Daylight Again (Hell or High Water, #3)

by SE Jakes

  “Jesus.” Tom ran a hand through his hair.

  Prophet rubbed his wrists, which had started to ache long before the rain started. “Sadiq’s used this time while the big hunt was for Osama. So has John.”

  “Do you think John’d be this well hidden without the CIA’s help?” Tom asked.

  Prophet looked grim. “I could hide. With help from terrorists, who knows?”

  Mal slid him a look and Prophet held up his hand. “And fuck you and your denial.”

  Not getting into it now, Mal signed.

  “So what is the plan?” Tom pressed.

  Mal signed while Prophet translated. Giving Sadiq what he wants. What he hasn’t been able to get since Hal.

  “I thought that Sadiq knows all of you?” Tom asked.

  “He does.” Fuck, Prophet did not want to go here with Tom. It’s not that Tom hadn’t gotten a glimpse into how dirty all of this could be, and it’s not that he wouldn’t understand, but every time he learned something new . . . well, he couldn’t unknow it. And that kind of shit changed a man. Might be subtle, but Tom would carry this for the rest of his life, and Prophet felt the guilt sifting inside of him.

  “So who’s going in to meet with him?” Tom pressed.

  Prophet looked at Mal. “We thought about using the most recent specialist, the one we discussed in Amsterdam. He’s been found and hidden, but . . .” But I’ve never been comfortable with collateral damage, no matter how many times someone tried to train it into me.

  Tom reached out and squeezed his forearm. “We’ll figure it out.”

  Someone must owe us a favor, Mal typed. Time to collect.

  “Ah, crap,” Tom said. “I don’t think I want to know any of this.”

  “Definitely not,” Prophet agreed.

  “So we’re using a random guy who owes you a favor as bait?” Tom shook his head. “You’re kidding, Proph, right? You’re fucking kidding me.”

  “Better than dangling an actual specialist out there. We’d be sending in someone trained. We’ll just use the newest specialist’s background and likeness. No one knows what they look like now. As long as we get a reasonable resemblance . . .”

  Mal typed, We can’t use ourselves—they have facial recognition software. Tom’s out because of that too. So’s the spook.

  “Maybe not,” Prophet said. “No proof that Cillian’s actually been in the same room as John.”

  Wouldn’t risk it, Mal signed. Gotta find someone else willing to do this.

  Prophet glanced at Tom. “Dean?”

  Tom sighed. “He’d do it. But really, Proph?”

  “All he’d have to do is convince them that his blindness doesn’t matter. As long as he can talk someone through building a trigger, that’s all that’s important. And he’ll keep his shit together. Because how are they going to think a blind guy’s going to be the one anyone would use as a decoy?”

  Mal and Tom stared at him, and Prophet shrugged.

  It was the perfect plan.

  It was also, possibly, a suicide mission, and decidedly too close to Prophet’s own truths for comfort.

  “Shit.” Prophet was staring at the security monitor. Tom glanced at it in time to see a man in a dark suit approaching the building and ringing the bell.

  “CIA?” Tom asked.

  “No doubt. Hey Mal, hit the buzzer,” he called.

  “Does this happen often?”

  “Never,” was Prophet’s answer, and that wasn’t reassuring. “Trying to keep him out’s the worst thing I can do—whoever the fuck he is.”

  “You think he’s here about Lansing?”

  “Don’t you?” Prophet asked as they went toward the entrance. Mal was already there, waiting by the half-opened door, arms crossed.

  “He’s a little more . . . psychotic than usual,” Tom said quietly.

  “How so?”

  “He took C-4 to bed with him.”

  Prophet shrugged. “He’s always done that.”

  “He used it as his pillow,” Tom pointed out. “And he slept on the floor in Remy’s room.”

  Prophet cut his eyes to Mal and whistled low under his breath. “Probably a mistake to have him here, but hell, I’m done following their rules.”

  Done pretending to, Mal mouthed, with a smile that let them know he’d heard the entire conversation while pretending he couldn’t. Then he motioned to the door and used his hand to simulate firing a gun.

  “No, Mal.” Prophet’s tone was firm.

  Mal signed something.

