Bad Judgment

by Sidney Bell

  Embry said something to the dog, and then the front door opened and closed. Brogan turned his attention to his bedframe.

  He had a simple enough bed—the headboard had a dozen vertical dowel-like rods running between the bedposts like the bars of a cell, and Embry had handcuffed him to the one smack in the middle. In all honesty, he’d bought this particular headboard with the idea of tying someone willing to it (and if that willing someone had looked a lot like Embry of late, well, that was only to be expected, although as of this moment, Embry was cut off), but this wasn’t exactly what he’d had in mind. The dowels—which weren’t actually called dowels, he was sure, but he’d never bothered to look up the actual name on the off chance that he would end up handcuffed to one—were small enough in diameter that the cuff fit easily around the wood. Brogan gave the chain a few hard tugs, wondering if the pine was soft enough to splinter, but he seemed more likely to break his hand first.

  He examined where the dowels joined the top rail of the headboard, hoping it was just wood glue holding them together, but no. There was an indentation in both the top and bottom rails that the dowel sat in, so even if he managed to loosen the glue, it wasn’t going anywhere.

  Damning himself for not being cheap enough to buy something that would break the first time someone got fresh with it, Brogan offered a silent apology to his wrist, and spun around so his bare feet were against the headboard. He grabbed the chain of the handcuffs with his free hand to offer some shock absorption, and started kicking.

  His heels were on fire within seconds, and other than a few complaining noises, the dowel hadn’t even noticed what he was doing.

  “Fucking Embry,” he growled under his breath, gaze running around the room. Anything. Anything that could help. He yanked open the drawer of the nightstand. There wasn’t much in there: the cord to his old iPod, a bottle of expired sinus tablets, pens, and other assorted crap. The cuff around his wrist was tight enough that all the lube in the world wouldn’t let him slip free, and even he wasn’t creative enough to come up with a plan in which a condom could be handy. He wasn’t MacGyver.

  “Why can’t I be MacGyver?” Brogan yelled at the ceiling. He knocked the duvet to the floor with one aching heel. “Fuck!”

  Panic wouldn’t help. He forced himself to slow down and think. If he wanted to get the dowel free without breaking a bone, he needed leverage. He looked around again, but he couldn’t see anything useful.

  He might have to resort to yelling. Not that it’d help much. Even if one of his neighbors heard him, they’d call 911 instead of breaking in, and he couldn’t even imagine what he’d tell the cops. He could kill Embry for this.

  He ended up staring at himself in the mirror. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes fever-bright, his expression more pathetic than he ever remembered seeing it. He surveyed the room through the reflection, hoping the new perspective would reveal something he’d missed before, but he saw the same things: dresser, night stand, lamp, bed with a wrinkled dust ruffle that Mario’s mother had given him as a housewarming present...

  Brogan launched himself off the mattress, stretching his trapped arm to its full length and twisting at the same time so he faced the bed. The contortions weren’t pretty, but he could sort of get his foot under the edge of the frame.

  His toes brushed cold aluminum, and he gingerly began to pull with the ball of his foot. The metal started to roll away and he tried again, wedging his shin into the frame even more tightly—he might have a permanent indentation in the bone after this, but it worked.

  A moment later he dragged a dusty, ancient baseball bat out from under his bed. It was part of his adventures in PTSD—he’d gone through a phase where he’d wake up so disoriented from nightmares that he didn’t trust himself with a loaded gun. He’d started keeping his pistol in the gun safe instead of in the nightstand, but since he couldn’t fall asleep without some kind of weapon nearby, he’d bought a baseball bat. The post-army version of a security blanket.

  Eventually, the dreams got better and the bat was retired, but it wasn’t the kind of thing he’d ever volunteer in conversation, so Embry wouldn’t know to move it.

