Bad Judgment

by Sidney Bell

  “Not worth it,” he repeated, and banished all thoughts of dimples from his mind.

  * * *

  The mysterious Coop that had brought out such animosity in Henniton the week before was Ernest Cooper, a man in his midfifties with a bulldog face and small, glittering eyes. Brogan only needed a glimpse of him to know he was a former Marine: the graying high-and-tight, the rigidly square posture, the way he spoke to Henniton with just the right amount of you haven’t earned my respect scorn—he practically had Semper Fi tattooed on his forehead. More to the point, Coop had a general air of—to be blunt—batshit crazy.

  Brogan was steered out of Henniton’s office the minute Coop arrived, but not before Brogan caught the watchful intensity that Ford directed at the older man. Caution vibrated from every inch of Ford’s body.

  Brogan waited outside with Parks, his backup for the day. Brogan didn’t like the lumpy, potato-faced guy at all, in no small part because he seemed like the type to keep heads in his freezer. Parks had always been professional and competent, so Brogan couldn’t point to anything specific, but he was one of the coworkers that set off Brogan’s internal homophobe alarm.

  They could hear Henniton yelling every now and then, and Coop yelling back. Brogan heard nothing from Ford however, and caught himself listening hard, worrying over what that meant.

  The fact that he was less worried about his client than his client’s assistant was not lost on him.

  When Coop finally left, his thin lips were twisted into a smirk, and Henniton’s red face was screwed up with rage. He slammed the door closed with such force that Brogan felt the vibration through the floor.

  Another smashing sound followed. Brogan sighed internally but didn’t hesitate—although he suspected Henniton was just trashing his office, he needed to check anyway, even though he knew Henniton wouldn’t appreciate the interruption. But before he could enter, Ford was there, the door swinging wide enough that Brogan could see Henniton flipping his things off his desk beyond Ford’s shoulder. Ford nudged Brogan out of the doorway by resting the back of his knuckles against Brogan’s belly, and Brogan’s body obeyed instantly, which would be embarrassing later, when he had a chance to consider it.

  Ford slipped into reception with them, closing the door behind him, and then he stood there in his perfect suit, hands in his pockets, avoiding Brogan and Parks’s curious gazes. Henniton let out a furious screech. Crash after crash echoed.

  “Coop and Mr. Henniton get along really well, huh?” Brogan asked. Ford glanced up, and Brogan caught a glimpse of an actual emotion on Ford’s face. Well, if exhaustion counted as an emotion. Since it verged on misery, Brogan thought maybe it did. He had an urge to smooth away the crease between Ford’s eyebrows, but didn’t move.

  Even if he thought Ford would let him, this was neither the time nor the place.

  Then the door to the office swung open, and Henniton barked, “Embry, get your ass in here and clean some of this shit up.”

  Only someone painfully attuned to Ford would notice the way he took a breath and squared his shoulders before following his boss—and lover, although no one would know from the way Henniton talked to him—back inside. Brogan kept his expression neutral and managed to smother his groan when Parks leaned against the wall and started chatting about football, but most of his attention followed Ford into Henniton’s office, because painfully attuned to Ford was exactly what Brogan happened to be.

  Chapter Five

  Brogan hated overnight shifts in support. Hated them with the fiery loathing of a thousand suns. The purpose was to have people ready to coordinate backup with police, medical and other staff in the event that something went down during the night, which meant Brogan spent most of his shift trying to keep his damn eyes open in case violence broke out wherever Henniton happened to be. The main Touring building was a pretty cushy site to spend eight unwilling hours—comfy chairs, heat in the vents, coffee pots that someone in janitorial actually bothered to scrub—but that just made it harder to stay awake.

  Sitting beside him was Nora Io, a twentysomething redhead with a shady past that might have included the CIA (according to rumor and a previous coworker’s sexual harassment-related broken thumb, anyway), and that was the one thing Brogan had going for him. Nora was dry to the point of scorched earth, and Brogan appreciated that as much as the fact that she was competent and reliable.

