by SE Jakes
“We’re ready for the video,” Prophet told Mal. He glanced up at the cameras that Ren controlled at this point. “Let’s get into place.”
He and Tom moved out of the way. Cillian’s man came in with his machine gun and sprayed bullets around the already dead bodies. That’s where Ren would pick the feed up. Gary remained hunched over in the corner, in a protective ball until Louis grabbed Gary, who tried to fight. His arm went around Gary’s throat, dragging him along with his gun pointed at the door.
“Cut,” Prophet said. He looked behind at the room one last time, then walked over to Sadiq splayed on the floor. “Poison on the trigger worked like a charm. But just in case . . .” He pulled his weapon out and put two bullets into Sadiq’s head.
Tom nodded approvingly. “We’re almost there.”
Prophet’s expression softened slightly. “Almost, Tommy. Almost.”
Sally landed the plane just outside the compound—a risky move but the safest for the team. Driving back after what had happened was a suicide run.
Most who saw that tape wouldn’t understand what had happened. But John would know that one man couldn’t have taken down a compound.
Prophet sighed in relief as the plane leveled off and shot steadily through the sky. After half an hour in the air, he stood to survey the others, and saw Cillian stand as well.
Cillian’d been furious back at the compound—he hadn’t hidden that in his expression—and all Prophet could see for those first moments after the dust settled was Mal, unwilling or unable, to pull his eyes from the spook.
Because Cillian had been the only one left out of the alteration to the plan. And that had been Mal’s suggestion, Prophet whispering it to Tom for the first time in the foxhole, when he’d explained that they were going to force their own capture.
A show of force was one thing, but Prophet wanted to be closer to Gary when things went down. And so the poison on the trigger was something Gary himself had suggested, an easy way to incapacitate Sadiq, providing no one else touched the trigger in the mere seconds Gary had between brushing the poison on the metal and Sadiq picking it up to show it off to Prophet. It was, as he’d taught Tom, all about quick, nearly undetectable movements. Nods. Head tilts.
It was all about the signs.
“You did it,” he told Tom now, who was sprawled in the seat.
“We did it,” Tom corrected, brushed a hand over Prophet’s thigh and smiled.
And then Cillian was strolling over to them, with Mal following. Tom stood at that point, and Prophet waited for Cillian to speak.
Cillian glared at him first, though. “I hope I’ve passed your test.”
Prophet stared at him for a long time while Cillian—and Tom and Mal—stared at him. “We still have shit to discuss, Cillian. But for this? Yeah, you passed.”
“I would never compromise Gary,” Cillian said tightly. “Or either of you. Not after spending all this time saving both of your asses . . .” He shifted his gaze from Prophet to Tom before turning it on Mal. “I had your back on this one.”
Mal just nodded. And it looked like both men wanted to say more, and hell, Prophet wasn’t getting in the middle of that shit, so he stood up and guided Tom with him over to where Gary sat.
Gary saw them coming, stood. He had dark circles under his eyes, but Prophet knew he was all jazzed up, would have trouble coming down enough to sleep.
Prophet clapped Gary on the shoulder. “You did it.” Gary hugged him, and it was like Prophet was holding that little kid again. Like he’d gone back in time. “Sadiq’s gone.”
Gary nodded against his shoulder.
“I’m still going to watch out for you. Now, more than ever,” Prophet informed him.
“I figured.” Gary stared at him. “Are you going to use me for the next part, or kill me off?”
Tom snorted. Prophet pinched the bridge of his nose and said, “Jesus, Gary—it’s called witness protection, not killing you off. And I don’t know yet.”
“Thank you, for letting me do this much. It meant . . . everything.”
Prophet clapped him on the shoulder, his throat too tight to say anything else.
But all of them now had a bigger bounty on their heads than they’d ever had with the CIA . . . or any other agency. John, and the men who’d stood behind Sadiq had them in their sights, and that was a sick kind of glue that held them together indefinitely.
Three weeks later
Tom walked into the apartment and heard Prophet telling someone to shut the fuck up.
Sounds about right.
He dropped his bag and heard the window in the bedroom close. He took his jacket and boots off so he wouldn’t track snow everywhere and then he padded to the bedroom, only to find Prophet sitting on the bed, shivering.
Tom glanced toward the window, assuming that Prophet must’ve closed it. He saw the sand, in the same spot he’d found it last time, by the window. At times, Prophet did move during his flashback dreams. More often than not, he dropped off the side of the bed like that was a cover from gunfire, or he threw himself over Tom’s body to protect him.
But to go to the box, grab sand, and drop it on the floor . . .
“Hey, Proph,” he said quietly.
Prophet looked up and for a moment, Tom knew Prophet wasn’t seeing him. Not clearly. So Tom waited, watched as Prophet pulled himself out of the flashback—what was left of it—and then sighed.
“Hey, T.”
“You okay?”
He nodded. Then shook his head. He was holding something tightly in his hand and Tom came over and knelt in front of him, rubbing his own hand over Prophet’s fist.
“What’s this?”
Prophet opened his hand and showed Tom the sand, staring at it like he was really confused.
“You’ve done this before with your John flashbacks,” Tom started. “I come in here and find sand on the floor by the window, and I put it back in your box on the dresser. I figured that’s where it came from, that it must relate to some memory of him.”
Prophet glanced down at his hand again and then back at Tom. “I . . . the sand’s from by the window. Every time I have a John flashback, I find it by the window.”
Tom stilled. “You don’t remember getting it out of the box and bringing it over to where you think John is sitting?”
Prophet looked confused. “I don’t think . . . no. I mean, there’s sand in that box, Tom. Not a lot. And that’s a memento, but it has nothing to do with John. The first time I found sand on the floor I figured . . . yeah, maybe in a flashback I fucked up and threw sand there. But . . .”
