Page 49 of Whistleblower
– Porky
It was a stupid nickname. On my first day at Empress, when I met the CEO, Pierre Corky, I couldn’t help but think what a funny name it was. I had to rehearse our introduction about a hundred times to keep myself from giggling like a loon. When it finally came time to shake his hand, I’d given myself the yips. I accidentally called him, “Mr. Porky.” He thought it was so funny, he insisted everyone at the office start calling him Porky.
Pierre and I used to laugh a lot. We genuinely enjoyed each other’s company… Until I ruined him and put him behind bars for 25 to life.
He’s in prison, so how the hell is he drinking beer in my apartment and stuffing notes between my sheets? I wish I had my timer. Five minutes is all I need to allow the shaking nerves to overwhelm my body. I’d collapse to the floor and cry because I am so fucking tired of living in fear.
But I’ve got no timer and no time to spare. I allow my rational brain to take over, walking me through the logistics.
I’ve been home for forty minutes at least. The apartment is small. I’m staring across the bed into my walk-through closet and it’s impossible to conceal yourself on either side of the built-ins. I used the bathroom when I got home and saw there was no one in the glass walk-in shower. My bed is on a solid frame. Even the windows have electric blinds, no drapes. There is nowhere to hide. And if someone was waiting for me, they would have presented themselves by now. Whoever was here is long gone.
I’d call the police but I’m not sure what to say. I needed a team of three lawyers to explain the NDAs I agreed to. The public information is that Empress violated basically every single state and federal law, against digital privacy, possible. The whole truth is far more harrowing and I was given a gag order to never share that narrative—not even to local authorities. It’s above their pay grade.
I can’t go to just anyone with this. I need Callen. If the FBI can’t protect me, who can?
After mopping up the spilled coffee as best I can, I hurry to my closet to get dressed. It doesn’t matter what I wear, I just need something that won’t make me look so out of place at an upscale martini bar lounge. I need to do my best to blend in…
I have no idea who might be watching me.
* * *
Martinis is a swanky-looking lounge. The mood lights are vibrant colors and the entire place is covered in a smoky haze, but it doesn’t smell offensive. No… It smells like someone is running a Hookah machine in the vents for ambiance. Presently, the entire place smells like cherries, mandarin oranges, and warm vanilla. It’s the perfect place for a girls’ night, which explains why when I spot the PALADIN team in an enormous curved booth in the back corner, it looks like Cricket is having the most fun. She’s sandwiched in the middle of the booth with cards fanned in one of her hands, and cash wadded up in her other fist. She’s arguing with one of the Agent Smiths.
“Bambi!” she shouts as I near the table, spotting me first.
Linc, who is sitting at the edge of the booth, whips his head around so fast, there’s no masking his surprise. He not-so-subtly eyes me up and down before his brooding stare locks on my face. His brows knit in confusion.
“Hello everyone.” I flash a sheepish smile.
“Feeling better?” Linc asks with a flattened tone.
“A bit,” I say, quickly remembering my earlier excuse. “Where’s Callen?”
To my utter surprise, Linc rolls his eyes. “Of course,” he mutters, his agitation unmistakable. What the hell is that about? Linc points to the bar where Callen is attempting to flag down a waitress. I don’t have time for Linc’s sudden attitude, so I turn on my heel and make a beeline for the bar.
I tap Callen on the shoulder. When he turns to face me, I see he’s on the phone. “Hey,” he mouths distractedly. “You came.”
“Yes, um—can we talk in private? Something strange happened tonight. I need to know if Pierre Corky is out of prison, but I don’t want to go poking around by myself. Are you able to—”
Callen holds his finger up, interrupting me as he tries to focus on his phone call. His eyes grow wide. “Bring him to the compound,” he hisses into the phone. “I’m on my way.”
He looks at me and shoots me an overcompensating smile, again, while looking for the bartender. He doesn’t have time for me right now, but who else do I have?
“Callen, did you hear what I said? I think I was followed from California. I think I’m being watched.”
“Watched?” he parrots, almost incoherently.
I blow out a deep breath, my patience growing thin. Just listen. For God’s sake, someone please take me fucking seriously. “I think Pierre Corky—”
The bartender suddenly appears in front of us.
“How ya doing, partner?” she asks Callen while she winks at me. Her low auburn ponytail is swept to the side and her teeth are very white, but those are the only distinct features I can make out of hers in the dimly lit lounge.
“I have to go. Keep my tab open for everyone in that corner, okay?”
“Really?” she asks in shock.
Callen’s groans. “How bad is it?”