Page 46 of Whistleblower

Lance swivels in his chair like an antsy child, ready to go to the playground. “Does anyone know what the hell we’re doing here and how long it’s supposed to take?” he asks. “I’ve got Hot Pockets in the break room, so can we hurry this the fuck up?”

I scowl at him. “Hot Pockets?”

He’s still such a child. Lance was barely nineteen when I recruited him for PALADIN. He was—and still is—a goddamn savant with a pistol. I caught him when he was about to put a bullet in his older brother’s head, the man who had terrorized him and his mother for more than a decade.

Lance and his mother looked a lot alike—light brown hair, light eyes, high cheekbones, and even matching bruises on their faces and all over their bodies. But Lance’s brother favored his deadbeat dad—dark hair, dark eyes, and a frigid cold heart. I stopped Lance in the nick of time—before he committed murder out of anger—and asked if he’d be willing to let this bully go to take down much bigger bullies in the world. We got his mother, Evelyn, to a safe place, and last I heard, Lance’s brother was beaten to death in a federal penitentiary. The irony.

Lance levels his stare. “I’ve got two. Ham ‘n’ Cheese, want one?”

“I’ve said it before—grow the fuck up, Lancelot.”

Lance smirks, unbothered. “A simple ‘no, thank you’ would have sufficed.”

“You’re extra grumpy,” Cricket states as she pokes me in the shoulder from her seat right next to me at the large meeting table. “Hand still bothering you?”

I flex my hand and then make a tight fist. “It’s getting better.”

My hand was made worse by the debacle from last week, right before I ran into Eden in the parking garage. Callen’s intel was bad, there were supposed to be two targets yet, I walked in on four and it got a little messy. I prevailed…

But it was sloppy.

The bruises and wounds are part of the job. Pain I can handle, but I do need my hand to function. If I can’t handle my gun then I’m useful to nobody.

“What’d the doctor say?”

“I wouldn’t know.” I squint at her in confusion. “I haven’t seen the doctor.”

“Callen said he sent you—”

“Cricket. Callen is not my motherfucking keeper, and he does not decide when I need medical attention,” I snarl. And why the fuck is Callen providing my medical details to anyone who will listen?

She lets out a few low whistles. “Toouuchy. You’ve got too much tension. I think you need to get laid.” She winks, and I know who she’s talking about. She caught Eden and me kissing in the parking garage.

But that door is closed now.

Did I have hope? Sure. Was I interested? Incredibly so. But after seeing the look on Eden’s face when she saw me covered in blood—a mix between horrified and disgusted—I can’t. I don’t want to be the reason she looks like that.

Monsters don’t get the princesses—that’s only in fairytales.

After bursting through the door with unnecessary gusto, Callen holds up a piece of paper with a wide smile on his face. “Look at this shit!”

He proceeds to read us all an email that is basically his superiors praising him for getting PALADIN in shape. There’ve been no incidents to report, and we’ve handled twice as many targets than were expected.

Callen stands at the head of the table, blinking at us expectantly. “Get excited. This is really good news. You have no idea how close we were to the chopping block, but you’re operating like soldiers instead of thugs. So we’re funded, we can keep operating, and the higher-ups are very pleased.”

His praise is met with silence.

Lance finally clears his throat. “If you want some tissues for the brown on your nose,” he says, nodding to the Kleenex box at the center of the table.

I cover my laugh with a cough, trying not to encourage Lance’s immature insult. Callen grumbles and mutters something under his breath. We listen to you, Callen. But we still don’t like you.

“Our analysts are getting better intel. They’re getting a little smarter at prioritizing targets, and the special agents who are field-ready are eager to get their hands dirty and help you guys. I think it’s time to start letting them in on some operations. Vesper?”

“As long as you think they’re mentally ready, too.” The way she’s pursing her lips tells me she seriously doubts it.

Callen nods enthusiastically. “I do. Things are shaping up quickly and actually, all credit should go to Eden. In fact—”

Callen pushes on the intercom on the back wall and buzzes line three. Eden’s honey-sweet voice sounds immediately and Callen beckons her to the meeting room.

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