Whistleblower (PALADIN Book 1)
Whistleblower: Prologue

12 YEARS AGO

Is sixteen old enough to be a man?

I don’t feel like one, even with this pistol in my hand.

“Suz?” I whisper, but I know she won’t respond. She’s face down on the tile, her long, thick hair sprawled out, saturating in the growing puddle of blood. She was my last friend in the world.

It may seem odd that my only friend was a forty-nine-year-old bar owner who chain-smokes and takes her whiskey neat, but she has been more of a mother to me than mine ever was.

“Suzanne, please?” I don’t really know what I’m asking for. Please rise from the dead. Please let this be a nightmare.

It’s my fault. I could’ve saved her if the damn safe didn’t lock me out. Suzanne told me to stay low and run when the armed men shot through the glass, hoping they hadn’t spotted me. She promised me all they wanted was to rob her. “Hide in the kitchen, Chandler,” she instructed. When I hesitated, she assured me, “It’s just money, honey. Better broke than dead.”

I heard the cash register open and close. There was shouting and Suzanne telling everyone to just calm down. I heard a few bottles breaking on the ground. Then it was silent. I thought the worst was over until I heard the sharp pop. With my heart racing so fast I thought it’d explode, I ran to the hidden safe to get to the emergency pistol. It locked on me when I transposed the stupid numbers. Every single time I switched the two and the one, I had to wait an entire fucking minute. By the time I burst through the kitchen, arms outstretched, gun in my hand, the only person left was Suzanne…

And she wasn’t moving.

The sudden crunch of glass makes me look up at the front door. Straining my arms, I point the gun, still in my hand, at the woman who has crawled through the shattered window.

“Easy now,” she says, her voice calm, soothing, and surprisingly deep for her slight frame. She’s dressed head to toe in black, including her work boots. It looks like some sort of uniform, but I’ve never seen a cop wear this much leather. She holds up her palms in surrender but continues to advance, the glass crunching under each of her steps.

“Stop,” I hiss. “I’ll shoot.”

“Well, relax your shoulders first,” she says, taking another step forward. “You won’t hit the broad side of a barn tensed up like that.”

The gun begins to slip against my sweaty palms, so I grip it tighter. “What?”

Her footsteps are silent now as she’s past the shattered glass from the window and almost within my reach. “Have you ever fired a gun before, Chandler?”

My heart stops at the mention of my name. Taking a closer look, this woman is younger than I’d thought. Her lipstick is bright red, but she wears no other makeup to accentuate her angular features. Her jet-black hair is pulled into a low ponytail. She’s graceful, poised, and seemingly unbothered by the dead body lying next to us.

I don’t know why, but relief floods through me as she reaches out, palm facing the ceiling, intent on relieving me of the gun. She’s a stranger. I shouldn’t trust her but somehow my instincts tell me I’m safe now. I hand her the gun, surrendering my very last defense.

“There you go,” she mumbles, as she switches on the safety and tucks it in her coat pocket.

“No,” I mumble.

“Hm?” she asks, already having moved on from her question. She examines me head to toe.

“I’ve never fired a gun before. I didn’t do this,” I say, looking at my friend, hot tears beginning to blur my vision. “I didn’t hurt her. I wouldn’t.”

“I know you didn’t. Did you see it happen?”

I look at my raggedy tennis shoes in shame as I shake my head side to side. “I was hiding,” I admit. “I couldn’t get to the gun in time.” I wipe my face with both palms, attempting to remove the evidence of my unmanly hysterics. “I left her out here all alone.”

“Chandler,” the woman says, her dark eyes looking wary. “Gun or not, there was nothing you could do. The men who came through here are part of Dom Peroli’s gang. They’re ruthless, merciless, and don’t blink twice at hurting women”—she raises her brows at me—“or children. It’s good you hid, or you’d be lying next to your friend right now.”

“Are you a cop?” I ask.

“No.”

“FBI?” I ask, looking her up and down.

“Used to be,” she offers.

Who did I just give a gun to?

“Grab a seat,” she says, nodding to the stools at the bar behind us. “We don’t have too long. The cops will be on their way soon, and Chandler, it’d be easier to pin this on you than to provoke Peroli by going after his men.”