  Brogan laughed in triumph—perhaps a little maniacally—as he clambered back on the bed, bat in hand. He studied the dowels for a second, considered the physics of it—where was Embry when he needed him? Oh, right, committing murder—and then got in position. He wedged the skinny end of the bat into place between two dowels, then shoved the fat end toward the headboard. He had to put all his weight behind it since he only had one arm free, but the wood cracked and brown clumps of dried glue fell to the mattress.

  He adjusted the bat’s angle, shoved again, and the dowel splintered into pieces. He was free.

  He locked the other cuff around that same wrist so it didn’t dangle, then realized he’d had his first good luck of the night—he’d fallen asleep in his clothes and wouldn’t need to waste time dressing.

  He shoved his bare feet into sneakers, then tore through the house collecting what he’d need. His holster was on top of the gun safe with the extra magazines, his pistol was on the dining room table, and he pulled his rucksack from the closet. He pawed through it, pulling out the mini-Maglite, the Leatherman multi-tool and binoculars, because if the army taught him anything, it was that you planned for every eventuality. After a brief hesitation, he added a roll of duct tape, just in case he had to restrain someone. He put it all in a smaller, less conspicuous backpack and got his gun seated on his right hip. Feeling the press of time, he raced outside.

  Where he stopped dead at his driveway, staring at his four very flat tires. And Embry hadn’t just let the air out. No, in the unlikely event that Brogan managed to get free of the handcuffs, Embry had prepared for the magical possibility that Brogan might have a tire inflator buried in the mess of his garage (and he did, although it would’ve taken him an hour to find it). To this end, Embry had slashed his tires.

  Brogan had to give him points for being thorough, at least. Embry had seriously managed to screw him with this. If Brogan hadn’t been so pissed off, he might’ve been a little turned on. He headed back inside to consider his next move.

  Calling a cab wouldn’t help. He didn’t know where Embry had gone, and he needed more autonomy than a cab would give him anyway. Plus, he couldn’t put a body in the trunk of a cab.

  Should it come to that.

  He really hoped it didn’t come to that.

  There was only one other option.

  He tried to inject some calm into his voice, like it was normal to call someone at two in the morning like this.

  “Hey, Mario,” he said when his friend answered, sounding bleary and annoyed. “Can I borrow your car?”

  * * *

  While he waited, he put on socks and brushed his teeth (in case he decided to kiss Embry before he killed him). He checked his pack a half-dozen times. He paced. Gizmo watched from the corner, whining occasionally. Brogan told him it would be okay, but the dog didn’t seem to believe it any more than Brogan did.

  During one of his passes through the bedroom, he remembered the envelope. He found it under the duvet.

  Brogan,

  I’ve left a flash drive on your kitchen counter. It holds everything I’ve found so far on Touring’s activities. Should I be unsuccessful tonight, please send it to Agent Benjamin Carthy of the ATF. I’ve included his email and phone number below. Be careful.

  I tried to do it your way first. I really did.

  E

  “Little bastard,” Brogan snarled.

  * * *

  “I’m going with you,” Mario said. He was wearing pajama bottoms, a T-shirt and flip-flops.

  Brogan tried to usher Mario inside. “Nope. Sleep on my couch. Eat my food. Give me your keys.”

  Mario held the keys behind his back and spoke very slowly, as if Brog
an were stupid. “I’m going with you.”

  “You don’t even know what I’m doing.”

  “You’re freaking out at two thirty in the morning, man. I don’t need to know what you’re doing to know that you’re going to need help.”

  Mario’s mouth was doing that weird twisty thing that meant he wasn’t going to budge. Brogan didn’t have time to fight, so he locked his front door. “Fine. But you will obey my every order.”

  “You’re not the boss of me,” Mario reminded him as they crossed the yard. Brogan stopped short, pivoting to stare at his friend, seriously considering punching Mario in the face and stealing his keys. Mario must’ve seen it, because he blurted, “You’re the boss of me.”

  “Drive,” Brogan said. He climbed into the passenger seat, antsy as hell, wanting to poke Mario with a stick to make him move faster.

  “Where to?”

