Long Time Gone (Hell or High Water ) (23 page)

This was a calculated risk, and risk was the key word, because the bayou wasn’t his territory. He was at a distinct disadvantage.

And you’d ream Tom for going off alone like this.

The problem was, his instinct to protect Tom from more of this shit was overriding his common goddamned sense. And still, Prophet moved forward.

He set the GPS on his phone and followed it as far as he could in the borrowed truck. But the bayou roads didn’t respond to the GPS. It was like they moved in the middle of the night, when no one was watching, just to piss off people like him.

He abandoned the borrowed truck and, with a flashlight stuffed in a pocket just in case, he walked through the tall grass in the near pitch black. He’d been working on this, dealing with darkness and trying to rely on sounds and smell and touch to get him through. Because it was never too early to deal with your shit.

And it might’ve worked better if the makeup of the bayou made any sense, but to him, it was all just a mishmash of bog and swamp and alligators and random twists and turns that were worse than a funhouse.

Prophet had always hated the funhouse. Surprises were never his thing.

But he tracked decently, and he made his way through the winding paths, until he saw the light on in the shack where he and Tom had met Charlie. He pulled out his NVs, scanning past the trees in the distance to see if he could make out the road beyond. He hadn’t heard any cars or seen any lights, so either the person meeting him wasn’t there yet, or they knew the bayou well.

He took the NVs off and used that single light to guide him through the now swampy ground, his boots sinking into the mud, making walking difficult and not all that stealthy. He wondered if he’d find Charlie inside, waiting there before the midnight meeting hour.

Fucking informant piece of shit . . . if this is Charlie trying to sell Tom weed . . .

He pulled up short when he realized that the sounds of wildlife had come and gone, a loud rush past him and nothing.

Which meant they were running from a predator, because they weren’t stupid.

He, on the other hand, still continued moving forward. Probably should’ve paid more attention to how Tommy subdued the gator rather than getting turned on by what he’d done.

On the other hand, he did have duct tape. And bullets, if it went south.

Finally, he made it to the small house. The door was locked, and he stood there for a few moments, waiting silently to see if there was any movement inside. The silence was odd, gave him the fucking creeps way more than being in the middle of the cemetery had.

He heard a car—glanced up to check the road and saw the headlights. Good. Let whoever was meeting Tommy wait. He needed to assess a few things first.

He reached into his pocket to grab the NVs, but stopped when he heard men talking and the pop of rifle shots aiming toward the bayou.

Poachers. Which meant . . .

He went to turn around in the darkness and found no beady alligator eyes staring back at him. Maybe the shots scared the beasts off. He grabbed for the NVs again, because this wasn’t the time to fly blind. Before he could get them on, he felt the prick of something in his neck. He clawed for it and yanked out a dart. But even after those brief seconds, whatever medication was in there had started to work. He was dizzy. Even in the dark, he could tell his vision blurred, which was more terrifying than anything. He closed his eyes to ward off that distraction and he forced himself to stay still, to listen.

There were more gunshots and more yelling. He figured his best bet was to head to the road and try to get the poachers to help him. Because they were better than nothing.

He stumbled on his first step and realized it must’ve been a hidden grave. He forced himself to move slowly and quietly. And he was almost to the road, after what seemed like hours of walking in quicksand, when his world went dark.

Tom woke, alone. Drugged. In pain. He didn’t call for Prophet because that would take too much effort.

But he saw the flashing lights of the cop car through the front windows of the studio, and he thanked his lucky stars the lights inside were completely out. If Prophet
were
here, he’d have already seen the commotion.

Which meant Tom had to hide.

Luckily, Etienne was as paranoid as Tom.

Tom dragged out of bed, pulled the covers up completely, smoothed them out so it looked untouched. Grabbed his weapon, wallet, clothes. Nothing stray of Prophet’s was around at all. The place looked clean enough.

If they dusted for fingerprints, they’d know he’d been here, but there was no time to figure that out now.

Instead, he went into the bathroom and opened the door behind the door. You’d never find it unless you knew it was there. Etienne had painted the walls in a splatter pattern that hid any evidence. Tom crawled in, shut it behind him just as he heard the pounding on the front door.

The little room was exactly like he remembered. Etienne had left a soft blanket and a pillow. Water. It was clean, not musty as it should be. Just dark, with enough air coming in from outside, through a vent that filtered from the bathroom, not to be stifling.

He held his breath when he heard the footsteps, the sheriff shouting for him to come out with his hands up. Buried his face against his knees and said a silent prayer that Prophet would stay away from this.

When the cops left, he’d have to sneak out and find him.

Prophet woke, blinking in the marshy grass that scraped his face. He spat, his mouth full of blood and bayou, and rolled to his side.

His arms were bound tightly behind his back with rough twine. He blinked a few times in the blackness, trying to orient himself, listening to check if he was alone. But his vision was still blurry, and he hoped it was the drugs or nothing else more serious than a concussion from hitting his head when he fell.

But it didn’t feel like a concussion. His cheek ached, which meant the bastard had punched him. Which was oddly personal and unnecessary.

And Tom was never going to let him live this one down.