“What?” The nightmare of this evening won’t end. I’m innocent. “But I didn’t—”

“Take a seat.” She pats my shoulder before she steps behind the bar. “We have a lot to talk about and not a lot of time.”

As my thudding heartbeat begins to slow and my adrenaline calms, the reality of this bizarre encounter really hits me.

Who is she? Why does she know my name? Why aren’t we calling for help? Why am I the only person uncomfortable with a dead person in the room?

“Who are you?” I growl, trying to sound more threatening.

“My name is Vesper,” she mutters absentmindedly as she scans the bottles on the glass bar shelves. She settles on one of Suzanne’s most expensive whiskeys. No one ever orders it because it’s sixty dollars for a single drink. And considering our customers were bikers, seedy poker players, and cheap drunks, that limited edition Macallan was more of a souvenir than anything. Suzanne always said we’d open it on my eighteenth birthday if I stuck around.

Of course I was going to stick around. She needed a barkeep she could pay peanuts under the table, and I needed a family. We were a good pair.

Pop. Vesper uncorks the bottle after fetching two glasses. “Do you drink?”

I pull out a stool, now eager to sit. My legs feel heavy, but also like jelly. It feels like I’m trying to run in a dream. “I’m underage.”

She snorts and pours two drinks anyway. “Good answer, but at sixteen you should also be in school, sleeping in a bed instead of an air mattress in a shitty studio above a dive bar, and certainly not bartending sixty hours a week for far less than minimum wage.” She slides the glass over to me. Planting her elbows on the bar, she leans closer to peer at me. “Funny…” she mumbles. “Your eyes are blue.”

I take a small sip of the whiskey, enjoying the burn on my tongue. “So?”

“I put green eyes in your file. I don’t normally miss the little details.”

“Why do you know so much about me? What file?”

“I know your father, in a way. He was involved with a case I worked a few years ago.”

“So you lied—you are a cop.”

She shakes her head. “Former FBI.”

I throw back the entire glass and wince as the whiskey sets my throat on fire. “I hope you’re the one who threw that piece of shit in jail.”

“I helped,” she says. “I was worried about what would happen to you and your mother when your dad was sentenced. So, I’ve been watching.”

My dad was an abuser, rapist, and murderer. Life in prison, without the possibility of parole wasn’t enough. My mother, on the other hand, was a trickier subject. Can you throw someone in jail for giving up on themselves, and their kid? Is that actually a crime?

“My mother has had pills to keep her company for the past four years. She didn’t even notice when I dropped out of school and ran away six months ago.”

“It’s a shame. You’re smart. Good grades, great test scores. You only had two more years in school and probably would’ve gotten a scholarship. A decent college could’ve gotten you out of here. Why’d you quit so close to graduation?”

“A scholarship won’t pay room and board.” I purse my lips, not sure if I should be honest. Why spill secrets to this stranger who emerged minutes after a murder? Then again, who else in the world do I have to talk to? “And also, because my stepdad threw even more punches than my dad.”

She nods like she already knows my sordid family history. “You’re a strong-looking guy. Why didn’t you hit him back?”

I wanted to. Every single time. I wanted to wrap my hand around my stepdad’s throat and watch the light go out in his eyes. But I couldn’t. “Because when he really felt threatened, he took it out on my mom.”

The drugs made Mom so weak, she couldn’t take any more hits. I was terrified I’d watch him beat her to death. I begged her to leave for years, for us to just run away and start over somewhere new. It took me a while to learn she’d already left without me… The pills, the needles, the smoke… They took her away.

“Let me tell you something right now. Something very important. Women are not weak. But the men who lay hands on them are.”

I bite the inside of my cheek. “Except my mom is weak.”

“Your mom is an addict who needs help.”

“She won’t take it. I’ve tried but I can’t figure out—”

“You’re a kid. You were robbed of your childhood, Chandler. It’s not your job to save her.”

I press against my temples with my palms as the memories from as early back as I can remember flash through my head. How many times did I replace her passed out, thinking she was dead? If I ever thought I’d see a cold body on the ground, it wasn’t Suzanne. It suddenly dawns on me that we’re conversing as if my murdered friend isn’t lying three feet away.

