by Sidney Bell
If Brogan were the staff member watching the cameras at that moment, he could probably pull it off.
He immediately pretended he’d never had the thought. He would not get Brogan involved, even if it meant he didn’t end up getting what he needed.
It seemed he’d finally found something he wouldn’t sacrifice in Amy’s name.
He also thought about just...letting it go.
Not his overall plan, no. He knew enough now to kill Coop and Joel with a clear conscience. Maybe he could send what he had to the ATF and hope it would be enough to jump start an investigation that eventually turned into some kind of punishment for Touring. He could take his pound of flesh out of the two men he knew for certain were guilty and be on his way.
He wondered what Brogan would think if he killed two men and then vanished.
He put his head down on the bar with a thud, closing his eyes and groaning.
“You okay?”
He lifted his head. The bartender was peering at him with concern from behind the counter. She was holding his to-go bag.
“Never better,” he said, and handed over cash. “Keep the change.”
* * *
Brogan was foggily watching an old episode of Aqua Teen Hunger Force when Embry returned. Embry handed him a bowl of pasta, then squinted at the television screen as Meatwad turned into something-or-other. A hot dog? What the hell? Embry did not get this show.
“Thanks for dinner,” Brogan said. “And for before, too. I’ve never had someone take care of me like that.” He flashed that rueful, crooked smile that Embry liked so much. “If you’re not careful, I’m going to get used to it, and then I’ll be spoiled and demanding.”
Embry felt like a dick.
“I’m, like, ridiculously relaxed,” Brogan continued, as Embry perched beside him, his own bowl in his lap. “You could ask me for anything now and I’d do it.”
“That’s because you’re drugged to within an inch of your life,” Embry said, and then went still.
Brogan continued teasing him, but Embry tuned him out.
There were a lot of drugs on the black market if you knew where to go. Embry would need to do some research, but he’d pin down something that could be tipped into a drink to make someone malleable. A compliant Joel meant Embry wouldn’t need a gun. It would take care of the cameras, too, because the guards wouldn’t stop anyone entering with Joel as long as there wasn’t visible duress.
He made a mental note to find out what the mandatory sentence was for drugging someone. He’d have to be careful. If he messed up the dosage and Joel realized what was going on, he wouldn’t call the cops. He’d give Embry to Coop, guaranteeing a slow, painful death.
“Embry?” Brogan asked, looking at him with a crease between his eyebrows.
“I’m okay,” Embry said. “Just thinking.” He cuddled up next to Brogan’s good side, turning his face against his shoulder, inhaling the scent of Brogan’s skin. One big hand rubbed along his, and he closed his eyes, letting the cartoon music fade into the background.
He wondered how much longer he could have this. Not long, he imagined. He wanted Brogan safe, and that meant he needed to get as far away from him as possible.
* * *
He barely resisted Brogan’s offer to stay the night. He suspected there wasn’t much time left, and turning down a night in Brogan’s arms was wrenching, but later, as he studied the blueprints for the Touring Industries admin building, he found a single room not far from IT, tucked away in a small corridor, perfect for a standalone computer. He told himself it was a worthwhile trade, but he didn’t really believe it.
Once he’d done that, he logged into Joel’s email with a password stolen months ago. Now that he knew what to look for, he found it easily: a hidden folder full of emails, with one received every three days. Most of the time, Joel didn’t even open them. When he did, there was only a six-digit number.
Embry checked his watch, stretched, and crawled into bed with his eyes burning, but it was hours before he slept.
* * *
He was up before dawn to research drugs. When he knew what he wanted, he emailed Ward, who responded with gratifying speed. Embry would prefer to do this part himself, but he didn’t have the skills or the contacts to navigate the untraceable parts of the internet inaccessible by search engines, the land of the online criminal, the so-called Dark Web. Embry thought the name melodramatic, but then, no one had asked him.
By the time he was out of the shower, dressed and eating a bowl of bran cereal, Ward had hit him back. Less than an hour later, Embry was in his car in a parking lot outside of a grocery store, handing over cash and accepting a brown paper sack through the window.
The delivery guy was in his thirties, wearing a baseball cap, jeans and a T-shirt with a graphic of the main character from CSI: New York on it.
“Gary Sinise?” Embry asked absently. He peeked inside and saw a square of aluminum foil, crusted at one edge with greasy brownish gunk. “I always preferred William Petersen.”
The guy shrugged, glancing down at his shirt. “Either one’s better than the dude in the sunglasses.”
“Good point.”
“Ever used scopolamine before?”
“No. Advice?”
The guy eyeballed the bag warily. “Yeah. Be careful. That shit’s nasty. If you’re gonna blow it in someone’s face, put tissues in your nostrils first. Works best in a drink, though it’ll kick in slower. It’s odorless and tasteless. Wear gloves when you handle it, because it’ll go right through your skin. What you’ve got there’ll buy you about six to eight hours of obedience and about twelve hours of memory loss.”
“And he won’t seem drunk?”
“Nope. Bit sleepy, dizzy maybe, but he’ll be able to talk without slurring and answer questions normally. He’ll give you account numbers, keys, money. He’ll do whatever you say, but don’t scare him or hurt him if you can help it. Sometimes they get a little psychotic.”
