Daylight Again (Hell or High Water, #3)

by SE Jakes

  Mal snorted and bowed.

  “What Sadiq’s planning, it’s either a warm-up, or it’s meant to throw all of us—and the CIA—off the scent,” Cillian said now. “I think we have to force his hand. Put someone in his path that he can’t pass up. Make him think this is the big score.”

  “Yeah, we’ve already gone there and figured that out. Do you have someone in mind?” Prophet asked. “Because it’s pretty hard to fake a specialist, and we’ve all been made.”

  “I have two men in mind. One, Sadiq doesn’t know at all—he’s the man who’ll be taking the goods to Sadiq. As for the specialist . . .” Cillian held up a finger, then went to his slightly opened bedroom door and said, “It’s time.”

  The door opened and Gary walked out.

  Gary.

  Dead Gary. “What the hell?” Prophet asked.

  Tom pointed to Cillian. “Can I kill him now?”

  “Yes,” Prophet said, and Tom raised his weapon at Cillian and held it there.

  “I’m never saving you again,” Cillian told Tom.

  “No, because you’ll be dead,” Tom reasoned.

  “Prophet, please, I’m okay.” Gary sounded so different, no longer the bratty kid. Guess a kidnapping and an exploding helo did that to a guy.

  Prophet took a step toward him. And another. Touched Gary’s shoulder, wanting to reassure himself that he was real. Swallowed hard and couldn’t say a word.

  “I’m so sorry, Prophet,” Gary said.

  Prophet cleared his throat, managed, “No. I failed you. I’m—”

  “Failed me? I fucking sold you out to a terrorist, along with myself. For something I didn’t understand.” Gary’s voice was rough with emotion. “You saved me. Cared enough about me and Mom—and Dad too—to keep us safe and hidden for years. And I fucked it up.”

  As much as Prophet hated having to owe Cillian, he reached out and pushed Tom’s arm—the one holding the gun—down. Tom resisted at first, but acquiesced after a few seconds. Prophet didn’t take his eyes off Gary, like he was afraid the kid would disappear if he looked away.

  “Where have you been?” he asked Gary now.

  “All over. Cillian moved me to different safe houses with friends of his.”

  “No one from SB-20,” Cillian added.

  Prophet kept his attention focused on Gary. “I don’t know what Cillian told you, but there’s no way I’m letting you voluntarily go back into this.” His words were slow and deliberate, more for Cillian’s benefit than anything.

  “You have to let me make up for what I did.”

  “If I had to go back and make up for all the shit I did in my twenties . . .”

  “Aren’t you?” Cillian asked mildly. Prophet leaned over and pulled Tom’s arm back up to point the gun at Cillian.

  Tom smiled.

  Cillian didn’t.

  Prophet turned back to Gary. “You barely made it out the first time. I’m not letting you, because you have nothing to make up for.”

  “Perhaps we can discuss this over dinner,” Cillian suggested. “Be more civilized.”

  “Literally over your dead body,” Tom said, and there was something in his voice that made Prophet turn to watch him.

  Because, for half a second, Tom was one hundred percent serious. Like his eyes snapped fire. Tom’d never hidden his jealousy over Cillian, but this look had nothing to do with texts and couches.

  Tom pointed at Cillian with his free hand. Nodded. Cillian’s jaw clenched at the silent exchange and then Tom put the gun down.

  Prophet urged, “Tom, we’ll talk about that later. Just take Gary into the other room, okay?” And Tom did as he asked, leading Gary into the kitchen. Prophet turned his attention back to Cillian, his teeth clenched. “You let me think I got him killed.”

  “I had no choice. If you didn’t believe it, you’d have gone running off trying to liberate him. Guilt has no place in this mission, Prophet. And you’re leaving your guts spilled everywhere you go lately.”

  Prophet narrowed his eyes. In a quick second, Cillian was re-pinned against the wall, with Prophet holding a knife to his throat. If Cillian so much as swallowed, the blade would nick him. “Let me explain something to you, you fucking Irish asshole spook. I know things. I know what you fucking did. You all think I’m some naive asshole living in denial, but that shit suits my purpose. So don’t think I won’t kill you if I need to. Or even if I want to. And right now, I really goddamn want to.”