“Can we cover her, at least?” I ask, pulling at the hem of my thin hoodie.

She shakes her head solemnly. “I’m sorry. Don’t touch her. We don’t need to give the cops any more evidence against you.”

“Why would they blame me? This makes no sense. Tell me what’s going on. Who are you, really?”

She slams back her drink. “You want to dip a toe, or dive right into the deep end?”

“Dive.”

“I run a team of insurgents so to speak. We’re not cops, not military, not FBI, CIA, DIA. But we help them from time to time. You see, law enforcement and government agencies have some limitations, and that’s why they call upon us.”

“Limitations? Such as?” Looking closer, I see Vesper has not one gun, not two…but three. One in a holster around her hips. One strapped around her thigh. The last is Suzanne’s, still in her coat pocket. That’s a lot of bullets at her mercy.

“Civil rights. The Constitution. Sometimes, just outright stupidity.” She shuts her eyes, inhales, and then slowly exhales like she’s breathing away a bad memory. “In about twenty minutes, the police are going to dust this place top to bottom, put your friend in a body bag, and report this as a robbery gone bad, instead of what it is—a gang slaying. They know who’s behind it, but they won’t pursue Peroli or his dogs because he’s wanted for much higher crimes. Pulling mass quantities of cocaine across the border is one of his more redeeming qualities, it’s the human trafficking that the feds are most concerned about. But they don’t have enough information and pursuing his gang will only spook him. He’ll go back into hiding. The best way to get Peroli is to let him operate, unleashed, hoping he’ll get too greedy, too cocky, slip up, and make a mistake that they can use to put him away for good.”

I clench my jaw, thinking about the scared look in Suzanne’s eyes. She confidently told me to hide and everything was going to be okay, but now that I’m reflecting on it—her fearful expression didn’t match her words.

“How many innocent people have to die before he makes a mistake?”

“I wish I knew.” She tips the whiskey bottle, filling her glass again. “But here’s what I do know—this is a well-known bar in a small town. People won’t like the idea that one of their own can be murdered in cold blood and the killer walks free. The cops will be highly motivated to close this case. What’s one more angry delinquent, who is bound to fall into a life of crime anyway, behind bars?”

“Fuck you,” I growl. “Like I said, I didn’t do this. I would never hurt Suzanne. My mother. Any woman.”

“Would you kill to protect them?”

“What?” I croak, surprised at her candid question.

“Chandler, my team is comprised of hired assassins. But I am very careful about the jobs we agree to. Peroli and his men don’t need justice. They need to meet death—swiftly. That’s what we do.”

I inhale and exhale in silence. The nerves prickle through my forearms, up my shoulder, and then around my neck. I wish it was just nerves, but I’ll admit there’s a sprinkle of intrigue. I just don’t know how to respond.

She takes another sip from her glass, her eyes locked on me. “I know you’re not old enough to really know about whiskey, but this is superb.”

“It’s looting,” I grumble. “We’re drinking a dead woman’s prize possession.”

“I’d pay her for the drink, if I could.” She swivels the glass in her hand causing the amber liquid to swirl furiously. There’s something ethereal about Vesper. Something powerful. I envy her confident demeanor at the moment.

“If you’ve been watching me because you think the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree… I’m nothing like my dad. Suzanne took me in when she found me sleeping by the dumpsters out back. I needed a job, and somewhere to stay. That’s it. I don’t get into trouble. And I’ve definitely never killed anyone.”

“I know, Chandler. Which is why I think I can trust you.” She pulls Suzanne’s gun out of her pocket and sets it on the bar between us. “If you knew how to operate this properly, would you have stepped in? Would you be willing to take a criminal’s life, to save an innocent one?”

I glance at the gun, then Vesper’s steady gaze. “I think so. Your team is good guys…who kill bad guys?” I really need her to be good.

“It’s a little bit more complicated than that.”

I take a deep breath as I glance at my hands and see that they are finally still and steady. “Are you offering me a job?”

“I’m offering you a life,” she says. “But I can’t guarantee it’s better than this one.”

“What can you guarantee?”

