by Sidney Bell
There was polite laughter on the other end, tinny through the speaker, then a thank you. Embry hung up.
“Pull your car back a few rows so that anyone coming in won’t see your face,” he ordered Mario. “But don’t go too far or it’ll be suspicious. No one parks out in the middle of nowhere unless they don’t want to be seen.”
“Not my first rodeo,” Mario said.
Embry ignored him and continued, “Call Brogan if you see anyone else arrive, especially Coop. Watch out for Parks or Dillon. They’re both on the take, and they will hurt you.”
Mario’s mouth dropped open. He started to ask something but Embry turned to Brogan and said, “You will go to the Security Division support desk on the second floor. You’ll keep an eye on the cameras and you’ll call me if anything comes up that I need to know about. If something happens, you will alert me and then leave. You will not come to assist me. Is that clear?”
“Embry,” Brogan started.
“Don’t argue with me, or I’ll knock you out and put you in the fucking trunk,” Embry replied, and Brogan clenched his teeth, because he definitely meant it.
“Support desk,” he said, the words sour in his mouth. “Check.”
“You don’t hurt anyone and you don’t do anything that will get you fired. You alert me only. Clear?”
“Clear,” Brogan said. He comforted himself with the knowledge that he was lying.
Embry opened the Nissan’s passenger door. When he spoke, his voice was kinder. “Joel, you can get out now.”
“Okay,” Henniton said. “It’s stuffy in there.”
“It sure is,” Embry agreed.
“What the hell did you give him?” Brogan asked.
“Scopolamine,” Embry said.
“I had whiskey,” Henniton added. He walked to the sidewalk with perfect coordination.
Mario was running his hands up and down his arms as if he were cold—or more likely, nervous—but he aimed a stern glare at Embry. “No one’s dying tonight, right?”
“Obviously,” Embry answered, as if Mario was a moron for thinking otherwise. He moved to follow Henniton, but Mario got in his way.
“Ford, if this is about—”
“If I wanted Joel dead,” Embry interrupted, “he’d be dead already.”
They stared at each other for a good five seconds.
“What the fuck is going on with you two?” Brogan asked.
“Nothing,” Embry said. “I’m going inside. You can shut up and come with me, Brogan, or you can stay here with him. But no one’s dying—not if my timetable holds up, anyway. So decide.”
Mario studied Embry for a few more seconds before he relaxed. He got back in his car and drove a few rows away from the nearest lamp so the cabin of the vehicle was dark and his presence concealed.
Embry led Henniton toward the admin building, saying something about getting out of the cool night air and reassuring him that he was safe. Despite whatever had happened earlier today, the drug seemed to have made it possible for Henniton to believe Embry.
If Brogan hadn’t seen that diamond-hard expression earlier, hadn’t seen the death in Embry’s eyes, he might’ve believed the lie, too.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Under the fluorescents of the atrium, the marks on Henniton were more egregious: puffy lip, swollen eye, purple skin, and Brogan was pleased, because he suspected Embry’s fists were responsible for them.
“You have to tell me what happened,” Brogan said. “I’m freaking out.”
“No.”
“Embry—”
“Later. I don’t have time for that now.”
Brogan clenched his teeth, but subsided. He’d get the story—and kick Embry and Mario’s asses for lying to him—later, but for now, Embry was right. They needed to focus. So he shut it all down—the worry, the jealousy and anger that Mario knew and he didn’t, and the fear that not having that information was going to bite him in the ass somehow.
“Is he going to do what you tell him?” he asked instead, gesturing to Henniton.
“He wouldn’t hold still while I harvested a kidney or anything, but short of that, yes. Scopolamine makes people ridiculously suggestible.”
Embry was so matter-of-fact about it that it was almost creepy.
“Security Division will already have logged that we’re here,” Brogan said, as they piled into the elevator. He sent a small head tilt toward the camera tucked away high in the corner of the elevator wall as they rode to the second floor. He’d come to respect Embry’s strategizing and planned to do as he’d been told—as long as that remained in Embry’s best interest. While Brogan was very keen on surviving tonight, there were some things he would die for, and Embry was solidly in that camp. Even if he was an asshole. “They’ll be watching you wherever you go.”
“I’m aware,” Embry replied. He looked calm but for the hint of sweat at his temples. “The back corridor in the IT department is restricted, but Joel has access. It’s Nora and Wiley scheduled tonight, so it should be fine.”
The bell dinged as the doors slid open. As they exited the elevator, Brogan wanted to hold Embry close and beg him to remember that anything that hurt him would hurt Brogan, too.
But conscious of the cameras on them, all Brogan managed was a long look—Embry beautiful and composed in that brutally tailored three-piece suit, the bruises on that lovely face downright offensive to the eye—and a tight, “Be careful.”
Embry looked back steadily. “You, too.”
Brogan strolled into the large conference room where Security Division had set up the support station and camera bank, careful to keep his expression pleasant and a little sleepy. He opened his mouth to say hello to Nora, who was sitting at the terminal in front of the five monitors displaying the twenty-six feeds from various cameras around the building and parking lot, but he closed it again when he saw the second Security Division staff member. Not Wiley. Parks.