  A hand was on Prophet’s shoulder. He didn’t turn around, but he knew it wasn’t Tommy. “You really want to save him, Mal?”

  A single, quick squeeze on Prophet’s shoulder was the answer. Yes. And whatever the reason, this was Mal’s battle to fight, and Prophet assumed he’d learn why soon enough.

  “Fine,” Prophet managed. “You’re going to make sure he helps us through this. If he gets out of line . . .”

  Another squeeze for yes.

  Cillian wasn’t watching him any longer. No, his stare was over Prophet’s shoulder, on Mal.

  “Who knows that Gary’s alive?” Prophet asked.

  Cillian glanced at Prophet again. “Besides the people in this room?”

  “You didn’t tell your boss about Gary? No wonder they didn’t like you much,” Prophet muttered.

  “Surprisingly, this job’s not a popularity contest,” Cillian snarked.

  Prophet glanced over a Mal. “Just one shot. I’ll just maim him.”

  They left Cillian alone downstairs with Gary—mainly because it was far safer for Gary to be hidden by Cillian at this point, despite his status with his old organization.

  Now, back inside his apartment, Prophet sat at the kitchen table as Mal called the other members of the team and filled them in.

  They all sat there for several minutes, everyone trying to absorb the consequences.

  Remy can’t stay here, Mal mouthed after he’d signed something to Ren and King. Hook was unavailable at the moment, taking care of the only witness who’d seen Prophet, Tom, and Lansing together.

  “He’s fine for now,” Prophet said.

  No way. Mal shook his head emphatically. Even if Gary’s not here, which I’m betting he’s not anymore. I’ll take Remy to Doc’s and stay there with him until we move out.

  Prophet looked at Tom, who nodded and said, “I think that’s the safest option.”

  “Okay, fine. I’m going to go have another talk with Cillian in a bit though.”

  I’ll go pick Remy up. I’ll grab his things later on, Mal signed.

  Prophet translated for Tom, then pointed to the clock. “Yeah, he’s coming out of tutoring now—one of us is always there to pick him up.” He rattled off the address for Mal.

  When Mal was gone, shutting the heavy door behind him, he turned to Tom. “So . . .”

  Tom stared at him. Innocent-looking bastard.

  “Don’t, Tommy.”

  “I didn’t do anything.”

  “You’re about to lie to me.”

  “Now you’re psychic? I thought it was only your cock.”

  “It’s very perceptive.”

  “I’m open to it.”

  “God, that was terrible.” But Prophet gave a small grin anyway. “Look, I know you don’t trust Cillian but—”

  “I’m happy for Gary,” Tom said roughly. “But I’m not throwing Cillian a parade, all right?”

  “Fair enough.”

  “Are you really going to use Cillian’s friend?”

  “We don’t have a lot of options. I know Mick and Blue would help, but I don’t want to risk them. Blue’s too well known. With my luck, Blue’s stolen from—or for—Sadiq.”

  “But Cillian’s got a motive.”

  Prophet nodded. “Yeah, to stay alive.”

  Tom saw the battle in Prophet’s eyes. “Gary should be allowed to make his own decisions. For the first time in his life, he knows the score. He’s in on it. He’s had months to come to terms with it.”

  “He wants revenge,�
� Prophet countered. “He feels bad for what he did. That’s not a reason to risk your life. He’s my job. My promise.”

  “He’s a grown man, ready to avenge his father,” Tom pointed out. “Neither of us would let anything get in our way.”

  “Fuck you.” Prophet walked away, and Tom punched the wall lightly with the side of his fist. Because fighting with each other was the last thing either of them needed now. Things were fracturing at a time when solidarity was a necessity, not a luxury.

  But Tom also wasn’t backing down from his stance on Gary and what was ultimately his decision.

  That didn’t mean Prophet didn’t need support. So Tom went and found him. “I’ve got your back, Proph. You know that. Part of that’s helping you through this. You can’t take it all on yourself. You tried that—it’s coming back to bite you.”

  “This talk is very inspirational,” Prophet said sarcastically.