  “Okay, yes, if he tries to kill us, he’s fair game. But just talking to us doesn’t constitute a threat.”

  Mal sighed and looked completely disappointed. Tom understood his pain, and it scared the fuck out of him.

  He pushed that thought aside to concentrate on the man Mal was letting into the apartment with a nod. The guy was maybe six feet, short-cropped dark hair and an expensive suit. Expensive sunglasses, which he tucked into his jacket pocket, and Tom caught sight of an expensive watch and a shoulder holster he hadn’t bothered to hide.

  “Can I help you?” Prophet asked.

  “I’m Agent John Paul,” the man said.

  “And you’re with the CIA,” Prophet added.

  “Prophet Drews. Aka Elijah Drews. Currently self-employed,” Agent Paul said, before turning to Tom. “Tom Boudreaux. Former FBI. Former Sheriff. Currently on leave from EE, Ltd.”

  “They’re teaching you boys how to run internet searches? How progressive,” Prophet drawled.

  “And this is?” Agent Paul glanced at Mal, who smiled—psychotically—and made the agent take a step away from him.

  Nicely done. Tom would have to try the psycho thing more often.

  Luckily, Mal wore a fleece pullover that was zipped up, hiding the scar. Tom thought fast. “He’s my cousin, visiting from Paris. He doesn’t speak any English.”

  Tom said something to Mal in French—maybe Cajun French or maybe not, but it didn’t matter. Mal nodded and left the room. “I don’t think he’ll understand much, but there’s no reason for him to be here.”

  Agent Paul frowned, like he wasn’t sure he believed Tom, but Tom knew that Mal was the one man on Prophet’s team that no one from the CIA could find. Mal was still listed as MIA under his real name, Seamus Dwyer.

  “He’s a civilian.” Prophet’s words were firm, as if to force Agent Paul to drop any potential issue he had with Mal leaving, and he managed to sound really bored and calm when he continued with, “Now, how can we help you?”

  “The reason I’m here is to look into the death of Agent Lansing.”

  “Agent Lansing’s dead?” Prophet asked, the surprise evident in his voice.

  Agent Paul obviously took note of it, nodded slowly. “We thought you knew.”

  “How? We weren’t fucking pen pals.”

  “You seem upset at the death of a man you had a most contentious relationship with,” Agent Paul said.

  “Guess what, Agent Paul? The men who’ve been after me might’ve gotten to him. Did you ever stop to think of that? Maybe I’m worried about my own safety. I couldn’t give a fuck-all about Lansing, but I need to know more.”

  “I’m sorry, but that’s classified.”

  “Then why the ever-loving fuck are you here?” Prophet demanded. “Are you taking over his job?”

  “Perhaps, yes.” Agent Paul straightened up a little. Tom had no doubt the man could do some damage if called upon. “I followed up on your passports and saw you were in Africa during the same time Agent Lansing was.”

  “You realize he’s been tracking my movements for years, right? You’re actually surprised?” Prophet asked, just before they heard a brief knock and the sound of the door sliding open.

  “Expecting anyone?” Agent Paul asked as Mal strode to the door, thankfully not holding a weapon pointed at anyone. And judging by the look on Mal’s face, Tom knew exactly who the fuck was at the door.

  Thankfully, Prophet was studying Agent Paul thoro
ughly and didn’t seem to notice. Except that typically, Prophet noticed everything.

  Cillian was dressed all in black, his dark hair shorter than Tom had seen it last. He walked into the living room like he owned it, arm extended to Agent Paul, saying, “I’m Mark McDougal. And you are?” in a decidedly American accent.

  “Agent Paul.”

  The men shook hands and Cillian said, “I’m their lawyer. Looks like I arrived just in time.”

  He pulled out identification that Tom assumed said he was a member of the New York Bar.

  Agent Paul glanced at it and then at Prophet. “Do you call a lawyer every time you have company?”

  “We saw you coming,” Prophet said. “And he lives right below us. Pretty convenient.”

  “So, catch me up,” Cillian said, and Agent Paul repeated his speech about Lansing’s death. “Sorry to hear that, but what’s that got to do with these two gentlemen?”