  “The problem with their relationship,” he said around 4:30, jaw cracking around a yawn so the words were almost unintelligible, “is that Gimli might be the last of his kind. At least, we don’t see any other dwarves in the rest of the movies. It’s implied that the destruction of Moria killed most, if not all of them. So he has a responsibility to find a girl dwarf and repopulate the race. Legolas is not a girl dwarf. It’s tragic that they can’t be together, but evolutionarily necessary.”

  Nora’s chin was propped on her palm as she stared at Brogan with baleful exhaustion. “‘Evolutionarily’ is not a word. Besides, regardless of what the Book of Genesis said, two of every animal cannot repopulate anything without inbreeding to the point of deformed offspring. The dwarves are doomed. Gimli should bang whomever he wants.”

  “It’s more complicated than that. Culturally, they’re very different. There are expectations. There’s all this pressure not to get together.”

  “Not unlike Romeo and Juliet, and look at what happened there,” Nora said, heavy with irony.

  Brogan pointed at her in reward for her intelligence. “Exactly! You have to be wise about these things. You can’t fall for just anyone. That way leads to extinct species and dead teenagers. A lot of death. Loads of it, really.”

  “I’m guessing that your argument is driven by a complex personal issue,” Nora said, “and if you’re going to cry, you need to do it elsewhere.”

  Brogan sighed. “I need coffee.”

  She was already turning away to note his break in the log. “You have fifteen minutes.”

  Brogan made his way through the massive HR department, which included IT, payroll, personnel, and the all-important employee break areas. This early, the empty halls were quiet enough that he could hear the faint, eerie buzz of the halogens overhead. In the cafeteria, Brogan got a cup of medium roast and stood there waiting for it to cool, stirring absently. He was contemplating a trip to the vending machine for a snack when he saw a flash of granite-gray worsted through the open door to the corridor.

  He abandoned his coffee without another thought. He reached the hall in time to see a familiar dark head and a stunningly cut suit go around a corner.

  Ford.

  It had been a couple weeks since Brogan had eaten dinner with the man, but judging from the way his stomach flipped at the sight of him, the distance hadn’t helped his crush. Still, Brogan put that aside as he followed, because there were more important concerns at the moment. Like, Why is he on this floor when his office is up on twenty-six? Why is he here so early? Why is he here when all the offices are locked and empty?

  Perhaps most importantly: Why wasn’t his arrival logged?

  The Touring guards at the front gate were required to notify the Security Division support desk in the event of anything unusual—like someone coming in at 4:30 in the morning.

  There hadn’t been any notifications that anyone had arrived early, and while Brogan might be on break, he hadn’t removed his earpiece, so if Ford had checked in like he was supposed to, Brogan would know.

  For some reason, Ford had given the guards the slip and entered secretly. He’d come to the HR department just as secretly, and now he was doing something especially secret to the lock on the door of the IT director’s office.

  Brogan peeked around the corner, looking down the short corridor to that door, watching as Ford knelt and extracted a lock picking set from his briefcase. He was quick—impressively quick, actually—and
Brogan barely had time to wheel out of sight before Ford stood and turned to check that he was still alone.

  There was a soft click as the door closed behind Ford.

  Nora’s voice sounded in his ear. “Support two, do you copy?”

  “Copy,” he muttered.

  “I’ve lost a camera on two. Are you in the vicinity?”

  “Which camera?” he asked, although he already knew the answer, because if the camera were working, Nora would be looking at him right now.

  “South corridor of the HR department.”

  That’s the one, he thought. “I’ll check it out.”

  Technically, this was the sort of thing that the Touring guys would take care of. Henniton wasn’t here and it really wasn’t likely to be a big deal at this point—cameras didn’t short often, but HR wouldn’t be a big source of interest for a hitter. The chances that this dead camera would get Henniton killed were slim, but he understood Nora’s thinking—Brogan was right here, and if it was a loose connection, it was simpler to have him take care of it.