  And yes, the tension between Mal and Cillian wasn’t the only tension in this apartment. Sex was their go-to stress reliever, the way they dealt with anger—at others and toward each other—and it’d been too long for them. And it was showing.

  But after what happened the last time, he didn’t want to force Prophet into anything—he wanted Prophet to give in.

  “You have no idea what you’re asking me to do, Tom. I made a promise to his father. How can I go back on that after . . .”

  “You tell Gary everything—explain it all to him and let him decide. Hal couldn’t fault you for that.”

  “Gary knows.”

  “Then tell him again, until you both feel better.”

  That was easier said than done, but Prophet knew Tom was right—he had to talk to Gary tonight, one-on-one, and deal with this head-on. Time was running out, and they had a really small window of time to get to Sadiq.

  And as much as he hated to admit it, using Gary was the best way in. That didn’t mean they couldn’t trick Sadiq another way.

  Tom spoke quietly. “I don’t think Cillian knows.”

  Tom was talking about his eyes—not wanting to say it out loud. The man was way more superstitious than he let on. “Good. If I get to the point where I’m compromising anything, you’ll be the first to know.”

  “I’m not worried about that.” Tom’s smile was tight. “So you and Cillian had the same kind of jobs.”

  “Ironic, right?” Knowing for sure Cillian had him in his sights as opposed to merely suspecting it made Prophet think about Hal.

  “I understand the jobs in theory, but I have a hard time wrapping my head around it,” Tom admitted. “I know these people can be dangerous if they’ve been compromised. But . . . what if they’ve been captured and you rescue them? Is that possible? What happens then?”

  He’d like to be able to tell Tom that yes, the specialists were rescued and lived happily ever after. But it didn’t work like that. “It seems like that should work—if the guy’s been through hell and he’s lived through it, he should be allowed to live. But the theory is, if you buckled once under torture, you’d do it again. You’re an easy target.” Prophet grimaced. “And it’s like, well, he already told them what he knows. What’s the point in killing him? But he knows shit that another terrorist can use. He’s a target. Always will be. Sometimes, you could tell that they’d tried to kill themselves before. Sometimes it was a relief.”

  “Is that what you did for Phil?”

  “No. And I stopped doing it on my own jobs too. I focused more on the ones I could save, them and their families.”

  “How many others are there?” Tom asked.

  “Five,” Prophet said. “I rescued a kid of one of the specialists right before I went to the hurricane. The dad wanted to get away from the CIA.”

  “So you facilitated that.”

  “Actually, I delivered Kasey to the CIA,” he said wryly. “Then I went to see a man about a hurricane. King and Ren stepped in when things calmed down for Kasey and took care of the relocation last month.”

  “So they took them right out from under the CIA?”

  “Yes.” Kasey had called for Prophet a couple of times, and Tom knew that.

  Tom met his eyes. “Good. Fuck them.”

  “Who taught you interrogation methods?” Prophet asked finally.

  “Ollie,” Tom said. He swore he saw a hint of wince on Prophet’s face, but when he double-checked, his expression was placid. “He said that everyone should know them, how to use them and how to live through them.”

  “He was right.” Prophet tapped his head. “It’s all about what’s up here. Providing your body doesn’t give out.”

  “You’ve withstood a hell of a lot.”

  Prophet smiled. “So have you. Some of it from my moody ass.”

  “We’ll get there, Proph. Not always going to be smooth sailing. Gotta tell you shit you don’t want to hear and vice versa. Or else we’ve got nothing. And I know we don’t have nothing.”

  Prophet gave him a hell of a lot of credit for putting that out there. “We have a hell of a lot, Tommy.”

  “And we’ll have more when this is over.”

  “Right. You’ll have your tattoo shop. And I’ll . . . fuck, I don’t know. I thought I couldn’t see beyond this shit with John, but I think I’m too scared to look. Suppose there’s nothing there?”

  “Of course there’s something there. You just never looked very hard.”

  “Yeah?” Prophet challenged. “Since you know me so well, why’s that?”