“You’ll never be hungry again. You’ll always have a roof over your head. You’ll have a family, of sorts, but most importantly, my protection. And I promise, Chandler, I take really good care of my own.”

“Sounds too good to be true,” I mumble.

“There are requirements. This life I’m giving you, won’t be yours. You’ll be part of my team. When I say chase—you run. When I say jump—you fly. You never take a life unless I give the command.”

“So, you’d basically own my ass?” I let out a short laugh.

Her gaze grows cold, and I have the sudden urge to cower. It’s as if I just taunted a lethal lioness. “I’ll protect you from making the painfully hard decisions I have to make every day, Chandler. It’s not as simple as good versus evil in this world. The good guys do bad things, and sometimes bad guys help others. The world is gray and muddled, but that’s my bullshit to sift through. And you should know—”

“I’m in.” The words are out before I really register them.

“Let me finish,” she warns. “If you’re going to help me police this world, you can’t be part of it. We’re ghosts. We operate in the shadows. We don’t have homes, just places we stay. We don’t get married. We don’t have kids. No blood ties. We stay as detached as we can. Do you really understand what that means?” Her expression is strained. Her forehead crinkles and she looks at me piteously, like she’s debating whether to send a small puppy into a vicious dog fight.

I’m silent as I ponder it for a moment, just to show her I’m taking her seriously. “You can’t miss what you’ve never known.”

“Okay,” she says. “Then it’s time to go. Do you have a wallet on you?” I nod in reply and she continues. “Throw it on the bar, opened, but keep your cash.” I do as she says while she pulls a pocketknife out of an obscure compartment on the inside of her coat. “Are you squeamish about blood?”

My stomach twists as I question my sanity. “Not particularly.”

Vesper extends the blade, then holds it out to me, handle first. “I just need a few drops. Enough for forensics to pick up on.” She taps the heel of her palm to show me where I should cut.

I don’t give myself a chance to think twice. What are my other options here? I can’t go home. Suzanne’s gone. I have no one in the world who’d help me… Except apparently this woman. Taking the knife, I poke the heel of my palm, feeling the sharp sting. I watch the dot of blood grow into a thick drop.

She finishes her drink and tucks the cup into her pocket. “Touch your wallet and then wave your hand around a bit.”

I wipe a red stain on the front of my wallet, before sending blood droplets flying across the bar as I shake my hand violently.

“Perfect,” Vesper says. “Now it looks like there were two victims tonight.”

She pulls a wipe out of her pocket along with a little bottle that has a strong chemical smell. At first, I think it’s to clean my hand, but instead she grabs Suzanne’s gun, collects the bullets, and then proceeds to wipe it down with the solution.

“You’re getting rid of the evidence that you were here?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“Do you want my glass too?” I nudge it toward her with the back of my hand.

“Not necessary. You were here, Chandler. I was not.” Grabbing the bottle of whiskey, she slides out from behind the bar. Vesper clasps her free hand against my shoulder and squeezes. Her grasp is firm, but there’s something tender in her touch. It’s reassuring. It’s the only reason I’m willing to hand my life over to a complete stranger.

“I already knew you were something special, but I’m impressed. You are incredibly brave. Far braver than you should have to be.” She smiles at me, but there’s sorrow in her eyes. I wipe the last remnants of blood against my jeans and my hand looks good as new. Vesper knew exactly where to cut, so the wound would close quickly.

“Are you ready?”

Glancing down at the ground, I look at Suzanne one last time. I close my eyes and try to shake the visual. I don’t want to remember her this way. Instead, I picture her in the metal chair in the alleyway, smoking a pack, a stiff drink in her hand, telling me some story or another about how she broke up a bar fight between two bikers twice her size. Suzanne was tough. That’s how I want to remember her… Not like this.

Bye, my friend. I’m so sorry I couldn’t save you. Thank you for everything.

Letting out a deep breath, I nod. “I’m ready. Where are we going?”

“Home,” Vesper says with the warmest tenor—like a mother calling her kid in for dinner, the way mine never did. I like the way it sounds. Home. Vesper moves for the front door and I fall in line behind her. Suddenly, she spins around, stopping me in my tracks.

“By the way,” she says, extending a hand, “welcome, officially, to operation PALADIN.”