Long Time Gone (Hell or High Water ) Read Free Page B

almost as if Phil was purposefully keeping him too busy with constant training in between missions, so Tom couldn’t even consider going to find Prophet.
    Phil did nothing by mistake, so Tom bit back complaints, continued to prove himself with each and every job he’d been assigned.
    Cope liked working with him.
    Cope was still alive.
    Therefore, in Tom’s mind, Prophet had broken his bad luck karma.
    Prophet had definitely broken something , and goddammit, even though Tom had made the choice, he wanted Prophet to come back and put all the pieces back together.
    “The hurricane’s looking to be a direct hit,” Cope told him now, interrupting his rhythm to point at the TV overhead—he’d been watching it upside down all day, with the sound off so Tom wouldn’t worry too much. But the meteorologists had been having a field day with the fact that this hurricane was due to slam directly into New Orleans only days after Katrina’s late August anniversary.
    Growing up in Louisiana had given Tom a certain perspective on storms. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t quietly frantic about his aunt. She was just like everyone else in the damn state, even after Katrina. Resilient as hell, stubborn with it, and utterly unwilling to evacuate. But with Della’s heart problems and the storm amping up instead of downgrading like they’d said it would, he was worried. And in Eritrea.
    But the storm was still five days out. Anything could happen in five days.

    From: [email protected]
    To: [email protected]
    Subject: Hurricane
    I know what you’d do, Proph. Nothing would stop you. I guess that’s what Phil’s worried about, because he told me he’d fire my ass if I even thought about leaving my post. He called my aunt for me, checked in. She’s got her supplies, and he said she’ll be okay. And I guess I’m supposed to be all right with that, but fuck it, something isn’t sitting right with me. Yeah, go ahead and laugh. I can hear you calling me Cajun or voodoo , clear as day.
    The bayou’s my home. It’s where I learned to fight. Every time I head home, I expect things to be different—and they never are. That’s the definition of insanity, right? Doing the same thing over and over and expecting a new result.
    It’s a dangerous place for me, Proph. But I keep getting pulled back. Maybe Phil not letting me go home’s for the best. At least that’s what I’m trying to believe.
    Otherwise, Cope’s fine. I’ve gone four months without otherwise maiming him or getting him shot. That’s a pretty good record, considering how many times we’ve gone out on small jobs together. He’s a good teacher. Patient. Talks about his girlfriend a lot. I have to wear headphones when they have phone sex.
    I always think about you during those times, Proph. Other times, yeah, but that’s when I miss you the most, and not just because you’re decent in bed.
    Tom sat in front of his glowing computer screen—with his headphones on—and thought about not sending this one. It would be his one hundred and twenty-second email (and yes, he’d counted) without an answer, but in the end, he let it out into the universe, hoping that it might find its mark.

Twenty-four hours later
    Blue slammed through the half-opened window.
    On the fourth floor.
    Prophet rolled his eyes. Blue, who wore a rope harness over his jeans and long-sleeved, thermal T—all black, of course—along with a black skullcap, even though it was hot as balls, looked unperturbed about having narrowly missed a table. And possibly killing himself.
    “You just took out my screen,” Prophet told him. Didn’t bother to ask why Blue hadn’t used the door, because asking Blue that would be like asking God why he’d created the universe—the answer to both being Why the hell not? Which was Prophet’s answer to just about everything too.
    “ Your friend’s an asshole,” Blue informed Prophet as he ripped his cap off.
    “Why is Mick my friend when he’s an