought, maybe he was forced. He had no choice—maybe he took the job so I wouldn’t have to. Because I never would’ve survived that kind of shit. I don’t have that kind of
death wish.”

  “So when he disappeared?”

  “I thought . . . yeah, I thought maybe he took the job. I also thought that maybe the CIA killed him, let him be killed, to show me that I shouldn’t say no to things. A punishment. And after what happened with Lansing—the way they kept me and questioned me—I figured they were following through on that threat. And then, when I was being jerked around about there being no bodies, and I realized it was going to haunt me and my team forever, I knew I needed to try to figure it out.”

  “And Lansing still doesn’t consider that John might’ve been following actual orders?”

  “They would’ve been in direct opposition to Lansing’s, so I’m guessing not. And why would he, when he’s got a lot of us to blame instead. If you just look at what happened dispassionately, you might come to the same conclusions.”

  Tom hated that Prophet might be right about that. “Why didn’t you say something to Lansing anyway? Maybe he would’ve believed you, maybe not, but he’d have investigated it.”

  “Back then . . . I didn’t want to do anything to hurt John. I didn’t know what the fuck’d happened. Christ, I couldn’t get the ringing out of my ears for months. I didn’t give a shit what Lansing believed or didn’t believe.” He paused, drew in a shaky breath. “And telling Lansing wouldn’t have mattered. John’s good, Tommy. Better than I am, because he doesn’t have much of a conscience or a use for people.”

  That must have been a hard truth to have to admit about a man Prophet had once loved . . . a man who’d supposedly loved Prophet.

  “You can’t tell me that kind of mission’s just forced on Special Forces operators, no matter how good you are. There’s got to be tacit agreement.”

  Prophet sighed. Nodded.

  “I want to hate him, Proph.”

  “Go ahead. Some days, I do. A lot of days, actually. I know better than anyone that there’s no real way to save him. He’s gone, Tommy. No matter what the reasons are, no matter the actual outcome, John died the day he left Azar’s. And he knows it.”

  “So why go after him?”

  “I’ll go after him because, if he’s turned, he’s got to be stopped.” Prophet bared his teeth. “I’ll go after him to see him, one last goddamned time, and tell him that he used us, in the worst possible way. That he’s still using us, holding us hostage to a mission we never agreed to. No matter what way you look at it, it doesn’t matter—it was always a suicide mission for him, and he tried to take us with him. Granted, all of the missions he and I went on were, but this was beyond the pale.”