by Sidney Bell
“Yes, Mom.” Brogan allowed Embry to push him gently indoors. “Did I mention that it’s very romantic that you were playing with my dog?”
“He farts.”
“He does indeed,” Brogan agreed. “Don’t ever give him beer. It just gets worse.”
Embry stopped short in the dining room. “You gave your dog beer? That’s completely irresponsible pet ownership.”
“Only accidentally,” Brogan said.
“How do you accidentally give a dog beer?”
After a pause, Brogan said rather pathetically, “I’m wounded. I saved your life. Don’t be mean to me.”
Embry sighed but let it go. “Did you get your prescriptions filled?”
“At the hospital pharmacy.” Brogan jerked his chin toward a paper sack on the table. Embry pulled out two containers, reading the directions.
“This is the good stuff,” Embry said, shaking the pills so they rattled. “You found a real sucker at the ER, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, but I’m not going to take—”
“Yes, you are.”
“It’ll make me sleepy.”
“So you’ll take a nap.”
“I don’t want to.”
“You sound like you’re five.”
“You didn’t take your pain pills when your face got broken,” Brogan protested.
“That’s different.”
“How?” Brogan asked, incredulous.
Embry had needed a clear head in case Joel called, but he had no intention of bringing that up, so he lifted an eyebrow. “You can take one willingly or I can make you.”
Brogan laughed. “You can’t make me.”
Embry just looked at him, unsmiling, and Brogan shifted his weight. “I didn’t make you take yours.”
“I’m meaner than you,” Embry said.
“That’s the God’s honest truth,” Brogan replied sourly, and held his mouth open while Embry placed a pill on his tongue. He gave Brogan a cup of water to swallow it down with, ignoring the offended glare that Brogan wore the entire time.
“Can I have a beer now?”
“No. You can’t mix alcohol with narcotics, you idiot.” He prodded Brogan in the direction of the bedroom with two fingers.
Brogan glared at him over his shoulder. “Florence Nightingale you’re not.”
“All complaints must be submitted in writing,” Embry replied mildly. “Sit on the bed so I can take your shoes off.”
“I’m not tired.”
“You will be. How’s your pain? Scale of 1—10.”
“A million. All because of you.”
“You’re rather immature when you don’t get your way,” Embry said, kneeling at Brogan’s feet and unlacing his shoes. He cleared his throat. “Thank you, by the way. For saving my life.”
“You’re welcome.”
Embry busied himself pulling off Brogan’s socks. “What does it feel like?” he asked quietly. He could feel Brogan studying him, and a second later, a finger lifted his chin so he was forced to make eye contact.
“Like the death of an entire world,” Brogan said. His expression was terrible: ancient and shattered. “Nothing feels worse, not if you’re someone who values being good.”
“He didn’t give you a choice.”
“No, he didn’t. You have one, though.”
Embry started to pull away, but Brogan’s hand tightened on his chin. In a low voice, Brogan added, “You won’t be the same on the other side. Doesn’t matter how justified it is. And by the time you know if it’s worth it, it’ll be too late to undo it, Embry.”
“You’re tired,” Embry said. “We shouldn’t talk about this now.” He took Brogan’s hand and pressed a kiss to the knuckles. He ignored the way Brogan’s shoulders slumped and stripped him to his underwear, carefully removing the sling.
He escaped into the kitchen until he could stop picturing the awful grief carved into Brogan’s face. He went back to the bedroom with a bowl of hot water, a bar of soap, two washcloths, and some towels.
Embry pushed a grumbling Brogan onto his stomach, easing his wounded arm to one side. “Comfortable?” he asked.
Embry decided that the sullen look Brogan gave him meant yes, and began washing him down. He used the towels to keep the sheets from getting wet, and let the soap function as lotion so he could dig his fingers into the tight muscles, transforming the grumbling into groans with gratifying speed. He took his time, coaxing out tension, rinsing soap away as he went, leaving clean, damp skin in his wake.
He refreshed the water, then had Brogan roll over. His shoulder did appear to be fine—as long as they kept pressure off of his bandaged forearm and Brogan kept his hand still, the pain seemed to remain manageable. Embry avoided that arm, but worked his palms against Brogan’s broad shoulders, firm belly, and powerful, lightly haired thighs. By this point, Brogan was half-conscious at best, and the final rinse with the hot water left him sighing. Embry patted him dry before setting the bowl and towels aside.
Then he leaned down and took Brogan in his mouth.
Embry had never enjoyed giving head. Joel liked to grab his hair and shove as hard as he could, so Embry preferred to get it over with as quickly as possible. He wasn’t sure where the urge came from now, but knowing he could stop at any time made it more agreeable. Embry went slowly, exploring more than anything else, and he was startled to find that he didn’t mind it. The taste was pleasant and only slightly salty with pre-come, and the weight of Brogan in his mouth was electrifying.
Those grateful moans were icing on the cake.
Embry sucked him deeper, letting the head of Brogan’s cock nudge his throat, and realized he was hard, too, but he kept his focus. The torment of his own need heightened the satisfaction of it all, but this wasn’t about his own desire. This was something Embry could do for Brogan; he could put Brogan first.
