Bad Judgment

by Sidney Bell

  Embry suspected that Coop had seen that brush of fingers, and maybe even Embry’s alarm before that. And when Coop nodded in Brogan’s direction before giving Embry a thumbs up, he knew it for sure. Then Coop wandered deeper into the lobby, hands in his pockets, mouth pursed like he was whistling.

  It wouldn’t be long before the bastard used what he’d seen. He might keep his cards close and try to blackmail Embry somehow, or he might drop a subtle hint in Joel’s presence that Embry was unfaithful—something about handholding maybe. Coop was unpredictable. Embry could have hours or weeks.

  His one saving grace was that Joel didn’t trust Coop, and that meant Joel would be torn between his natural inclination toward jealousy and his reluctance to show insecurity in front of an enemy.

  Like Embry needed more shit to deal with. After a few minutes of considering how to handle it, he gave up. His brain had had enough for one day.

  He was tucking the jacket over one arm when his phone rang. Joel. Embry answered despite the fact that he’d rather chuck his phone into a fountain.

  “Ford,” he said

  “Come to my office,” Joel ordered.

  “The cops are almost here,” Embry replied, grateful for the excuse, wondering if Coop had already found his way upstairs to say something. “I have to talk to them. Besides, you should call your wife. She’ll be frightened if she hears about this on the news.”

  “I don’t care about any of that. Come up here. I want to fuck you.”

  Embry relaxed. Joel didn’t like to reveal his need for Embry when he was feeling jealous, so Coop must’ve kept a lid on what he’d seen—so far. Embry pitched his voice so he wouldn’t be overheard. “I want that, too, believe me, but it’ll be better if I can skew the cops’ perspective of Vindler’s reasons away from us.”

  After a heavy exhale, Joel snapped, “Fine. Stay down there. I don’t care.”

  He hung up.

  “Jesus,” Embry muttered, looking down so he could slide his phone back into his pocket, only to realize he’d had that entire conversation while standing over Vindler’s corpse. He felt embarrassingly cold-blooded, but in his defense, the past ten minutes had been surreal. He stared down at the man, struck by the sheer oddity of seeing a dead body on the sidewalk in the middle of the day.

  Brogan’s two bullets had landed square in the center of the torso, at least one of them entering the heart. Perfect shots. The firing of the shotgun would’ve been reflexive, the pellets catching Brogan through sheer chance.

  He wished he could say he was surprised by Vindler’s attempt, but Embry wasn’t that good at lying to himself.

  Months ago, when he’d first learned of Vindler’s proclivities, he’d told Joel that he didn’t want to use that sort of secret against anyone. “You don’t have to,” Joel had said, still in his “court Embry” phase. That had changed when Vindler had led Grailer & McNeil to the cartel. Then it had been, “You have forty-eight hours. Make it happen.”

  After compiling a list of recipients that he’d send the photos to if Vindler didn’t get Grailer & McNeil to back off (all while trying to ignore Brogan sitting next to him watching Cowboy Bebop), Embry had spent most of those forty-eight hours in a tree outside of Vindler’s house hoping to get a photograph. He’d put the photos together with the list, folding the pages into the crisp white envelope.

  At the time, Embry had been confused that such a small desire could produce such profound shame. As far as he’d been able to tell, Vindler didn’t even jerk off. He simply changed into the dress and pantyhose then lounged around watching TV.

  It was a stupid thing to try to kill someone over, he decided, studying Vindler’s pointed chin and the lines beside his open eyes. There was a small yellowish stain on Vindler’s blue tie. Mustard, maybe, or dried egg yolk. He was only in his midforties, but surely that was enough time to make peace with who he was.

  Maybe he’d have taken some harassment over it, but he didn’t have a wife to leave him and it wasn’t like he’d have been fired. No, the man who’d had the biggest problem with Vindler’s cross-dressing had been Vindler.

  Embry wasn’t sure how guilty to feel.

