Page 21 of Whistleblower

“Okay,” I say, glancing at the clock on the wall, “we’re ten minutes out, can you do me a favor?”

“What’s up?” Callen asks distractedly, eyeing the muffins. Good grief. He’s a bottomless pit.

“I’m going to tuck into the back corner and just monitor things for a while. Don’t introduce me right away. I want some time to observe how everyone interacts with each other to see the best way to approach the situation. Believe it or not, the quickest way to read people is to observe them during a communal meal.”

“Ah,” he says. “So, breakfast is bait for your experiment?” I tap my nose twice and point to Callen. “You’re a mastermind, Eden. I think, with your help, I might be able to pull this off.”

Taking a seat in a chair in the far back of the room, I inspect the muffins on the platter closest to me. They look divine. The aroma of the bakery was like if heaven met Christmas—rich, vanilla, sweet, but with a touch of spice. I settled on a gourmet coffee but should’ve made time for one of those delicious cranberry orange muffins.

As I hear footsteps outside of the door, I know it’s too late. I need laser focus and not that delightful little bakery distraction.

“Showtime,” Callen undertones before he winks at me.

I draw in a deep breath and blow all my jitters away. They are just people. Just people. Not police, not agents…not killers. Just people.

The door handle turns and I see a shadow through the frosted door as the nerves prickle into my skin.

Showtime, indeed.

SIX

LINC

It’s been a while since Vesper, Cricket, Lance, and I have been together in the same room. A few months to be more specific—in Italy. We don’t normally work as a team, but it took all four of us to infiltrate Moretti’s lair. We left a hell of a lot of dead bodies behind. Moretti had more security than a U.S. President, and his henchmen were willing to die for him.

So they did.

They died for an arrogant terrorist and rapist who thought he was invincible. Shameful.

At any rate, it’s odd enough for us all to be together, like sitting ducks, and in a break room no less. It’s almost comical.

Cricket finds a seat next to Lance at the small break room table and rolls her eyes. She points accusingly at Lance. “It’s the best way to get caught—get us all caught—dumbass.”

When Vesper enters the room, I point to the pot of coffee that’s brewing next to me. “Five more minutes,” I say, leaning back against the kitchen counter.

She nods and stands right beside me. She’s a little antsy today. We all are. We’re meeting Callen’s team today and it’s uncomfortable, to say the least. I’m still not certain if he’s trying to turn his agents into PALADIN operatives, or he’s trying to turn me, Cricket, Lance, and Vesper into agents. Honestly, I’m not sure which of those two scenarios infuriates me more.

“Does someone want to tell me what’s the best way to get caught?” Vesper asks, looking between Cricket and Lance, who look startled. See? Ears like a bat. She’s always listening.

“Dumb fuck over here has secured a reputation as ‘The Pancake Killer,’” Cricket snarks.

Vesper’s brows cinch in utter confusion. “What?”

I chime in, “Lance keeps taking out targets in the exact same manner. One bullet between the eyes, then he flips them over and plants another bullet in the back of the head. It’s very…distinctive.”

Vesper’s eyes narrow at Lance, causing him to shrink in his chair. “Tell me you’re not that stupid,” she seethes.

“It was three dudes,” Lance squalls. “Three. Everybody calm the fuck down.”

“Seriously Vesper, google ‘Pancake Killer.’ There are people convinced he’s the next Batman—a secret vigilante taking out gangbangers and mob bosses. He’s a goddamn hashtag.” Cricket slides her phone over to Vesper, but it’s pointless. There’s next to no cellular service in this basement bunker.

“No one saw me,” Lance says, rolling his eyes. “Let it be a rumor.”

“We’ve talked about this,” Vesper says through a clenched jaw. “It’s not just the lack of subtlety. You can’t provoke the public. That’s not what we do. We don’t exist. We don’t leave behind footprints…or rumors. Do not make me explain this to you again, Lancelot, because it will not be a pleasant conversation.”

Lance shrugs her threat off like a rebellious teenager, but it’s obvious he’s intimidated by Vesper’s menacing tone. “Fine, sorry,” he concedes, wisely. “No one appreciates a professional anymore. It’s a brilliantly fresh take on a double-tap, but if you want me to make hits seem like a fucking sloppy gang retaliation, from now on, I’ll blow through these fuckers like a target board. Happy?”

“Thank you,” Vesper replies. “And stop pouting. Where’s your tie?”

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