Long Time Gone (Hell or High Water ) by SE Jakes Read Free Book Online Page A

but Prophet pushed him back, pinned him down to the seat. “Don’t fucking do that.”
    “If it’s a setup, you can’t kill me,” Hal yelled. He wasn’t ready to die. Was anyone, ever?
    If you looked at Prophet’s family tree, someone might say yes.

Prophet didn’t know how much longer he stood there, staring at the desert, the blood and sand, until the sights and sounds of the explosions turned back to booms of thunder and lightning.
    Gradually, Hal faded.
    Prophet blinked. Saw the desert.
    Blinked again, and it was Della’s kitchen and his phone beeping. He grabbed it with shaking hands like it was a lifeline, wondering how and when he’d left the living room.
    Cillian was on the other end of the text. Not exactly the best flotation device but not the worst. Now someone’s trying to kill me.
    Karma’s a bitch , Prophet typed. Where are you?
    In a bathroom.
    Dude, TMI.
    I’m waiting for the opportunity . . .
    Again, TMI.
    To kill the man hunting me.
    Prophet snorted . Oh.
    And that’s not TMI. What has this world come to?
    A particularly loud burst of thunder shook the house. Going to hell, man.
    You’ve been drinking?
    No. I’m trying to live through a hurricane.
    Prophet could hear Cillian’s British accent in his head when the spook typed, Just duck. And swim. You can swim, correct?
    Little bit.
    Here’s to reaching shore quickly.
    Prophet was about to answer with something about Cillian sticking his head in the toilet when a creak stopped him.
    The entire house had been fucking groaning all night, but that creak was different. It was the sound of a storm door opening.
    He stilled. Put the phone down and reached for his KA-BAR simultaneously.
    Something—someone—scratched at the back door. And since Della’s yard was completely enclosed by a nine-foot wrought iron fence with spiked tops, that was no mean feat.
    What the hell kind of crazy-ass freak tries to break in during a hurricane?
    He blinked and looked around, trying to reassure himself that this wasn’t a flashback, but everything looked normal. And flashbacks typically didn’t use the door.
    He turned his focus back to the door and watched the top lock turn slowly. Someone was using a key. Or a lockpick.
    He turned his gaze back around and saw nothing but kitchen and living room beyond that.
    Definitely not a flashback.
    He moved decisively to the door, jerked it open, and slammed hard against whoever was attempting to push in. His adrenaline surged when the person grabbed his forearms. Prophet pushed at the man’s shoulders as they both started to fall, thanks to the slippery steps. He landed on top of the guy on the grass. The rain pelted him with fine needles on the bare skin of his arms as they rolled together, grunting and fighting.
    He got in a few good punches before a strong arm wound around his neck. He grabbed it as the other guy—because this was definitely a guy—attempted to flip him onto his stomach. Instead, Prophet bore down with his weight, then elbowed the intruder in the stomach. Freed momentarily, he turned and pinned the man underneath him, efficiently and effectively immobilizing the guy—
    “Prophet?”
    Tommy? “Tom?” Prophet couldn’t see much, but he knew that drawl. Recognized the feel of the man’s hands as they touched Prophet’s cheeks, traced them with fingertips . . . Tom reading him like Braille. As the rain washed over them, the smell of grass and earth and floral spice filled the air. His skin tingled from the electrical currents carried on the storm, and his entire body was in a state of heightened awareness that was almost painful.
    He wanted to ask what the hell Tom was doing here, why he’d risked everything—including his job at EE—to come here. Wanted to ask if Tom had somehow known he’d be here. But he didn’t.
    And he also didn’t know how he even heard the man over the dull roar of the wind, but he did, heard Tom whisper, “Yes,” against his cheek in answer to his unasked