Parks with a cell phone in one hand.
“What are you doing here?” Brogan asked.
Parks dropped the phone into his pocket. “Traded a shift,” he replied.
“Coop’s suggestion?”
“There was an incident in Mr. Ford’s office.” The smile accompanying that comment made Brogan want to punch the dickwad’s smug face. It infuriated him that this piece of shit knew what had happened between Embry and Henniton and Brogan didn’t. “My presence makes Coop and Mr. Touring feel better. Someone must’ve forgotten to update the schedule. Oops.”
“I bet. Who were you tattling to just now?”
The smug smile faded. “I’m doing my job.”
“Which one?”
“A better question would be what are you doing here, Brogan?” Nora asked. The tone of the conversation had left her visibly uneasy.
“I think I’m about to kick Parks’s ass,” Brogan said. No point in lying when Parks had just hung up on Touring or Coop, and any dissembling on his part now would only make Nora think Parks was the trustworthy one. He dropped his backpack to the floor so he was free to move.
She got to her feet, taking a couple steps to stand between them, her body angled to make her a smaller target, eyes flicking between them both—fairly relaxed about it, all things considered. “Any particular reason why?”
“He likes underage prostitutes, he’s involved in illegal gun running, and he’s planning to hand us over to some very nasty people very soon. Take your pick.”
If Parks had been hit in the face with a two-by-four, he would’ve looked less poleaxed. His guilt was so obvious, in fact, that someone as sharp as Nora couldn’t possibly miss it.
“Have at it,” she said to Brogan, stepping back and reaching for the phone.
Brogan moved forward even as Parks tried to draw his w
eapon. Nora was closer and she was fast, breaking his nose with her elbow. The crack was shockingly loud. Parks jerked back, grunting in pain, but didn’t go down. Nora pushed her advantage, knocking a foot behind his knee and trying to take him to the floor. Parks wobbled, swinging at her, forcing her to back off.
But she’d bought Brogan enough time to get behind him, and it was almost too easy—one sleeper hold later, Brogan was lowering the limp man to the ground. He pulled out his cell and texted Embry: Parks saw you arrive and called Coop. You’re busted. Get out now.
“I’m calling Timmerson and the cops,” Nora announced, watching Brogan carefully. Her hand was on the butt of her gun as she said it.
“Good,” he told her, meaning it wholeheartedly. “At this point, I’m thinking the more witnesses the merrier. I’m just going to take a look at the desk while you’re on that.”
She circled to the phone as he studied the camera feeds. The second floor corridor behind IT ended in a door with a keypad and a card reader on the wall beside it, but Embry and Henniton were nowhere to be seen.
“Is this about Ford?” Nora asked, reminding Brogan that she’d seen him nearly lose his shit on the day Henniton had hit Embry. She knew he was invested.
“Ford’s one of the good guys,” Brogan told Nora. Sort of, he added silently. He saw her hand freeze on the handset in his peripheral vision.
“He is?” she asked doubtfully. “He’s so—”
“I know,” he replied. “He’s an anger ball.”
“I was going to say morally flexible—what with the whole sleeping with married men thing—and you’re not wrong about his temper.” She took a breath. “But I don’t blame him for what he did to Henniton. If Henniton had tried that with me, I’m not sure I wouldn’t have tried to kill the fucker, too.”
Brogan nearly asked, very nearly, because he was getting a strong suspicion about what must’ve happened in that office. But he reminded himself that Coop was on his way and there was no way of knowing how long it would take him to get to Touring. Whatever had happened wouldn’t be a five second conversation, especially not from a thirdhand source like Nora, and they didn’t have time now.
As if someone in the heavens had decided to reward him for being responsible, his phone rang. He glanced at the display: Mario.
“Embry’s in the process of getting some information that will hopefully nail the bastards to the wall,” Brogan said to Nora, even as he answered his phone. “Yes, dear?”
“Lots of guys with guns,” Mario says, sounding tense. Good choice, Brogan decided. It was a moment for tense. “About half a dozen Touring security guards, and all of them carrying. Get out of there, dude. Pronto.”
“I’m working on it,” Brogan said. “Tell me if you see Coop arrive.”
Nora stopped mid-dial, jerking her head up. “Coop’s here.”
“What?” Brogan asked.
“He’s in his office, has been for hours—”
“Fuck,” Brogan said. “We need to go.”
Still no Embry on camera. What the hell was he doing?
“I’m ready,” Mario said.
“Wasn’t talking to you, but yes, you should go,” Brogan told him and hung up, wincing at the lecture he could already hear coming down the pipeline when this was over. The back IT corridor was still empty. He reached for Nora—they could call the cops on his cell while they ran—and that was when the gun went off.
Her throat was suddenly a red, wet mess, her hands flying to the wound as if she could keep all of that necessary blood from spilling out. Coop was in the doorway, already shifting the muzzle of his gun toward Brogan. Dillon was behind him, mouth twisted as he watched Nora crumple to the floor.
“Don’t,” Coop warned, when Brogan’s hand lurched in the direction of his pistol through sheer habit. “I don’t want to kill you yet, but I will.”