  Tom still wanted to punch him, for so many reasons, but he had to admit the guy was good. If nothing else, he provided sufficient distraction.

  “Agent Lansing was last seen in Prophet and Tom’s vicinity.”

  “I didn’t see him,” Prophet said mildly. “If I had, that wouldn’t make him a very good agent, now would it?”

  “I’m assuming Lansing arrived after Prophet and Tom?” Cillian asked.

  Agent Paul didn’t answer that.

  “From what I gather, you’re pleasantly inquiring if either Prophet or Tom happened to see anyone suspicious who might have killed Agent Lansing?”

  “Listen, asshole—you know exactly what I’m getting at,” Agent Paul growled. “I believe one of these men killed Lansing.”

  “And I’m assuming you have evidence?” Cillian asked.

  “There’s a long history.”

  “Witnesses?” Cillian held out his hands. “I’m guessing the answer to both my questions is no, or else these men would be in handcuffs and stamped as property of the CIA.”

  “I can take them in any time I’d like,” Agent Paul informed him. “And they wouldn’t be seen from again. Trust me.”

  “You can try,” Cillian said, his tone lighter but somehow more threatening. “We’ll be waiting. In the meantime, I’ll show you out.”

  Cillian motioned toward the door, Agent Paul moving grudgingly.

  “He’ll be back,” Prophet muttered when the door closed.

  Cillian came back in, a finger to his lips, then said, “You should call me before answering more questions. And stay in country.” He still used his American accent, which made Tom want to punch him hard. Harder than he had before.

  Prophet narrowed his eyes at what Cillian said, cut a glance to Mal and then back to Cillian. “We can do that.” Then he mouthed to Tom, “Check for bugs.”

  The four of them searched for listening devices, found two—both Lansing’s. Prophet explained to Tom that he could always tell his favorite agent’s setup. “After all this time, he hasn’t gotten any new tricks. I guess he never needed to. It was all part of his game.”

  Tom felt a sudden chill. Meanwhile, Cillian and Prophet kept discussing the visit as if they were lawyer and client, including making plans to all go to Cillian’s apartment. Meanwhile, Prophet put the bugs out on the deck and closed the door instead.

  Cillian did head down to his apartment to check things out—he murmured that he’d text Prophet when it was all clear before glancing at Mal on his way out.

  Jesus, the look that passed between Mal and Cillian was palpable, like neither man knew exactly what to do with the other. Like the ice under their feet was thin, so fragile so you could almost hear the cracking as they walked.

  Cillian went downstairs first. Tom figured Mal would have the good sense to stay up here, and it appeared that was his plan.

  But before he and Prophet went to Cillian, Mal mouthed, The witness?

  And Tom cursed inwardly, because no one had any loyalty anymore when they were paid off. “Guy at the hotel front desk.”

  Mal sighed, then typed, That witness needs to disappear. I’ll get Hook on it. He’ll relocate the guy.

  “There’s no other evidence. No footage. I’m sure of it,” Tom said.

  Blood? Mal mouthed.

  “I did it in the bathroom. And I know how to get blood off walls permanently.” Tom punctuated that by pointing at Mal.

  For the first time, at least in front of Prophet, Mal looked at him and smiled. Signed, and Prophet translated, That’s the most useful thing about you then.

  It was Tom’s turn to give him the finger.

  When Prophet and Tom entered his apartment, the first thing Cillian said—in his clipped British tones—was, “I know he’s not the son of one of your specialists.”

  Awesome—that meant Mal had been made before Cillian showed up here, which was probably what Mal’d been hiding from him.

  But Mal wasn’t hiding anymore, obviously, since he was suddenly in Cillian’s apartment, arms crossed, weapon in his hand, waiting at the door.

  Prophet glanced at him and shrugged in Cillian’s direction. “Good for you. Now what the fuck was that?”

  “That would be what you Americans call, saving your ass.” And the British accent was replaced by a brogue far thicker than King’s.

  “How’ve I survived all these years without you?” Prophet drawled as sarcastically as possible. He willed himself to stay calm, but how long that would work was anyone’s guess.

  “You killed Lansing,” Tom said slowly.