  “You okay?” Wiley asked from where he leaned against the building. Emergency vehicles were screeching to a halt, lights flashing, sirens dying. Some of the knots in Embry’s stomach dissolved as paramedics hurried to Brogan’s side.

  “It’s sad,” Embry said. “That he felt like this was the only thing he could do.”

  “You’re awfully understanding for a man who was nearly killed a few minutes ago,” Wiley pointed out. “Naturally forgiving, are you?”

  “‘Forgiving,’” Embry repeated, then huffed in wry amusement. “That’s one I’ve never gotten before.”

  * * *

  Two hours later, Embry was allowed to leave. He stuck his head into Joel’s office, but was waved off because Joel was busy dealing with a near-hysterical wife—who had indeed heard about the shooting on the news, once more proving that her husband was a righteous piece of shit. Embry had considered setting something up for Alyssa for after Henniton was dead, but once he’d researched the life insurance payout she would receive—and considering that Embry suspected she’d had to put up with much of the same treatment Embry had at Joel’s hands—he’d decided that becoming a widow was probably the best thing that could happen to her.

  Cold-blooded, perhaps, but not untrue.

  Embry headed for his car, where he found Brogan’s best buddy waiting for him, leaning against the driver’s side door like he was enjoying the scenery.

  “Shouldn’t you be at the hospital?” Embry asked. With Brogan, he meant.

  “I’m going in a minute,” Mario said. “Thought I’d ask how you are first. Any trouble breathing?”

  Embry sighed. “No asthma attack. You can tell Brogan to worry about his own ass.”

  “You seem awfully cavalier considering the circumstances. The man did get shot for you.”

  “That’s the job, isn’t it?” Embry said. He wondered what Brogan had told Mario. The man could just be upset that his friend got hurt, but Embry wasn’t sure, and he watched this near-stranger carefully as he said, “Bodyguards get shot for people all the time.”

  “You’re not the client,” Mario reminded him. “No one would think twice if Brogan had let you get ripped apart by buckshot, but instead he killed a man to keep you safe.”

  “He’s good at his job.”

  “He’s in love with you.”

  “Is this the part where you warn me off?” Embry asked. He tilted his head, his tone scornful. “Don’t bother. I’m taken, remember? Brogan’s heart is his own business.”

  “This is the part where I tell you that Brogan has less smarts than a light bulb when it comes to people he loves. And that if you take advantage of him, those people will notice. And care.”

  “Subtle,” Embry said, heavy with irony. “Get away from my car.”

  Mario sighed. “Look, I don’t have the first clue what you’re involved in. I don’t want to know, either. But I do know that he’ll give you whatever you need, even if it destroys his career or gets him hurt. He’s a fucking idiot that way. So if you care about him at all, Ford, you’ll keep that in mind. Just because he offers to throw himself under the bus doesn’t mean you have to let him.”

  “I’m not letting him do anything,” Embry said. That answered the question of how much Mario knew, but Embry didn’t like hearing anyone refer to Brogan’s kindness as something awful. “I’ve been trying to keep him from jumping in front of buses for a while now. Move.”

  Mario straightened and moved away, watching as Embry unlocked his car and started to get in.

  “So you don’t want to know when he’s out of surgery?” Mario asked casually.

  Embry couldn’t quite conceal his instinctive
flinch of worry and he could’ve kicked himself for it. When he glanced at Mario the man looked smug.

  “Thought so. He’s not the only one hung up, huh?”

  Embry narrowed his eyes. “Does he even need surgery?”

  “Nope. They’re about halfway through stitching him up as we speak. He should be home in a couple of hours, stupid with pain pills.”

  For a second, the rage that hovered so often beneath the surface struggled to get free inside Embry, and it was with hands made clumsy by the urge to hit that he shoved his briefcase across the emergency brake and onto the passenger seat. He reminded himself that Mario was Brogan’s friend and that Mario’s test—while manipulative—hadn’t done any real harm. Still, the pep talk didn’t help much. There was enough anger on his face when he turned to face the other man that Mario’s brow creased and he tensed.