  Except, of course, that the camera in the corridor outside of the IT director’s office hadn’t shut down on its own.

  What the hell was he up to?

  Brogan pulled his weapon and headed down the corridor toward the office—he didn’t think Ford would attack him, but that would be a shitty thing to be wrong about, and the uncertainty had the adrenaline pumping in his veins.

  He paused at the door, which was framed by tall, narrow windows on either side. Brogan could see Ford through the glass, his profile illuminated by the glow of the computer monitor as he typed. He paused, scrolled down, and then pulled out his smartphone, into which he copied something he probably wasn’t supposed to have.

  Brogan wondered whether Nora had informed the Touring guards that Brogan was checking out the camera for them. If she hadn’t, things would be getting very interesting in a couple of minutes. He propped himself up against the wall and watched through the window as he waited.

  Ford checked his watch and shut the computer down, thumbing the monitor off before removing his latex gloves. He was quick but neat about it—more of that patented Ford efficiency—and then he opened the door.

  Ford jumped about a foot and a half seeing Brogan there, and then his expression changed from surprise to panic, eyes lingering on the pistol in Brogan’s hand.

  “Whatcha doin’?” Brogan asked, and though the words were light, his tone was not.

  “It would be you,” Ford said under his breath. “I’m breaking into the IT director’s office, what’s it look like?”

  “I can see that,” Brogan agreed.

  “Let’s walk while we talk,” Ford said. “I’m running late.”

  “Let’s say we stay right here.”

  Ford considered the long corridor, then shifted his weight like he meant to leave anyway.

  Brogan said, “I wouldn’t recommend it.”

  “Smith, Touring Security will be here any minute to investigate the camera I shut down. If they catch me here—”

  “I’m aware. You should start talking.”

  Ford grimaced, his breath coming out in a hiss. He stared at Brogan for all of five seconds before whipping his gaze down the corridor to the corner once more, where the other security men would be arriving any time. “I’ll tell you everything, just not here, not now.”

  “Not good enough.” Brogan kept his voice calm and tried to be subtle as he moved into position for a takedown—he didn’t want a struggle if he could avoid it, because the muscle flexing in Ford’s jaw told him the smaller man would fight back. Brogan wasn’t worried about his ability to subdue Ford, but he didn’t want this to get any uglier than it had to. “And even if I wanted to let you explain, it would be a dead giveaway that something was up if I vanished for twenty minutes of my shift. We need to do this now.”

  “I’ll go right to my office and stay there until you have time. I’ll tell you what I was doing. I promise, I’m not going to get anyone hurt. Give me a chance to explain. If you still want to turn me in, I’ll go willingly. Just one chance to explain. Please.”

  Brogan hesitated. On the one hand, if he let Ford walk right now, he could get fired—and if Ford was lying, someone could get killed. On the other hand, Ford’s earnestness seemed sincere.

  “You afraid you’ll get arrested?”

  “I can’t get caught here, Smith,” Ford said. He exhaled hard, and his shoulders slumped. More quietly, he added, “You don’t know what he’ll do.”

  Henniton, Brogan thought. And yeah, there was a chance Ford was lying, but Brogan didn’t have it in him to throw the little bastard to his boss’s mercy without a chance to explain. Maybe that made him a stupid ass, but it was the choice he could live with.

  He hardened his expression, though—Brogan hadn’t survived the war and then three years in security by being a sucker, and he didn’t want Ford comfortable. As a test, he holstered his weapon, watching warily in case that was what the guy was waiting for.

  But Ford didn’t move.

  “Give me your phone,” Brogan said. At the very least, Ford wouldn’t be going anywhere with whatever he was here to steal.

  Ford handed it over without argument.

  “I’ll be watching the hallway outside your office on the cameras. Fix the one you messed with on your way back upstairs, and then stay put. You step one foot outside, I’ll sound the alarm. I’m off at seven and I’ll come up to talk to you then.”

