Whistleblower (PALADIN Book 1)
Whistleblower: Chapter 5

On Monday morning, Callen helps me set out a medley of fancy breakfast pastries on the long meeting table that can seat at least thirty people. We arrange three large platters with glazed donuts, chocolate-dipped croissants, muffins, and a variety of Danish pastries.

When I’m satisfied with the abundant-looking platters, I begin unpacking my supplies. I place a pocket-sized note sheet and miniature pen in front of each chair at the table.

“What are we doing?” Callen asks with his mouth full. I glance at one of the platters, which is now missing a donut. “You think feeding everyone will make them get along?”

I swivel around to face him, and eye his outfit up and down. He’s wearing jeans, but a button-down dress shirt and a light sports jacket on top—no tie. He looks neat, but casual. “What’s your workplace dress code? Doesn’t the FBI require a suit and tie at headquarters?”

“Are you calling me out?”

“Well, you’re telling everyone I’m HR, so I’m assuming dress code enforcement is part of my responsibility.”

“What’s your issue with being called HR?” Callen asks, taking another large bite of donut.

“People hate HR. No one wants to talk to HR. It’s impossible to get people to open up when all they think you’re going to do is use their words against them. These days, most companies are going out of their way to call it something else—talent management or employee support for example. ‘Human Resources’ has a negative connotation.”

Callen nods in understanding. “That makes sense. And to answer your question, suit and tie at Pennsylvania Avenue, but this is a very private facility, so I guess it’s up for discussion.”

I point to Callen, surveying him head to toe. “May I suggest this for the compound?”

“What?”

“Business casual—collared shirt, sports jacket, no tie. Slacks or jeans—neat, no rips or holes. I’m assuming you guys have work boots or tennis shoes?” I quickly shake the image of blood-stained white sneakers from my mind. “Let’s say dark-colored, closed-toe shoes.”

“Sure…but, why?”

“It just sends a message. Propriety without rigidity. I’ve seen that work well for organizations in the past,” I say as Callen nods along. “You won’t even need to make a big announcement. Just lead by example and they’ll do what you do. How many female agents do you have? I’ve only gone through about fifteen of the personnel files you left on my desk.”

“Three. Vesper, Cricket, and now you.”

That’s it?

“Technically, I’m not an agent. Just a civilian.”

“True,” Callen says, popping the rest of the donut in his mouth. He holds his hand up while he chews and swallows. “But you’re now privy to a lot of top-secret information. You have an off-the-record clearance at this point, so for all intents and purposes, you are a part of Operation PALADIN.”

“Well, then I’ll be happy to discuss the ladies dress code with Vesper and Cricket when I conduct their interviews. Did you get my email about that?”

“Yup,” Callen says. “The sign-up sheet is almost full. I sent an email saying it’s mandatory and missing their interview will result in serious consequences.”

“Dammit, Callen!”

“What?” he says, reaching for a pastry this time. It’s remarkable to me that Callen is so fit. I’ve seen how he eats on multiple occasions and, based on his diet, he should not be so athletic, especially as he nears his forties.

“Do not use words like mandatory and consequences when it pertains to me, okay? I’m here to welcome open conversations, not swoop in like the iron hammer. A hammer shatters things. From now on, let me send my own emails. Please.”

He rotates his finger as he points at me. “This, Eden. This is why I knew we needed you. My brain doesn’t work like that. It’s the retired military in me.”

“Mhm,” I respond, unconvinced.

It’s an excuse a lot of military service members use, but it wasn’t my experience. My dad knew how to leave it at work. To Delta Forces he was Major Abbott. At home he was just “Daddy Duck,” which I called him all the way up until I was fifteen.

Grumbling, I begin to rearrange the platters that Callen stole his breakfast from, trying to cover the bare spots. “Are you finished looting?”

“Probably not. These are delicious, where’d you get them?”

“A fantastic little bakery up the street.”

I point to the boxes with the purple logos by the tall wastebasket. Immediately my mind lands on Chandler and our brief encounter the other evening. Funny, I never thought seeing a trash can would give me butterflies, but then again, I never thought I’d be so instantly attracted to a stranger. I went back to the compound on Sunday to continue research, and I’ll admit, I lingered late into the evening. I was really hoping to see him again. Yes, he’s hot—beautiful even—but that’s not what had my head spinning.

I felt comfortable, strangely enough. I haven’t felt comfortable around people in over a year. I’m suspicious, my guard is always up, and it’s been hard to converse with new people. I’m always afraid that I’ll slip—about my real identity, the burden of information I’m holding that weighs a thousand pounds—or most dangerously…how the trauma of unbridled fear has changed me.

But Chandler…

Chandler had me at ease almost instantly. It wasn’t anything he said in particular, it was his presence. For fifteen blissful minutes, I didn’t feel like a whistleblower who ruined her entire career. I just felt like a normal girl…

With a little crush.

“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.