Tom got up and looked in the box. He didn’t want to invade Prophet’s privacy, but Prophet didn’t object. At the bottom, he found a small jar, full of sand. Filled to the top and corked. And lots of loose sand inside the box.
No way could it have all fit inside the jar. Never.
Calmly, he drew his weapon and sidled up to the window. But the fire escape a couple of feet down was empty. There was a light dusting of snow over it, which could’ve covered footprints by this point, since it was coming down pretty hard.
He opened the latch and looked to see if there were any signs of forced entry. Nothing.
And then he ran his finger over the black outer moldings and stilled again. Because the paint was wet.
“Tom?”
“Are you sure it’s John you’re seeing?”
“Yeah.”
“Bet your life sure?”
“Why?”
He turned and showed Prophet the black on his fingers. “I don’t think you’re dreaming these visits, Proph. Not all of them.”
Prophet didn’t stop to listen to Tom—he was out the apartment in his bare feet, taking the stairs two at a time, shoving open the heavy front door and cruising the alleyway. The snow on his bare feet didn’t bother him because he was so fucking numb already.
He looked up at the side of the building, traced the route John would’ve had to take back down. P
rophet could do it in thirty seconds. Less if he jumped the last few feet.
Someone who practiced could do it in less. Or move up to the roof to get out of sight.
“Proph.” Tom was behind him, weapon drawn, holding Prophet’s boots.
Prophet turned to him, “He never wears tags, Tom.”
Tom furrowed his brow for a second, then said, “Because they’re in the truck.”
“He wouldn’t know that. Or maybe he does and figures that he wouldn’t have time to get the tags back into the truck.” Prophet ran a hand through his now-wet hair. He glanced at the dumpster at the end of the alleyway, a shared one for a couple of stores around the corner. Now, he double-timed it there, opened it and looked in.
Nothing but garbage. No place for a guy to hide himself, but . . .
Then he looked behind the dumpster. Stuck his hand back there and felt around and pulled out a plastic bag. If you weren’t looking for it, you’d never see it.
His hand shook as he opened it and pulled out a desert BDU jacket. With a name badge sewn onto it.
Morse.
“He was wearing it that day,” Prophet said quietly.
“How can you be sure?”
Prophet fingered the hole in the collar. “My bullet. I almost hit him after I killed Hal. Not on purpose, but it nicked his neck. I saw blood and he brushed it off, joked about a new fashion statement.”
He slid down the brick wall, clutching the material.
Tom bent down to him. “Proph, we can’t stay here.”
“You think he’s still close?”
“Don’t you?”
Prophet looked around. “No. He wouldn’t risk that.”
But would he come back if Prophet left the jacket where he’d found it? Would he come back into Prophet’s apartment where Tom and Remy and Mal were? Where Cillian was. Where Doc might be. And no, fuck it, no, however easy that might be . . . it was his home.
He wasn’t going to let John insert himself into his flashbacks anymore . . . but trying to take him down during one was too risky. No, this needed to happen on a level playing field.
Tom was looking at him strangely, and it was only then he realized he’d been humming.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve heard you hum that song,” Tom said quietly.
The song from the video. The song that reminded him of John.
If I ever . . .
Wordlessly, he shoved the uniform jacket back into the bag and slid it under his arm. He grabbed Tom and kissed him—hard, sinking against him for a long moment. Tom’s hand brushed the back of his neck, and then Prophet let Tom wind his arm around him and they walked that way—with Tom supporting him—back to their apartment.
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Coming to Riptide Publishing June 2014!
Dear Reader,
Thank you for reading SE Jakes’ Daylight Again!
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Thank you so much for Reading the Rainbow!
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I am so incredibly lucky to be able to write stories I love, and for all the help and support I get along the way.
For Sarah Frantz, who simply gets me. For Rachel Haimowitz for all the opportunities she’s given me. For LC Chase and the gorgeous covers and layouts. For Keturah Jenkins, who is always on top of creating amazing book tours and other opportunities for my books. For everyone at Riptide for making my publishing experience insanely wonderful.
A special thanks to those who keep my online spaces under control when I go into the writing cave: Andrea, LisaT, Susan, and Shawnie. Thanks for managing the havoc so well. And thanks to all the readers I’ve met and the friends I’ve made in the ASK SEJ Goodreads Group and the Dirty Deeds Facebook Group and on Tumblr and Twitter—thanks for being so crazy right along with me. And thanks to all of you who have taken this ride with Prophet and Tommy so far, for having faith that their series will end happily ever after. I promise we’ll all come out of this in the end—bruised, put together with duct-tape . . . but smiling.
Last, but never least, for my family. For everything, always.
Havoc Motorcycle Club
Running Wild (June 2014)
Running Blind (coming in 2015)
Running on Empty (coming in 2016)
Hell or High Water (EE, Ltd.) Series
Catch a Ghost
Long Time Gone
Not Fade Away (coming in August 2014)
If I Ever (coming in October 2014)
Men of Honor Series
Bound by Honor
Bound by Law
Ties That Bind
Bound by Danger
Bound for Keeps (EE, Ltd.)
Bound to Break
Standalone
Free Falling (EE, Ltd.)
Dirty Deeds (EE, Ltd.) Series
Dirty Deeds
Dirty Lies (coming soon)
Dirty Love (coming soon)
SE Jakes writes m/m romance. She believes in happy endings and fighting for what you want in both fiction and real life. She lives in New York with her family and most days, she can be found happily writing (in bed). No, really . . .
She spends most of her time writing, but she loves to hear from readers, so you can contact her the following ways:
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