  “Give the Cajun a prize.” Cillian gave a self-satisfied smile and Prophet saw Tom’s fists clench as Cillian added, “I was supposed to kill him before you tortured information out of him.”

  “Really sorry to ruin your plans,” Tom said, sounding completely unsorry.

  “How the hell did you know where I was?” Prophet demanded.

  Cillian said simply, “Don’t bother searching your phone for chips.”

  “Then how did you know?”

  “Prophet, I know everything.”

  Fuck him, Cillian did. “Why kill him?”

  “It was either Lansing or you and Tom. Don’t you think Lansing would’ve gone right back and reported it?”

  “I was counting on that,” Tom shot back.

  “Ah, you had a plan?” Cillian rolled his eyes.

  “What’s your game?” Prophet asked him.

  “I’m offering you my services. Directly.”

  “As in, you were helping me indirectly the whole time?” Prophet asked.

  “Yes, I was.”

  “By lying to me about John?”

  “You didn’t believe me,” Cillian pointed out.

  Prophet rammed him, held him against the wall with a forearm across his throat. “Just fucking say it.”

  Cillian gave a short nod. “If you got too close to John, I was supposed to kill you.”

  Mal snorted, although he hadn’t moved from the wall. Cillian muttered something in his heavy brogue, but Prophet cut him off. “So what changed that you’re coming to me offering your services?”

  “I left my own agency before they could kill me. They haven’t stopped trying. So, as I’ve suspected, there’s a much different reason they want John Morse. And they don’t necessarily want him dead, as they’ve said.”

  “But they sent you to kill John.”

  “Interesting conundrum, isn’t it?” Cillian’s voice was hoarse.

  “I want to kill him,” Tom said, pointing at Cillian.

  “Join the club,” Prophet said, pushing his arm against Cillian’s neck.

  Mal raised his hand to join in the fray, and Cillian’s expression hardened.

  “So if you were supposed to kill Prophet, you were probably supposed to kill me too,” Tom said. “Why am I still standing?”

  Cillian turned his attention to Tom. “Because I found out that we’re all on the chopping block. SB-20 wanted there to be nothing left of anyone who had knowledge of John Morse. Including me.”

  �
��So you changed sides because your ass was on the line?” Prophet pressed his arm a little harder against Cillian’s throat.

  “You know it’s not that simple, Prophet. In reality, you should’ve been dead a long time ago.”

  “And that’s why you’re a target—because you couldn’t do your damned job.”

  “You’re angry that I didn’t kill you? I really don’t understand Americans,” Cillian shook his head minutely.

  “How the fuck can I trust you to work on our side?”

  “Do you want me to kill you right now to prove it?” Cillian asked casually. “It’s not a problem.”

  “Yeah, it would be,” Prophet told him. “So when did it go from needing to shut me up to needing to protect me?”

  “Around the time I received that video of you and Lansing.”

  Prophet stared at him. “You’re the one who sent it to Tom.”

  Cillian held out his hands, even as Prophet still held his neck. “Now he gets it.”

  And then Prophet asked the question he wasn’t sure he wanted answered, but it needed answering. “How close did I get, Cillian?”

  “Close,” was all Cillian would say. And Prophet supposed that didn’t matter now. Because unless John was in the next room, the close of any time earlier than this very minute didn’t fucking matter.

  “How the fuck am I supposed to trust you? How are any of us supposed to trust you?”

  Cillian sighed. “The same way you’ve been for the past two and a half years. All of that wasn’t a game, Prophet. We’re both good liars, but it’s probably best we don’t lie to ourselves any more, yes?”

  “Why would you risk your job for me?” Because Prophet really wanted to hear this goddamned slick answer.

  “The video,” Cillian said simply. Prophet took a moment to process, stared until Cillian said, “I saw it, Prophet. My organization showed it to me as a way to convince me of your guilt. It did exactly the opposite.”

  Prophet pulled his arm away and took a couple of steps back, but Cillian didn’t move. “So you’ve been on my side the entire time?”

  “I’ve wanted to kill John the entire time. And Sadiq. And, of course, Lansing, and I finally got to carry that one out. That counts as protecting you, yes?” Cillian asked. “I know the information about Sadiq. No thanks to Mal.”