Embry lost all track of time as he wrapped his tongue around the head again and again, hollowing his cheeks and sucking hard, using his left hand along the shaft, in awe at the sight of this big, strong man made helpless and urgent by Embry’s touch and mouth. He loved the way Brogan moved under him, the way his solid thighs quivered, the way his back arched, all accompanied by the soft, wrenched sounds he made. Embry loved everything about it.
Brogan choked out a warning, but Embry didn’t stop. He swallowed everything Brogan gave him.
He pulled off and rested his head on Brogan’s thigh while he caught his breath.
“Now you,” Brogan whispered groggily, but Embry shook his head.
“I’m okay. Go to sleep.”
“Sure?”
“Positive. Sleep.”
“I love you,” Brogan mumbled. His fingertips stroked adoringly through Embry’s hair, and Embry closed his eyes, on the verge of tears.
When Brogan had been out cold for a while, Embry collected the bath things and left. He closed the bedroom door behind him, then leaned against it, his arms laden with damp terry cloth and a now-cool bowl of water.
There were so many things crashing around inside him that he didn’t know how his body could contain it all. It was terrifying to feel this awake, to be aware of his own beating heart once more. The only certainty was that he was in love with Brogan.
Now he had to figure out what he was going to do about it.
* * *
Embry went to his computer.
He spent two hours researching before he found someone with potential: Benjamin Carthy, an agent at the ATF who’d worked on multi-agency task forces in the past to catch gunrunners dealing to Mexican cartels. He was high enough on the chain of command to fight for an informant, and by all accounts, he was honest.
He didn’t dare do anything else on his work laptop. He made a couple notes on the back of
a receipt then cleared his internet history and search terms. For the next step, he’d need to get creative.
Embry had broken more than a few laws, and he might end up breaking more before this was done. If Agent Carthy turned out to be untrustworthy or Embry had to pull out for some reason in the future, he wanted to make damn sure that Carthy couldn’t find him. While it wasn’t likely that the ATF could track his location from a cell phone with the GPS disabled, they could still get the I.P. address and possibly his phone number from any email he sent from the device, which could, conceivably, enable them to check cell towers and narrow down his location to a five or ten mile radius.
He wrote a quick note to Brogan, saying that he’d be back in a few hours with dinner, then drove to a local phone store, where he bought a cheap burner phone.
Forty minutes on the highway took him to a good-sized neighborhood park, big enough to be wooded but small enough that the chances of security cameras were slim.
He found a bench and set up the phone, turning off the GPS and creating a brand new junk email account. He debated what he wanted to say, and decided to keep it simple. In the subject line he wrote Whistleblower. In the body of the email he wrote: Are you authorized to deal?
He sent it to Agent Carthy and sat back to wait.
Carthy was probably out doing shit instead of sitting at his desk, but he could likely receive email on his phone. If Embry had played his cards right, barring a sick day or a filter that directed his message into spam, he should get an answer back shortly.
In the meantime, he used his laptop to play FreeCell.
In less than an hour, he had a reply. Yes. How can I help?
He sent back: Can you guarantee my safety?
This was a test—the honest answer was no. There were no guarantees in these circumstances, particularly since Carthy knew zip about who Embry was or what he was into. But a “no” would also scare the shit out of any potential source, so it was in Carthy’s best interest here to lie.
It was also part of Embry’s cover. No one with half a brain would consider turning in a bunch of gun runners without worrying about the possibility of disappearing, so not asking would be suspicious.
There was a long pause before Embry got the reply. Not without more information.
Not bad. Not exactly straightforward, but there was no outright bullshit, either. Embry wrote: What will it take to get full immunity?
Another minute, and then Carthy sent back: Depends on what you have and what you’ve done. If you’ve committed no felonies, it’ll be pretty easy as long as you have something of substance—hard copy proof or a reliable first person account of witnessed crimes that can be confirmed by circumstantial evidence. If you have committed felonies, it’s gonna be much harder. I’ll be able to give you a better answer if I know any crimes you’ve committed.
Embry squinted, trying to think of everything he’d done so far—and what he might still have to do. He didn’t want to confess any felonies, even in an anonymous email that would probably never be traced, but he couldn’t trust the information he got in return if he wasn’t honest, so he wrote: Corporate espionage, blackmail, bribery, accessory to other felonies, some computer hacking into non-government secure systems to follow money trails of laundered dollars.
A few seconds later: Any commission of murder, rape, or kidnapping, attempted or otherwise? Accessory to any of those?
No, he sent. Not yet, anyway.
Carthy was even faster this time: What can you prove?
Embry had been waiting for this one, and he winced as he typed, because he was fudging the truth more than a little. There was a big difference between what he knew and what he could prove. When Ward came through, he’d be more certain of his footing, but until then, he was bluffing. He didn’t have much choice if he wanted to go the legal route, though—it would take time to cultivate this sort of connection, time that he might not have if he waited.
