Page 32 of Whistleblower

“Yes—none of this works without Vesper. But in my opinion, it can work. Everyone just needs to start working together on projects. Maybe start sending the operatives on jobs with a…buddy? Is that the term you use?”

“Like battle buddies?”

“Yeah.”

Callen laughs. “You really were an Army brat.”

“Through and through. But what I’m saying is the agents want to get their hands dirty. They want to feel like contributors, not props. From what I’ve gathered, they’re just as frustrated with the FBI’s policies as the operatives are.”

“I’ll think about it. But I say let’s ride the wave while it’s at its peak. What other team-building magic tricks do you have up your sleeve?”

I lean back against my desk and feel the hard ledge digging into my ass. “Well, I’m assuming company picnics or carnivals are out of the question, so all I can think of is happy hour, but are you guys even allowed to be seen in public together?”

Callen scoffs. “You watch too many movies, Eden. The agents all have very normal lives, and the operatives, well, most of the people who’d recognize them are all in prison or…” He trails off, but I can finish his sentence for him. Dead.

“Okay, then I’d recommend taking everyone out for a happy hour now and again. Nothing too rowdy, try a restaurant or lounge—not a club. And as the boss, only stay for one round, which you’ll need to pay for, and then excuse yourself for the evening. That’s a perfect balance—participate but don’t linger. Give them space to let loose and talk a little shit about you.” I smirk at Callen.

Callen’s laugh is muffled at best. “Okay, happy hour—I like it. How about next Friday? I’m busy this weekend.” He rises.

I shrug noncommittally. “If that works for you.”

He must sense my dismissal. “Oh no, no—you’re coming, Eden.”

I shake my head fervently. The only reason I’ve been somewhat able to function in this role, especially since that awful picture landed in front of my face, is that I’ve kept my work life and personal life separate. When I leave this compound, I leave all of my worried, gruesome thoughts here. I only ask for details that I specifically need—I don’t want to get too close. Hanging out with a bunch of killers and risking a panic attack when they casually start talking about the gory manner in which they end people’s lives doesn’t sound like a party I want to attend.

“No, Callen. I don’t think that’s a good idea. Plus, nobody wants to hang out with HR after hours. Come on,” I say, trying to sound casual, but it comes out pleading.

Callen flattens his stare. “You’re coming. End of story. And I thought you said you weren’t HR. I’m sure everyone would love to hang out with an organizational blah, blah, blah,” he teases as he rolls his wrist and exits my office.

“Yeah, yeah,” I grumble under my breath. “Leave the door open,” I call after him.

Callen’s barely out of sight before Linc appears in the doorway, as if he was patiently waiting for the coast to be clear.

“Hi,” I say, feeling how wide my eyes are. I blink a few times. Shit. It’s like the nerves from our last encounter went dormant…until exactly now.

“Good afternoon,” he says so quietly it’s barely audible. “Am I disturbing you?”

“Not at all. Come on in.” I wave him into my office and gesture toward the couch.

When he enters, a gust of the most pleasant fragrance fills my nose—it’s not cologne, it’s clean and simple, like generic bar soap. When he pauses just a few inches in front of me my knees go weak, so I plant my ass further against the desk ledge.

Linc taps his holster, showing me it’s empty. Again, he’s unarmed…for me.

“You don’t always have to do that for my benefit,” I say as I meet his eyes. I’m relieved when he breaks our gaze and moves toward the couch, releasing me from his spell. His crystal-blue eyes are a vacuum, capable of sucking me right into the unknown.

“It’s fine if it makes you more comfortable,” he says, settling into the pleather couch. It doesn’t wheeze as it did with Callen. Linc doesn’t plop—every single one of his movements is graceful and calculated.

“How was your trip?” I ask.

“Rainy.”

“Is that a good thing or bad?” Linc eyes the empty chair across from him as a subtle request, but I don’t budge. He’s settled deep into the seat and his legs are spread in a wide V. I stay planted by my desk. If his eyes are a vacuum, what’s in his pants might as well be a black hole, ready to swallow me whole. It’s best I keep a safe distance.

“I don’t mind the rain,” Linc says.

Why does everything that comes out of his mouth seem to have a double meaning? What are you actually saying? I allow the quiet moment between us to soak up the jolts of energy caused not only by my attraction to Linc but also by my intuition that’s raising every single red flag.

I’ve been around Cricket and Lance for the past couple of weeks and I never feel this jumpy. Even Vesper, who is far more on the serious side, comes off as comforting and maternal—maybe because she’s about a decade older than I am. But even still, Linc has an air about him, one that is captivating and unnerving at the same time.

---