“Great,” Embry said, heavy with irony.
“Thank you for your business.” The guy offered a professional smile, touching two fingers to the bill of his ball cap like he was John Wayne. “And have a pleasant day.”
Embry wrapped the bag up and put it under his seat for now.
Here in the states, scopolamine was used as a prescription anti-nausea medication, but in Colombia, where it was called Devil’s Breath or the zombie drug, it was used almost exclusively by criminals. There were countless stories of people waking up to find their bank accounts empty, their homes ransacked, their wallets missing. When interviewed afterwards, they didn’t remember a thing, even though cameras or witnesses showed that they unquestioningly complied, handing over account numbers or cash without hesitation.
Embry sat in the parking lot for a moment and wondered about the state of the world he lived in. Food stamps weren’t enough to keep a kid like Brogan from having to steal to feed his siblings, but Embry could buy drugs in less time than it took to watch a Transformers movie.
* * *
He had to hurry to his next meeting and ended up being about ten minutes late. He didn’t apologize but no one said a word anyway. It was rare that he wasn’t on time, and besides, most people treated him like he was an extension of Joel. Embry doubted any of them would bitch if he cancelled the meeting so they could all play canasta.
He spent the hour after that doing actual work. He didn’t think he’d be here more than another week or so, but he wasn’t about to get sloppy now.
Around eleven, Joel walked into his office without knocking.
“Ah,” Embry said, offering a small, fake smile. “I was about to send you an email. Emma is ready with the new ordering catalog. I’ve put the meeting on your schedule for Wednesday. Is that all right?”
“Fine,” Joel sai
d, walking over to him.
Embry let Joel maneuver him onto his desk and step between his legs. It made his skin crawl, though, and he had to bite his lip to subdue his impulse to shove the other man away.
Joel kissed his throat and Embry’s gorge rose as the man’s hands wandered down his torso.
“We’re at work,” Embry pointed out.
Joel pinched his nipple—Embry could hardly feel it through his shirt and vest, but he wanted to twist away all the same. Anxiety skittered beneath his skin.
“So? We’ve fucked in my office before.” Joel thumbed the button of Embry’s trousers open and started to ease the zipper down.
“That’s your office,” Embry said, catching his hand. He tried to make his voice teasing, but suspected he only sounded tense. “No one would dare burst into your office. And I have a meeting in fifteen minutes.”
“Is that it?” Joel asked, breathing into Embry’s ear. Embry had to force himself to stay still. “Or is this about something else?”
Coop. Had to be. The older man must’ve said or done something to imply Embry had been untrustworthy. Joel knew better than to take Coop at his word, but that wasn’t the same as having faith.
“I don’t know what you mean,” Embry said, widening his eyes, hopefully the very image of confused innocence.
Joel clamped down on his jaw, his fingernails digging into Embry’s flesh as if he hoped to scrape the skin from his bones to get beneath the surface, as if he wouldn’t believe anything he got from Embry unless he’d peeled it from the inside of his skull.
“Joel,” he said, letting his real nervousness show. “Did something happen?”
“You aren’t hungry for me, Embry? Hmm? Or maybe you’re putting me off because you’ve already had all the cock you need for today?”
“That’s not it,” Embry managed.
“Then get your fucking clothes off.”
Embry stared at Joel’s tie. He knew Brogan would likely forgive him if he let Joel fuck him here and now—self-sacrificing dope that he was. Embry also knew that he still needed Joel, at least until he got into that little room. He needed Joel to trust him enough that he’d drink whatever Embry gave him.
But as Joel’s hands lowered to Embry’s trousers again, he wasn’t sure he could make himself submit. Every fiber in his body thrummed with the need to shove those hands away and he didn’t know what to do. So he froze, and Joel took his stillness as permission. Joel pushed him so Embry was lying on his desk, and started to tug his pants down.
Embry’s hands clutched at his waistband. He held his trousers in place as he sat back up.
Joel’s lips parted, baring white teeth and a red, flicking tongue. “Are we about to have a problem, pet?” His fingers latched around Embry’s wrist and squeezed until the bones ground together. Embry hissed but didn’t pull away.
The problem, Embry thought but didn’t say, is that I don’t want to.
That’d been true since the beginning—he’d never wanted Joel’s hands on him. But he’d chosen to let Joel hit him and fuck him and demean him, because the harm it caused him seemed unimportant next to his larger plans. Embry had been unimportant in comparison.
He hadn’t thought there was enough of him left to mind.
Now that Embry knew what it felt like to be cherished, he couldn’t pretend this was a meaningless act, a means to an end. Now he was aware of the damage he did to himself whenever he let Joel touch him.
Brogan had been right. Amy would’ve killed him for being so careless with himself.
Joel reached for his zipper one more time and Embry whispered, “No.”
The earth must’ve stopped rotating—that was the only way that the light and air could fall so still in the aftermath of that one simple word. Joel reared back incredulously, his fingers going limp, and Embry’s mouth fell open at his own daring. For a second they stared at each other. He’d known for a while now that he wouldn’t sacrifice Brogan for Amy, but it was only now occurring to him that he could make that same call for himself.