  “Let me be clear,” Embry said quietly, eyes hard and direct. “I have no desire to use or hurt Brogan. I’m not lying to him and I won’t be careless with him. I’m telling you this not because you’re entitled to know, but because you’re his friend and I appreciate loyalty. That being said, don’t fuck with me again. Friend of Brogan’s or not, this is all the latitude that you will get from me.”

  Mario seemed taken aback—and more than a little disturbed—by Embry’s speech. It took him a minute to reply. “You don’t deserve him,” he said finally.

  “I know.”

  Mario was apparently even more thrown by that, and he stood there, watching with a frown as Embry got in his car and left.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Embry stopped at home first to shower and change clothes then drove to Brogan’s.

  He couldn’t...he just couldn’t stay away. Not until he saw for himself that Brogan was all right.

  It was strange unlocking Brogan’s front door with his own key. When he heard toenails clicking on tile floor in the kitchen, he wondered for a heartbeat if he was about to get bitten for entering without Brogan here, but Gizmo only plopped his butt on the ground in front of Embry and lifted a polite paw.

  “Such manners,” Embry said approvingly, giving him a thorough rub, and the dog trembled with pleasure.

  He set his things down and removed his jacket, then stalled out. He should’ve felt like an interloper, but he didn’t. Brogan’s hardwood floors may be scratched up and his couch might be old, but there was also an atmosphere of home, and that was worth more than all the expensive furnishings in the world.

  He settled himself on the couch with his laptop, thinking he’d answer some emails, but something about being here—or maybe it was the memory of bloodstains on the sleeve of a crisp white shirt—made him remember all of Brogan’s talk about legal options and having a life.

  Embry’s original plan had been to kill Joel and Coop, then leave enough damning information on Touring with the authorities that an investigation into the company’s activities would be inevitable. Then he would run, and either the cops would track him down or a Touring-paid hit man would. Assuming he lived through the struggle in the first place.

  But now, with a thick, shameful guilt beating in his chest, he let himself consider whether the information he possessed was enough to damn them all to prison for the rest of their lives, and if so, whether he could be satisfied with that bloodless revenge.

  Before he could second-guess himself, he opened his browser.

  The biggest problem with finding a contact was figuring out who had jurisdiction. Murder cases like those involving Embry’s family were usually handled—or bungled, in this case—by local law enforcement, but trade-based money laundering was handled by Immigration and Customs Enforcement, the ATF handled illegal domestic sales of arms, and the State Department—most notably Homeland Security—was involved in the sale of arms to certain parts of the world. He would have to stick his head out farther than he’d like in order to find someone who had the discretion to work with him on this.

  This led to the other problem Embry had. While he possessed a great deal of knowledge about some aspects of Touring’s illegal activities, he knew next to nothing about others. For instance, he could say exactly how many crates of supposedly defective M16s from Warehouse Eleven were “destroyed” on December 8, 2014, but he’d be hard-pressed to tell you who they were sold to or how much was paid. And while he knew the gist of several past meetings with assorted members of the cartel, he wasn’t present for many of them. He could identify many people who’d met with Coop or Joel or even Vindler, but that wasn’t the same thing as being able to prove that a deal had been made. Joel had been very careful to bring Embry into this side of the business slowly, and while Embry suspected Oriole Touring would be unhappy with how much Embry knew, he wasn’t sure how valuable his information was.

  That was why he’d hired Ward to hack Touring’s computers. Without his help, Embry’s ability to take down the company stood on shaky legs, and his chances of offering up enough for a district attorney to both make an airtight case and give Embry immunity for the crimes he’d committed to get to this point were slim.

  What he had might satisfy his own conscience enough for murder, but it wouldn’t be enough to guarantee life sentences. Turned out the burden of proof for revenge wasn’t nearly as stringent as it was for the United States government.