There wasn’t any light. He couldn’t tell if he was by the house or the road, didn’t hear the poachers anymore. But his clothes were wet, like he’d been dragged to this point. Wherever this point was.

Get it together, man. You’re better than this.

John’s voice, but not John’s ghost. Just a memory from any one of their early training missions. And fuck, John was right.

He took a deep breath, pushed back onto his stomach and then up onto his knees. Got his balance, barely, and used the strength in his legs to stand. He wobbled for a minute, more because of the hit on the head than the muddy ground beneath him, and finally, he stilled.

That’s when he realized where he was. In the middle of some kind of alligator-infested marsh. Like, there was a collection of them, just hanging out. He saw their eyes glittering in the dark, and those eyes seemed to be moving slowly closer, and he was never fucking coming back here, not ever coming back to this godforsaken state.

He bent down awkwardly, retrieved his knife from his boot, and sawed at the twine, cutting himself several times in the process, since he was forced to back away from the approaching alligators at the same time.

Finally, his hands came loose. He didn’t have time for finesse or wrestling or any of that shit.

He grabbed the small gun strapped to the inside of his ankle, put two quick bullets into the head of the closest massive monster. The sound echoed in the swamp and suddenly, everything came to life for several long moments and then went deadly quiet again.

Because they’d finally recognized him as the predator. “And that’s the way it fucking should be,” he told no one in particular.

He stumbled along in the dark—because, to add insult to injury, the fucker who’d tried to kill him had stolen his NVs—keeping his cursing to a minimum and his weapon drawn. And then he forced himself to stop moving, to think.

When he did, all he could remember was Tommy’s email.

It’s hotter than hell here. Reminds me a lot of home. You know, my Cajun voodoo home. I used to spend hours tracking my way through the swamps. I could go in there blindfolded and still know where I was. Could lead myself in the dark, based on the sounds around me. The feel of the bark and moss on my fingers. How the ground felt under my feet.

Hint: walk away from the squish or you’re headed into actual water. Seems simple, but people tend to panic in the dark. I don’t think you would. You take action. I just fight.

Prophet took a deep breath and followed Tommy’s instructions about not panicking in the dark. He just kept moving forward, away from the bayou, knowing he’d hit the cemetery soon.

He did—nearly running into a mausoleum—and realized he hadn’t been dragged far. And whoever had done it had left him with his weapons. Or hadn’t thought to look for any.

Did whoever it was even realize they hadn’t gotten Tom?

He oriented himself in the darkness and headed back in the direction of the small shack. The light inside was off, but the sky was lightening up, enough for him to see that Etienne’s Jeep was parked there.

“Tommy,” he whispered and started to walk faster. He blinked hard in the still dark cemetery and saw a figure coming toward him. “Tommy.”

“Proph.” A whisper back.

They both kept walking toward one another, until he was able to grab Tommy. “I don’t like this at all.”

“No shit.”

“I’m talking about the alligators. The people I can handle.”

“Come on.” Tom held his hand tightly and together, they walked back to the shack. Once inside, Prophet let himself collapse onto the floor.

Tom had set up sleeping bags, so the collapse wasn’t terrible.

“Where’ve you been?” Tom demanded. “You even took my goddamned phone . . .”

“Voodoo shit doesn’t work if you’re drugged?” Prophet asked gently.

“Proph . . .”

“Your head okay, T?”

“Better than it was.”

Satisfied that Tom wasn’t lying, Prophet launched into the story about Remy showing up, and how he’d told Remy about Etienne, and then driven the kid home. And then he handed Tom his phone, showed him the text message. “And then someone drugged me, dragged me out there, and left me as gator bait. I have a strong feeling I wasn’t supposed to make it out.”

“You mean,
I
wasn’t supposed to make it out.”

“Yeah. Some wild shit—like whoever’s doing this wants to see slow, painful deaths.”

“You should’ve taken me with you.”

“You helped,” he told Tom, and there wasn’t a trace of sarcasm in his voice. “I thought about your emails, when you talked about tracking and getting out of the bayou. So you were there, T.”

“What aren’t you telling me?”

Prophet paused, then figured it had to come out sometime. “I think it was your father who tried to kill me. And see, there’s no really good way to say that, so . . .”

“What makes you think it was him?”

“Remember the picture you drew? The one of him smiling?”

“Yes.”

“In the picture, you drew him wearing a dark-red leather sheath on his belt. And I couldn’t see much, but I did see that. Pretty distinctive.”

“One of a kind, made to hold his favorite knife,” Tom said hollowly. “Dammit. How badly are you hurt?”

“Head aches,” Prophet admitted, right before he pulled out his own phone and pressed a single button. Tom didn’t question that, was too busy running his hands gently through Prophet’s hair, feeling along the scalp for the knot on the left side of his head.

And Prophet let Tom fuss over him, let him shine a penlight from his key ring in his eyes.

“You don’t have a concussion.”

“I already knew that.”

Prophet heard the shake of a pill bottle, and then Tom said, “Take these.”

“Are these your horny headache meds?” Prophet asked, and Tom smiled.

“Just painkillers. I think you add the horny part yourself.”

“I’ll take straight Advil. Can’t afford to be drugged any more than I already am. And by the way, I can alligator wrestle too.”

“You wrestled an alligator?”