  “Touring,” Brogan said grimly.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  “What exactly are we doing?” Mario asked, his lead foot putting him back on Brogan’s good side. “Because I’m not dressed for crime. It’s hard to run in flip-flops.”

  “I’m not sure yet.”

  “You seem worried, not mad.”

  “Why would I be mad?”

  Mario’s right eyebrow twitched and he flushed red. “How should I know? It’s super early. I’m mad that I’m awake. Why shouldn’t you be mad, too?”

  Brogan narrowed his eyes at Mario’s darkening cheeks. “I don’t have time to deal with whatever is going on with you right now, but later, we’re going to talk about why you’re lying to me. Then we’ll have a separate talk about why you’re such an awful liar, because it’s embarrassing.”

  “Later,” Mario said, with visible relief. “Okay. So why do you want to go to Touring, then?”

  Brogan gave Mario an edited version of past events. He was more focused on what he’d do when he got to Embry, so it was possible that the story made no sense whatsoever. But Mario seemed willing to accept the tale of gun running and murderous thugs at least that far, although he kept looking at Brogan like he thought there was more to it than that.

  “And Embry’s trying to stop them out of the goodness of his heart?” Mario asked doubtfully. “He’s never struck me as the public service type.”

  “We’ve been fucking,” Brogan said, because changing the subject was easier than trying to avoid the whole mess of Embry’s motives.

  Mario expressed zero surprise, only saying, “You know, it’s great that you’re willing to help your boyfriend, Brogan, but Ford’s a tough guy. He can handle himself. If he thinks it’s best that you stay out of it, he probably has a good reason.”

  “His reason is shit. And he can very much take care of himself, but no one could do what he’s going to do without help.” Brogan peered suspiciously at Mario’s profile. “How would you know he can handle himself?”

  Mario flushed dark red again. “Because you told me. That time we talked. Last time. About the thing. Look, the point is, I’m sure he’d pause and re-strategize if he realized he couldn’t do it safely.”

  Brogan really wanted to address the horrible lying that was happening, but Mario’s assumption killed his momentum by sending a pang through his chest.

  “I’m not sure he wants to walk away,” Brogan said quietly.

  Mario shook his head. “Your relationship karma, man, is severely fucked up. You’ve finally found someone who won’t take advantage of you, and somehow you still end up risking your life and career. There’s irony in there somewhere, I think.”

  “Drive faster,” Brogan said.

  * * *

  Mario pulled over on a side road a half mile before the turn to Touring.

  The campus looked normal enough through the binoculars. Lights were on in the guardhouse, and two guards were chatting and yawning as they watched the monitors.

  There were a dozen cars sitting under the yellow glare of the sodium lamps in the admin parking lot. They probably belonged to security and janitorial staff, but Embry’s Nissan wasn’t among them. There were few lights on in the admin building.

  “Maybe he went somewhere else,” Mario suggested.

  “Maybe.” Brogan couldn’t think of where that might be, though. Henniton’s house?

  “I think—” Brogan began, and then Mario interrupted. “A blue Maxima, you said?”

  “That’s him,” Brogan said. They watched the car turn onto the Touring drive.

  “Someone’s with him,” Mario said.

  As Embry stopped at the guardhouse, the lights illuminated the passenger’s golden hair and square face.

  “Henniton?” Mario asked. “Christ, I have a bad feeling about this.”

  “Give it a minute, and then we’ll follow. We’ll say we were called in.”

  “And our excuse for why I’m coming into work in my pajamas?” Mario asked, plucking at the fabric with two fingers. “You should’ve given me some clothes to wear.”

  “You weren’t supposed to be part of this,” Brogan reminded him, studying the pants with a baleful expression. “We’ll say I’m being called in but my truck wouldn’t start, so I woke you up and you’re giving me a ride.”

  “A ride on the bullshit express, you mean. This will never work. You suck at crime.”

  “Pirate pajamas, dude?” Brogan asked rudely. “Really?”

