Whistleblower (PALADIN Book 1)

I might as well unzip and put my cock on display. That’s how naked I feel without my gun. The last time I was unarmed was at Mom’s funeral. The time before that was the night Suzanne was murdered.

I try to ignore my extreme discomfort and focus on the piece of paper in front of me.

Something fun? I don’t think I’ve had fun in a while…but I’d sound like an ass if I said that, so I write down model ships. I liked building those as a kid whenever I could get my hands on them.

Someone I want to talk to? Mom, of course. But I’m not getting that personal. So, I wrote down Ted Bundy—but mostly just to bring him back so I could kill him this time. I don’t think the electric chair was painful enough. Usually, I’m apathetic about my assignments. There’s nothing glamorous about what I do. Sometimes bad people, who can’t stop tormenting others, need to move on from this life, but women abusers boil my blood like nothing else. I normally like to keep my jobs clean—one bullet is all I need—but I’ll admit, the last serial rapist I killed was begging me for death by the time I was done with him.

Something that makes me feel safe? I regret writing down my .22 pistol for two reasons—one, now I know Eden has a distaste for guns, it seems insensitive. Two, it’s another lie. There’s not a goddamn thing in this world that makes me feel safe. But I wrote in pen, and I refuse to scribble anything out.

“Is everyone done?” Eden asks, smiling and looking around the room at everyone, except me. “Great! So, here’s the twist.” She flashes a wicked smile. “Push your papers, face down, into the middle of the table, please. Then choose one that’s not your own.”

She’s met with some complaining and gripes, but everyone obliges. Once we all have a new piece of paper in front of us, Eden continues with her instructions.

“We tend to make a lot of assumptions about people based on first impressions, but more often than not, our first impressions are wildly incorrect. So, the purpose of this little activity is to test that theory. Read the paper in front of you and take one guess as to whose it is. Let’s see if you’re right. Any volunteers to go first?”

Lance reaches for another donut, but otherwise, the room is still. Flipping my paper over, I see only two answers in neat penmanship that match the words on the whiteboard. War and Peace. Jorey Abbott.

“Okay, I’ll go first.” Eden takes a seat at the head of the table and gracefully crosses her legs. “Deserae Pinar, Cricket, and Millie Mae,” she reads. Balling up her fist, she lightly taps her knuckle against her plush top lip. Her face twists in confusion. “All right, I give,” she finally says. “I am almost certain this is Lance’s, but I can’t make sense of these answers.”

Lance laughs. “You want me to walk you through it?”

“Would that be putting you on the spot?”

“Not at all. I am not shy.” Lance brushes the crumbs from his fingers and leans into the table. “Deserae is my something fun—she’s an OnlyFans model with double D’s. Millie Mae is my pistol and the only thing that makes me feel safe. And if I was stuck in some shithole and could only bring one person to talk to and pass the time, eh—Cricket ain’t bad company.”

Cricket clicks her jaw and winks at Lance. Vesper purses her lips in disapproval, but she has nothing to worry about. These two would die for each other before they’d fuck. With our lifestyle, hookups are easy, but friendship is far more difficult to come by. Cricket and Lance wouldn’t risk that for a little physical gratification.

“You know what, Lance?” Eden asks with a smirk on her face. “That was far tamer than I was expecting it to be. I would’ve suggested something along the lines of movies or video games for your ‘something fun,’ but I did ask for honesty so I guess… Good job.”

The whole room, filled with angsty killers and uptight suits, laughs. I’ll be damned. She really does have a way with people.

Going around the table, we make it through a few more note sheets. I watch the gentle ribbing, the teasing, and the arguing about everyone’s preferred assault weapon, in utter surprise. PALADIN blending with the FBI is like the Hatfields and McCoys sitting down to break bread, but surprisingly, we all seem very civilized at the moment.

Eden looks far more relaxed. She leans back in her chair and wears a warm smile as she watches her work unfold. I like the current expression she’s wearing. For a moment, I imagine what it’d be like to be a normal man who sees a beautiful woman and doesn’t immediately feel the need to hide his identity.

I’d ask her out for a drink tonight. If the conversation flowed, a drink would turn into a late dinner, and I’d buy her the most expensive things on the menu. Maybe I’d even bring her home and cook for her. And after, all she’d have to do is let her pretty, dark-brown hair down, bite her bottom lip, and give me that look. I’d whisper in her ear that what’s in my pants would put Cricket’s boat captain to shame, and she could use me however she wanted. I’d lick every single inch of her, starting with those sweet cheeks—

Knock, knock.

Two quick rasps on the door yank me from my fantasy as a squirrelly-looking agent bursts into the room. “There you guys fucking are!” he squalls, looking panicked as all hell.

Who are you? Geez, this compound is officially crawling with suits.

The agent tosses a few manilla folders onto the table, causing the contents to spill out. He walks up to Callen and begins to speak in a low, urgent tone, making it impossible to hear what he’s saying from across the room.

“Are you okay?” Vesper asks with growing concern in her eyes. When I follow her gaze, I realize she’s staring at Eden who looks pale and frozen all of a sudden. I finally see the gory visual in front of Eden. From what I can make out from the photographs, the men are tied to chairs and sitting in a bloodbath. At least two are beheaded—definitely the mark of a terrorist execution.

“What the fuck?” I roar at the top of my lungs, causing everyone to look my way. I point at the pictures and then at Eden’s face.

“Shit, sorry miss,” the agent says, scrambling to stuff the photographs back into the folder.

Eden covers her mouth with both hands and mumbles something that sounds like, “I’m sorry,” and, “please excuse me,” but she doesn’t dare pull her hands away from her mouth because she knows it…I know it…the entire room knows it—she’s going to be ill. I see the tears gleaning in her eyes as she rushes out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

I kick out my chair as I rise, fully intent on following her, but Callen stops me.

“Linc. No time.” He nods toward the folder. “Get your gun. It’s time to go to work—right now.”