  “Hurts too much to see what you’re missing,” Tom said simply, and when Prophet just stared at him, he continued, “We’re not twenty, and we were never indestructible. And the thought of staying here, watching Remy prepare to go take on the world someday . . . it’s nice.”

  Prophet couldn’t disagree at all. He’d wanted normal, convinced himself he’d never have it, so he’d moved on. But that normal, a different kind of normal, was right here with him. “I don’t know if I can give that kind of life up completely.”

  “It’s not worth it, Proph. Even if your eyes weren’t fucked up.”

  “Fucked up?” Prophet repeated.

  “It would be too much. I’d be telling you the same thing—that you should get out. You did more good in the past fifteen years than most do in a lifetime. You need to get out while you can still sleep at night. Or get back to sleeping at night.”

  Prophet knew he was right. “Thanks, Tommy.”

  “I don’t want to lose you to this.” He pressed his fingers to the side of Prophet’s head. “Whatever’s happening in there, let it out.”

  “That’s the problem. I don’t want to let it out. I want it gone.”

  “It will be.”

  “Suppose it’s not?”

  “I’m not going anywhere, Proph. If you are . . . I can’t stop that. I can try to convince you, but ultimately, it’s your decision. But I’m staying.”

  Prophet wasn’t sure why that sentiment wasn’t as comforting as it should be. “I’m going to talk to Gary.”

  “You’re not going near Cillian without me.” Tom’s tone was fiercely protective. “And we’re not calling ahead—no reason not to surprise the fuck out of him.”

  Prophet raised his brows but didn’t say a word, just followed behind his self-appointed bodyguard and let him slam on the door.

  “Open up, Cillian—you know who it is.”

  “Some identification would be nice,” Cillian called, and Tom grabbed his weapon and pointed it at the peephole, saying, “I’ll show you ID,” and that’s when Prophet stepped in, pushed Tom aside and used a key.

  When he slid the door open, a surprised Cillian stood blinking. “You had a key made of my door?”

  “Yes,” Prophet said. “And the key to my apartment’s right in your kitchen.”

  Cillian tilted his head, conceding that he’d been caught. “I’m guessing you’re here to see Gary?”

  “Is he still around?”

  “For the moment. I don’t plan on housing hi
m here any longer than the next few hours. And then he’ll be safe.”

  “I need to talk to him. Alone.”

  Cillian sighed. “Sometimes, you’re entirely too noble for your own good.”

  Prophet took that as a come on down, so he did, with Tom on his heels. Cillian was by the door. “Gary’s in the bedroom—he’s expecting you. Tom, let’s have tea and discuss interrogation techniques.”

  “I’d rather use them on you,” Tom growled.

  Prophet hurried to see Gary, because he didn’t have much time before Tom started swinging.

  Gary was lying on Cillian’s bed, watching TV, with the posture of a man who’d been doing that too long. His feet were moving with nervous energy, and he didn’t look surprised to see Prophet coming in.

  He got up off the bed and stuck his hands in his pockets. “I asked Cillian to call you, but he said he had a feeling you’d come by.”

  “He was right,” was all Prophet said.

  Gary had filled out more—he’d been training while he’d been staying in Cillian’s safe houses. He looked older, slightly haunted . . . but he also seemed calm. He wasn’t the same angry kid Prophet had known for so long.

  “None of this was your fault, Prophet.”

  “Gary, I . . .”

  “No, listen, I pieced together what happened based on Sadiq’s story. I was able to figure out what the lies were pretty easily.”

  “I shot your father,” Prophet told him bluntly. “Sadiq wasn’t lying about that.”

  “I know, Prophet.” Gary looked sad, more for Prophet than anything else, but he also looked strong. “Dad knew the risks.”

  “It’s not the same, knowing and having it happen.” Prophet tore his gaze away from Gary for a second to sweep a glance around the room. The heavy curtains were pulled so no one could get a view in . . . the bedroom a mirror of Prophet’s, so much so, he could almost picture John sitting on the windowsill, shaking his head.

  Gary broke his reverie. “Prophet, I can’t imagine what you’ve been through. I only had a taste and I’m . . .” He shuddered at the memories of being held by Sadiq. “I was an idiot to approach him, to think you were anything less than honorable.”