He could say no. The realization would’ve taken his knees out from under him if he were standing.
Joel flung him away, looming large as a house, and Embry had only a second to decide if he’d allow Joel to hit him. There were good reasons to—he’d rather get hit than fucked, and Joel would feel apologetic afterwards. Embry could use that to rebuild trust.
So when Joel’s softball-sized fist lifted, Embry didn’t block it.
He lost time with the impact, and returned to awareness to find his pants halfway to his knees, and that struck a chord inside of Embry that rang more deeply than a punch ever could. He could submit to getting hit, knew he’d survive that, intact in mind if not in body, but this, this violation burrowed beneath the surface. All of Embry’s determination to acquiesce faded into uncertainty and—if he was honest—fear.
“No,” he said again, but he didn’t sound like himself. The word came out thin.
Joel heard him—there was no doubt about that because the denial only made him yank at fabric more wildly, tearing the trousers along the waistband.
Embry fumbled to push Joel away, aiming for escape rather than causing pain because he still hoped he could salvage something afterwards, but he couldn’t kick because his trousers constricted his thighs, and Joel was standing between his legs anyway. Joel tried capturing his wrists but Embry knew the technique to get out of the hold, and broke free each time. If he could just make up his mind to kill the fucker right here and now, he thought he could manage it, but he hadn’t quite come to terms with making one of the biggest decisions of his life while his ears were ringing and his pants were gaping. So when Joel shoved him back to get room to swing, Embry was a heartbeat too slow, and when that fist fell a second time, it fell with enough force to really skew the odds.
Embry’s skull rebounded against the hard wood beneath him with a dull, meaty sound. For one, two, three terrifying seconds, his vision went black. By the time color returned and gravity resumed working, Joel had managed to flip him over so he was bent bare-assed over the desk.
Joel’s belt buckle clinked and Embry had a split second to think—distantly and rather calmly, all things considered—I’m about to be raped. It was surreal, that thought, as difficult to make sense of as a Dali painting, like reality had melted around him, and he kept waiting for order to reassert itself. He’d known for a while now that the world was fucked up, but he hadn’t known it was this fucked up, that all this time he’d been little more than a gullible child in believing that his own body was sacrosanct.
All thoughts about submitting or minimizing the fallout were washed away by pure panic.
He pushed up, hard, but his muscles were noodles. When Joel put a hand between his shoulder blades and shoved downward, Embry’s elbows buckled—Joel outweighed him by about eighty pounds, and the bastard was fucking strong. Embry flailed, sending his stapler and pencil cup crashing to the floor in his search for a weapon, but Joel captured Embry’s right wrist and wrenched it up behind his back. Razors shot through his shoulder.
Joel growled, “Hold the fuck still.”
The hand on his wrist forced him down, held him in place. Fabric and skin pressed against his buttocks now. His throat closed. He couldn’t breathe. He tried to yell for help but only managed a strangled cry before Joel clamped his other hand over Embry’s mouth, the big sweaty palm sliding over his lips.
He bent down into Embry’s line of sight, staring out of bloodshot eyes, his chest heaving against Embry’s spine. He hissed, “If you don’t stay quiet, I will break your fucking jaw.”
Joel’s hard cock prodded between his buttocks, and Embry’s stomach rolled over. He thrashed, shoving himself up with his left arm, knocking several books off the desk and launching his laptop flying, but he wasn’t strong enough to break loose. He�
�d never been strong.
But he was smart.
And like that, his brain snapped into action again.
He tamped down on the panic, forced himself to inhale deeply and think. All those months in the dojo returned to him. He couldn’t push himself up with his left arm—Joel weighed too much—but he could still move it.
He bit at Joel’s palm as a distraction, let Joel shove his face harder into the desk, let Joel muzzle him, let Joel hiss threats at him and ram his cock haphazardly between Embry’s cheeks, searching for entrance blindly since his hands were busy holding Embry quiet and still. Embry let him because in the meantime, he was shifting his left arm until the fingers of that hand connected with the edge of the desk and gripped.
He didn’t push. He pulled.
Hard to the left, using the desk for leverage, twisting his hips at the same time. He slid sideways like a snake slipping its skin, using what he had instead of brute strength—flexibility, agility, training. The arm locked behind his back had to be sacrificed—he knew it, and he couldn’t hear the sound of the joint dislocating over the crash of his heartbeat in his ears, but there was no missing the agony that reverberated through him. Embry kept turning anyway. He’d always been quick, and even now, with the room rocking around him and half of his upper body electrified with pain, he was still faster than Joel, who stumbled as Embry slithered from beneath him.
In the distance, he heard someone shout, but Embry was already on him.
He didn’t break Joel’s neck, although that was what his rage wanted—he’d need two hands for that, and his right was useless until he got the joint back in the socket. Instead, he grabbed Joel by the hair with his good hand and kicked the back of Joel’s knee forward. The bigger man went down hard and Embry used the momentum to knock Joel’s head into the edge of the desk. Embry yanked his pants up enough that he could move freely, and then he let the rage slip free.