So Brogan knelt instead. He wrapped his fingers over Nora’s, covering the hole in her throat, unable to stop the air bubbles popping through the thick stream of blood, splattering Brogan’s forearms and her white, white face.
It was useless, and she knew it, too—her blue eyes were big and scared. She tried to say something, grimaced, and her mouth opened and closed a few times. She shuddered, and Brogan had never known his own smallness, his own helplessness, the way he did right now. He’d watched soldiers die before, but this was different somehow. He wasn’t in Iraq anymore, where screams had soaked into the sand over the centuries. Irrational as it might’ve been, Brogan couldn’t help thinking that this world wasn’t supposed to bleed this way.
“We’ll be going now,” Coop said. “Get up.”
“In a minute,” Brogan snapped. She clutched at his wrist, gasping now, and his pant legs were sopping wet, her shirt soaked crimson. It was everywhere. For a second Brogan heard chopper blades and felt heat waves rising against his skin, but he forced himself to meet her gaze. Her panic, strangely, helped ground him, kept the flashback at bay. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.
She shuddered once more, then died.
“Now can we get up?” Coop intoned.
Brogan climbed to his feet. “I really liked her,” he said, the words loaded with all the threat he’d intended. And if you try to hurt Embry, he thought, I will end you.
“Take your gun out with two fingers.”
Brogan obeyed, and then kicked the weapon across the room when he was told to.
“Where’s Henniton?” Coop asked, wandering closer as Dillon patted Brogan down, taking Brogan’s cell.
“Bermuda, if he’s smart,” Brogan said.
Coop hit him with the butt of his pistol, sending Brogan to his knees. White light burst behind his eyelids. Fuck, that hurt.
“With Ford then,” Coop decided. “Or you wouldn’t need to lie.”
“Not lying.”
“We’ll see. Get up.”
“Little dizzy. Give me a second.”
“Get up or you’ll be walking on a leg with a bullet in it.”
There was steel in the older man’s voice. Brogan climbed to his feet, leaning against the nearest wall until the room stopped revolving.
“Let’s go.” Coop gestured toward the hallway.
As they walked, Brogan struggled to think past his vertigo. Coop had said he didn’t want to kill Brogan yet.
“Is this the part where you torture me to find out how much I know?”
“This is the part where I use you to find your boyfriend,” Coop said. He had Brogan turn right. It was pretty obvious where they were going now—to the back IT corridor. Coop obviously knew where the sensitive info was kept. Dillon followed them. “Then I torture you both to find out how much you know.”
“Efficient,” Brogan said. They passed payroll, emerging into a large space that housed a mass of cubicles. A brief minute later they arrived at the proper door. Coop held out a key card with his left hand and said, “Swipe it.”
Brogan obeyed, but clapped a hand to the door loudly under the pretense that he was trying to brace himself, hoping Embry would hear it.
“Clever,” Coop said, heavy with irony. “Access code is 349218. Open it.”
Without any other options, Brogan did.
The room was small, carpeted and windowless, occupied only by a desk with a single chair, and on the desk was a computer.
There was no one there.
Brogan let out a sigh of relief that might’ve been precipitous, especially considering the way Coop kicked the chair hard enough to make it skid a few feet.
“We’re leaving,” Coop growled. Sweat dripped from his hairline, and the man’s agitation made Brogan nervous. He suspected there were zero recorded cases of panic making someone smarter, and Coop was impulsive on a good day. Dillon seemed to know it, too—he was watching the older man warily.
“This is taking too long,” Coop barked as they entered the main finance department. There were a couple dozen cubicles clustered in small clumps, surrounded by offices.
“He wouldn’t stay now that he has what he came for,” Brogan said. “He doesn’t even know that you have me.”
“Oh, I think he’ll be nice and worried about you,” Coop replied. “You’re so very much in love, after all.”
“He doesn’t love me,” Brogan told him, and Coop grabbed him, hauling on his arm until he stopped walking.
“Wait,” Coop said, shaking his head, a smile growing on his face, insidious as mold. “He didn’t tell you?”
So even this bastard knew what Brogan didn’t. The unfairness of it threatened to take him out at the knees. And even though he knew better, knew he wouldn’t get anything approaching truth, he couldn’t help asking, “Tell me what?”
“That Joel tried to rape me,” Embry said wearily from behind them.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Embry stood ten feet away, alone, leaning against the partition of the nearest cubicle, hands in his pockets, seemingly casual, and all Brogan could think was Henniton tried to rape him.
His body felt like rubber as Coop wrenched him around to use as a shield, the muzzle of the pistol never straying from his head. He couldn’t make sense of the words Coop was saying at first, couldn’t think, fuck, why couldn’t he think?
Oh, right. Because Embry had been hurt and Brogan hadn’t been there to stop it.
Because the mad whirl inside him clouded everything else.
“...must’ve said no because of you,” Coop was saying, and then the roaring in Brogan’s head was back. He tried to concentrate, to surface, but as soon as he did, the words returned, Coop’s nasal voice running on and on, making his blood burn for violence, “...hurt pretty bad, but deep inside he wanted it...”