  “Deal,” Ford said instantly, and after another moment of cautionary eye contact, Brogan led the way down the corridor.

  They split up at the cafeteria. Brogan went inside and let Ford go.

  He waited about twenty seconds to give Ford a chance to undo whatever he’d done that put the camera out of order in the first place, then said, “Support, how’s that?”

  “No picture yet,” Nora said.

  “Okay, let me try something else. Give me a minute.”

  Then, about fifteen seconds later: “Oh, there it goes. Crystal clear image. Thanks.”

  Brogan breathed out. So far at least, Ford was doing as he’d said he would. “Sure. You want coffee since I’m still down here?”

  “Yeah, thanks.”

  “Copy. Out.”

  He poured a fresh cup for Nora then he dumped his own down the drain before hurrying upstairs to verify that Ford was in his office as promised. His stomach was full of acid, and besides, he was wide awake now.

  * * *

  By the end of his shift, he was carrying a knot of anxiety in his gut. It wasn’t that he thought Ford wouldn’t be waiting; he’d been watching the cameras, after all. But his willingness to risk the job said how deeply Ford already had him hooked. So Brogan said good-bye to Nora with guilt twisting inside him, and second-guessed himself during the entire elevator ride upstairs.

  He knocked on Ford’s door even as he pushed it open, startling the hell out of a woman with her back to him.

  “Smith,” Ford said from his seat on the opposite side of a well-lacquered desk. “There’s something called an appointment. It’s new, but I think it will revolutionize the business. Try making one.”

  But the irritated words didn’t match his body language—he was already gesturing for the woman to go.

  “It’s about the schedule,” Brogan said, playing along until they were alone. He took a beat to organize his thoughts and calm his pulse, looking around. Ford’s office wasn’t as nice as Henniton’s, but it was still one of the better ones—plenty of space, lots of light, a few plants. On the far wall was a Renaissance-era print of a painting depicting two women offering a severed head to a horrified man.

  Ford caught him looking and said tetchily, “Now we’re taking the time to experience art?”

  “Are you alway
s this temperamental?” Brogan asked, reminding himself that crankiness was not attractive. He kept his tone unfriendly. “And this isn’t art. It’s a monstrosity. How the hell do you look at this all day?”

  “I find it rather soothing.” Ford came to stand next to him and studied the painting. “It’s a Rubens. If you call it a monstrosity, people will think you’re a Philistine.”

  Brogan didn’t know what a philistine was, but from the way Ford said it, he could tell it was an insult. “Is there a reason that woman’s carrying around a head on a plate?”

  “Yes. This is Procne’s way of showing King Tereus that he’s just eaten his son.”

  “That explains the old guy’s expression.” Brogan wondered at the kind of man who found a painting like this soothing. “I was wrong to call it a monstrosity. I see that now.”

  Ford’s dark eyes were reluctantly amused. “It’s a scene from Metamorphoses. A charming little revenge story. Do you know it?”

  “Oh, sure,” Brogan replied, annoyed. “That’s my favorite bit. The part with the heads and the accidental cannibalism.”

  Ford smiled, and those damnable dimples peeked out, lending him an air of warm approachability, an air that Brogan knew to be false. There was nothing approachable about Ford, but that didn’t keep Brogan from wanting to touch him. Anger bubbled up that Ford had dared to put Brogan in this position, where he was tempted to help instead of doing what he should have done in the first place, which was tackle Ford’s perfect ass and then serve him up to Henniton and Touring for trespassing.

  “Do you have listening devices in here?” Brogan asked.

  Ford’s smile disappeared. He took a step away from Brogan and leaned against the desk with his arms folded across his chest while he considered the question. Some emotion that Brogan couldn’t quite identify—regret, possibly, or disappointment—skated along those angular features before all expression vanished. The warmth and approachability were gone; only an unyielding, almost frightening intelligence remained. This was not the man he cooked pasta with. This was a stranger.