Page 9 of Whistleblower

“Who owns the building?” I ask.

“The Rigett Group. But they turn a blind eye to the basement lessees.”

I follow Vesper to the row of elevators. She presses the “Down” arrow and the doors of the center elevator part immediately. I step forward, but she holds out her arm.

“Wait,” she whispers, “to the left.”

At the end of the row, there’s one elevator that’s clearly marked—Private Access to Penthouse. Vesper sees my disapproving expression.

“You’re asking for trouble putting us on the top floor.” I’ve thrown a man from a forty-story building and have since long regretted it. Did he deserve death? Absolutely. Did he deserve the horror of falling before inevitably meeting his end? Debatable. My philosophy is to put a bad dog down if you must, but be quick about it. Don’t torture the damn thing.

“There is no penthouse,” she assures me in a hushed tone. “Only our fingerprints can call this elevator. This is one of three entrances to the compound. We’ll need to rotate between the three of them for subtlety.”

“Clever.” But my tone is unconvincing.

I trail behind her into the steel box, like a shadow. She moves, and I’m right behind her. That’s our dynamic.

The doors are barely shut when I ask, “Who are the basement lessees?”

Vesper clears her throat. “As of now, us.”

She pushes the only black button on the panel. It’s unmarked—obviously for our use only. “Close your eyes,” she commands, but I’m a half-second too slow. After a piercing ding, a blinding flash of light disorients me.

“Fuck,” I growl, trying to blink away the white specs in my eyes. “Body scans?”

“In the case of drones or AI,” Vesper explains. “Technology’s finest. Compliments of the FBI.”

“Overdramatic,” I spit out in agitation.

“It’s a smart precaution,” she says as we descend to our destination, the opposite direction of the so-called penthouse that this elevator should be ascending to.

When the door peels open, Vesper banks an immediate left down a dimly lit hallway towards a metal door. She pulls a badge out of her coat pocket and scans it against the white wall—an area that you’d never find unless you already knew where to look. The sound is almost inaudible, but I hear the faint clicking that indicates a door has unlocked.

“Lance is going to struggle with this.” I let out a humorless laugh, picturing my comrade running his badge across the entire hallway to no avail.

“He’ll figure it out. He always does.”

Vesper opens the door and ushers me through. I was expecting this bunker to look like Hannibal’s lair, but I’m sorely mistaken. Our new headquarters looks uncomfortably civil. We walk through what must be a lounge or break room of some sort. There are a few oversized leather loveseats and recliners pointed at a large flat-screen television. A couple of side tables hold board games—chess, checkers, and Jenga. Who the hell pictured a bunch of assassins kicking back and enjoying a game of Jenga…?

We pass a few closed doors as we make our way through, what can only be accurately described as, a giant mole tunnel.

“Gym, and data,” Vesper says as she points down the hallway to our right. “Medical is down that way, along with interrogation rooms”—she points left then juts her thumb over her shoulder—“and the kitchen is back toward the entry.” She finally slows when we approach a large meeting room. Upon entering, I find whiteboards lining one wall and corkboards lining the other. In the center of the generously-sized room is a large, black, laminate table with at least twenty ergonomic office chairs surrounding it.

“What the fuck is this?” I glower at Vesper to convey my sentiment.

“This is our meeting room,” she answers. “We’ll have weekly team meetings moving forward…”

“Vesper,” I say, looking down to find her eyes, seeing something that’s not usually present in our fearless leader. Desperation? Defeat? “What is going on?”

“This is the new PALADIN, Linc. This compound is a generous, welcome gift. It’s a way to bring us all together. Moving PALADIN under the FBI’s command will be a good thing. Callen has a solid plan to get us more support and resources. We’ve been sloppy and scattered and it’s time to make a change. Callen can help.” She breaks our deadlock stare and takes a seat at the head of the table.

“Since when are you so chummy with Callen?”

Vesper has a healthy distrust of governing agencies—she’s seen too much corruption. So her sudden revere of Jeffrey Callen is unsettling.

Callen is the director of the particular division of the FBI that funds our activity. I think they call it, “Emergency Contractor Services.” More accurately known as the group the FBI throws serious money at for us to just handle it. We’ve taken down targets for the majority of the governing agencies, but lately, the FBI has gotten greedy with our time. They’ve been sending us files left and right. I’ve killed more men in the past two weeks than I have in the past six months combined. As of late, Callen seems to think PALADIN is at his disposal. He’s confused. There can only be one in command, and right now I am baffled as to why she’s bending over for a sniveling fed.

Vesper groans, resting her hand against the bridge of her nose like she’s reluctant to say what’s next. “Linc, I’m now officially a field operative—just like you. Callen is the new commanding officer of PALADIN.”

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