Page 29 of Whistleblower
LINC
It took us less than two hours to get to Kansas on a chartered jet. The drive back is significantly longer, due to some cargo we had to return. This is why I hate Callen calling the shots. He always takes what should be simple and complicates the hell out of it.
“How’s your shoulder?”
Lance winces from the passenger seat as he pokes his wound. The left arm of his suit jacket is soaked. “Still bleeding, obviously.”
“There’s a safe house forty minutes East. Do you want to stop?”
“With fuckwad in the trunk? No. I can make it.”
Callen needed information, so we had to bring home some work with us. We gave our guest a very strong sedative so he’d be quiet in the trunk for the remaining eight hours we had to go.
“I’d prefer you don’t bleed out in here. I promised Vesper I’d try to bring you home alive,” I say with as much sarcasm as I can muster with the little energy I have left. I flip on my turn signal, moving to the right lane.
“No, Linc. I said I’ll wait until we get back.”
“The fuck is your problem?” I growl as I tighten my grip around the wheel. My hand is sore, possibly fractured. It would not kill us to take a breather. It’s been twenty-nine hours since we’ve slept, twelve targets down and one tied up in the trunk. We’ve more than earned the reward of rest.
“It’s the medics at the safe house. They’ll want to stitch this up.” He taps his shoulder.
“Yeah genius, stitches might help with the bleeding,” I snark.
We were outgunned but it was nothing we couldn’t handle. Lance tripped and was exposed for half a second too long. A bullet grazed his left shoulder, slicing him open like a roast chicken.
“If I get stitches from one more field medic, I will officially look like Frankenstein. I need an actual surgeon who understands scarring. Even Cricket says I’m starting to look like I just walked off the set of The Nightmare Before Christmas.”
“You’re worried about scars?”
He scoffs. “Some of us like to look good naked.”
“Fair point. Maybe we can get an in-house doctor to stitch you up and do your annual pap smear too.”
“You prick,” he gripes. “You’re just jealous because, after me, Ellie referred to you as the baby carrot.”
“You did not fuck Ellie.”
“Wanna bet?”
I have never, nor will I ever share a woman with Lance, but he likes to taunt me. Not to mention, Ellie is a fake name. I don’t tell Lance about my actual dalliances, although sometimes I lie to him just to keep his wheels spinning. Ellie is a fictitious stripper from Clemmons—a well-known gentleman’s club on the West side of town. Lance proudly informed me that he took Ellie for a spin after I raved about her flexibility and athleticism. The only problem with his story is she doesn’t exist.
“All right, have it your way.” I push down on the gas pedal, accelerating. If we’re headed straight home, let’s at least get there quickly.
“Hey, what was with you yesterday by the way?” Lance asks as he turns down the radio. I’m not sure why it’s even on, it’s just static.
“What do you mean?”
“With the new HR chick.”
“You’re twenty-seven. Grow up,” I grumble. “Quit saying ‘chick.’ She’s a woman.”
“Yeah, see?” Lance points his finger at me. “Woman,” he mocks. “What’s up with Prince Lincoln over here? You put your gun away.”
“She doesn’t like guns.”
“And you ate a muffin.”
“I was being polite.” I try to feign nonchalance.