  “I hate you,” Mario said, and started the car. He looked worried now, and Brogan said, “You don’t have to do this. I can climb the fence.”

  “Shut up.”

  Security Division had been working at Touring for long enough now that everyone knew each other by face if not by name. All it took was the mention of Henniton waiting for them to get the guards to fall in line.

  “They’ll be expecting me to drive out soon,” Mario said. He obeyed the ten miles per hour speed limit up the winding road leading to the parking lot, and Brogan wanted to kick him to make him go faster, even if rushing would look suspicious to the guards.

  “You will be. Drop me off by Embry’s car.”

  “Uh, no.”

  “Uh, yes.” Brogan aimed a dirty look at his friend. “How would I explain to your mother that I let you get arrested in those pajamas, you dick?”

  Mario stared straight out the windshield as they crept along, watching as the distant taillights of the Nissan went dark. Brogan would be there in about thirty seconds. He’d have been more relieved if he’d had the first clue what he was going to say.

  “So we are doing crime,” Mario said finally.

  “We aren’t doing anything. You are leaving. I am going to help my boyfriend save the world.”

  Mario gave him a look that could only be described as are you the biggest fucking idiot alive?

  Brogan might’ve had to say yes. He clamped down on the need to babble. “Look. I’m going to keep this on the straight and narrow, because I want my boyfriend alive and jail-free. And he’ll go along with it, because he doesn’t actually want to hurt people and he loves me, even if he won’t say it. We’ll get the bad guys arrested and then we’ll get some pancakes or something. You don’t have to worry.”

  Then they were parking, and Embry, who stood beside the passenger side door of his car, turned and aimed hard black eyes at the two of them.

  Henniton, visible in the passenger seat, was bruised and swollen as hell, which made the calm smile on his face downright creepy. He blinked at them through the window, waiting patiently.

  Brogan and Mario got out.

  “You gonna tell me what really happened now?” Brogan asked Embry, jerking his chin in Henniton’s direction. He sounded mad, which made sense, because he was. “What’s he doing here? Why’s he acting like that?”

  “I drugged him.”

  B
rogan wasn’t dumb enough to miss that Embry had only answered one of his questions, but it was such a bizarre answer that he was thrown. “How did you—”

  “I told him I wanted to apologize and make it up to him,” Embry said. He sounded like he was reading it out of a book or something—like it had happened to someone else. “I let him think he was playing with me as I handed him a drink. And once he was doped, it was easy to get him to dismiss your colleagues.”

  Mario’s eyebrows were practically in his hair. “Wow,” he said. “I don’t even know what to—”

  Embry spoke right over him, looking at Brogan. “Joel’s compliant at the moment, but I don’t have endless amounts of time. I don’t know what you’re doing here, Brogan, but I want you gone. Now.”

  “Not leaving.”

  “I’m not asking,” Embry said, and he looked so sharp, so vicious, that Brogan felt a throb of loss for the kinder Embry that he knew so well. Even if that Embry never came back, though, Brogan was still too invested to leave. He wanted to yell—there was no small amount of anger and hurt bottled up inside him—but now wasn’t the time. If he wanted everyone to live, he’d have to put it aside for now. But later, Embry was gonna get it.

  “I can’t walk away from you,” Brogan said. “I’m all in, Embry. So if you don’t want me coming in with you, you’re going to have to hurt me.”

  Embry stared at him emptily for a long moment, then looked at Mario. “What about you?”

  “He needs someone to watch his stupid ass.”

  “In the car only,” Brogan said quickly. “We’ll need a lookout.”

  Mario grimaced, but Embry was already pulling out his cell phone and dialing. A moment later, he said—in his normal, brisk voice, which did not match the rigid lines of his face at all—”Is this the guardhouse?”

  There was a response—confirmation, no doubt—and then Embry said, “It’s Ford again. Mr. Henniton’s going to need Mario Bello and Brogan Smith to stay for a bit longer. Just a heads up so you don’t think we’ve kidnapped them.”