  “Hindsight,” he groaned, working the heels of his hands into his eyes until he saw bright colors. He needed a break.

  He grabbed a beer, figuring that a day when you’ve been shot at justified alcohol at 3:30 in the afternoon. So he sipped slowly, looking out the window above the kitchen sink at Brogan’s overgrown backyard.

  He wondered if Brogan needed a ride home and almost turned to get his cell phone before he remembered that picking Brogan up at the hospital would be very difficult to explain if he were seen. And Mario was probably there. Or his brother or sister. Fuck, if it came down to it, Brogan could take a cab. He was a big boy.

  Embry swallowed, feeling a little sick. The idea of Brogan taking a cab home from the hospital stole all of his bravado. Brogan deserved better. Far better.

  He checked his watch. How long could it take to get some damn stitches?

  The dog farted, and Embry gave him a dirty look as he breathed through his mouth.

  “Really?”

  Gizmo became fascinated by the wall.

  Embry sighed. “What do you say we go outside?” he asked, and Gizmo raced for the sliding glass door. “Guess that’s a yes.”

  The deck needed to be refinished, and the two lawn chairs were rusted, the cushions smelling of dust and mold. Brogan clearly didn’t bother bringing them in during bad weather. Gizmo brought him a saliva-wet, tooth-indented red ball and whined before dropping the disgusting thing at Embry’s feet.

  Embry wrinkled his nose at the ball. “You better not have dog hepatitis.”

  They were playing fetch when Brogan opened the screen door and stepped outside.

  “You’ll get tired before he will,” Brogan warned. His white oxford had been replaced by a blue hospital scrub top. His left arm was in a sling and Embry could just see the thick, white bandage blanketing his forearm. Exhaustion creased the corners of Brogan’s eyes and grooves of resignation lined his mouth, like he’d been charged with carrying something heavy, something he couldn’t put down.

  Embry dropped the ball, barely hearing Gizmo’s whine, and hauled ass up the stairs to the deck. He meant to be careful of Brogan’s injuries, but he was probably too rough even as he threw his arms around Brogan’s neck and kissed him. It was brief and hard and not enough, so he kissed Brogan again. And again. He burrowed as close as he could and ran his hands over Brogan’s cheeks, shoulders and chest, ending with one ear pressed against the steady thud of Brogan’s heart.

  “This is an excellent welcome home,” Brogan said. His breath ruffled Embry’s hair. He soun
ded like he was trying to be light, but he didn’t quite pull it off. His grip was almost painfully tight. “I could get used to this. Almost makes getting shot at worthwhile. Although—needles and doctors, so there’s still a downside.”

  “You have a sling.”

  “It’s just to remind me not to use it too much. My shoulder’s fine.”

  “Please tell me you didn’t take a cab,” Embry said into Brogan’s skin so that the words came out muffled. “Or the bus.”

  “Mario dropped me off,” Brogan said, a trace of real amusement in his voice. “He and Wiley are bringing my truck by later. Why? Do you have something against public transportation? That’s a charming personality quirk, by the way.”

  “No more cabs ever,” Embry replied. He straightened, kissing Brogan again, slow and warm and sweet. Brogan’s good hand pulled him closer, and Embry’s bones went liquid. They kissed for what seemed like hours. The sunshine was warm on Embry’s back, he could hear the distant laughter of children clambering off the school bus down the street, the dog was yapping at birds in a nearby tree, and he wanted to stay here forever.

  He almost said it then, almost. He yanked free and had to bite his tongue to keep the words inside.

  “Problem?” Brogan asked.

  “No,” Embry said, a bit appalled at himself. Saying “I love you” came with obligations for both the giver and the recipient, and he was still fulfilling his responsibilities to the last people he’d said it to. Brogan had already killed a man to save Embry’s life today. Running his mouth would only make it worse.

  “We should go inside,” he said instead, studying Brogan critically. His skin had more color, but there was still something leaden about him. “You probably have medicine to take. Did they give you an antibiotic?”