Several counts of murder, international arms trafficking, money laundering. He hesitated, then added, I have reason to believe there may be extremist groups in Syria and Iran receiving light arms. What can you do for me?
If that didn’t catch Carthy’s eye, he didn’t know what would. Hopefully it’d be enough to earn him some breathing space while he got his ducks in a row.
Nearly five minutes went by. While he waited, he checked his other junk email account, the one he used to communicate with Ward, and saw that the hacker had gotten back to him. Much faster than he’d expected—probably not a good sign.
He opened that email and exhaled hard, once.
Call.
There was a phone number at the bottom.
Embry stood up because he couldn’t sit anymore. He dialed and when someone answered without saying hello, Embry said, “What’s the problem?”
“They got smarter,” Ward said.
“Explain,” Embry replied. “Is the information accessible or not?”
“Very much not. There’s nothing there. Nada. I think maybe they used to keep things on the server, because there’s a lot of purged shit on here, but they don’t anymore.”
Embry knew that the purged shit was what he was looking for, because it had definitely been on the server six years ago, locked behind security protocols and accessible only by Joel, Oriole Touring and, accidentally, his father.
“What would you do?” Embry asked. “If you wanted to keep that kind of info secure, I mean?”
Ward didn’t even pause to think about it. “I’d put it on a standalone system without internet connectivity but which requires an individualized login. That protects it from hackers like yours truly. I’d keep that system locked in a room behind a camera-monitored door that requires a key card and a code that’s changed every forty-eight hours, because that keeps out everyone who might try to get to it in the old-fashioned, cloak and dagger way, because unless you’re a hard-core pro, ain’t nobody getting in that ain’t supposed to be there.”
Embry sighed, looking out over the struggling spring grass.
Ain’t nobody getting in that ain’t supposed to be there.
For a second he stood there and breathed. The information that he’d hired Ward to get would’ve given Embry everything he needed to implicate Oriole Touring, Joel and Coop—not just the books that tracked the money generated by the illegal side of the business, but any buyer info that Touring kept track of, perhaps even including inventories of previous sales. It would certainly demonstrate motive for the killing of Embry’s family. Without that info, however, he wasn’t certain he could secure lifetime convictions for any of them, not from a jury faced with the best defense attorneys that money could buy.
He needed that data, and if Ward was right, Embry was going to have to play dirty to manage it.
And there was the catch-22.
Without the intel, he couldn’t get immunity. To get the intel, he would have to commit crimes that would keep him from getting immunity.
Fuck. Either way, Brogan was out of reach. It was done.
He swallowed hard.
“You there, man?” Ward asked.
“Thanks for your help.”
“Sorry I don’t have better news.”
Embry hung up. He made a mental note to arrange for payment when he got the funds from Helen, then set his jaw when he saw a new email from Agent Carthy in his inbox.
I can promise one free conversation, just me and you, unrecorded and confidential, in the interest of good faith, as a potential criminal informant. Do you want to talk on the phone or in person?
He returned to his car, where he took the SIM card out of the burner phone and snapped it in half. As he was driving back to Brogan’s, he dropped the pieces out the window on the side of the road, putting about five miles in between each.
And that, Embry thought numbl
y, was that.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Embry stopped at a restaurant to order some dinner and waited at the bar, nursing a beer.
At first, he was adjusting. Letting himself feel the hollow resignation of knowing it wouldn’t work out the way he’d begun to hope it would. He could probably find the energy to be mad at Brogan about that, for setting up a potential happiness that wouldn’t come to pass, but he didn’t want to. Brogan couldn’t have known how thoroughly Embry tended to burn the bridges he didn’t care about. And he hadn’t cared about walking away clean.
When he’d indulged himself in feeling like shit long enough, he shifted gears and did what he did best: he planned.
He’d have to check out Ward’s speculations. If they were all true, there were five things he’d need: the location of the room, Joel’s key card, the computer login, the code for the door and a way to disable the cameras. Embry was inclined to think so—Joel was no brain trust, but he wasn’t stupid enough to make the same mistake twice. After having to kill an employee to cover his ass, Joel would’ve made sure it could never happen again.
Unfortunately, if Ward was right, it was a logistical nightmare.
He already had schematics of the Touring Administration building that he’d bought off a guy at the city planner’s office long before Joel had even hired him. If there was a room set aside for a single computer, it’d be on those schematics somewhere.
Embry was responsible for completing Joel’s expense reports, and he’d rooted around in Joel’s wallet for receipts enough times that he knew Joel carried a blank-faced key card. Until now, he’d only been able to guess at its purpose. That would be relatively easy to grab.
The login for the actual computer was harder—it was almost certainly going to be different than the one Joel used for day-to-day business, and if he and Touring were the only ones who knew it, that severely limited Embry’s options.
Even if he was able to steal all of the things he’d need, though, the problem remained the cameras. Any of the dirty Touring or Security Division people would know that only Joel and Touring—and possibly Coop—had access to that room, so as soon as Embry even approached the door he’d have armed guards heading his way. He could take down one camera—he’d done it before—but if he took out too many for too long, it’d be suspicious, and then he’d be back at the armed guards again.
