Page 99 of Whistleblower

Running her hand up and down the rifle’s barrel, she closes her eyes. “There’s a difference between a soldier and a killer.”

I grumble, “I wonder if that defense would hold up in court.”

She laughs. “Fair point.”

“What’s with your guilty conscience lately? You’ve been at this for how many years? Why Callen? Why now?”

She reaches across the console and holds my shoulder. “Because you’re all grown up now, and I’m starting to see what I created. What I took from you…from all of you. I thought I was saving you when I—”

“You did,” I growl, unwilling to hear her spinning this ridiculous narrative of how I would’ve been better off without her.

“You could’ve had a different life. I should’ve given you a college scholarship instead of a .22. Maybe you could’ve become an FBI agent the right way.”

I cover her hand on my shoulder and pat it tenderly. “Don’t insult me, Vesper.”

She snorts in laughter as we hear the roar of the jet nearing the runway. I nod at her rifle. “You sure you don’t want me to hang back for support?”

“Don’t forget who taught you how to shoot. I could hit my marks blindfolded. Now grab your hat.”

The plan is more comical than anything else. We commandeered the chauffeur’s vehicle to get access to the tarmac. After ridding ourselves of the driver and his security, Vesper insisted I keep the hat as a disguise. Really, she just wanted to see me in a stupid-ass chauffeur’s hat. Eden is constantly reminding everyone to find a way to laugh at work. I’ll probably omit sharing this particular joke seeing as the warlord’s driver is growing cold in the trunk as we speak.

Once the plane touches down, the stairs drop almost immediately and an assembly line of armed thugs begin shuffling out of the plane. Vesper rolls her window down barely an inch. Just enough for the barrel of her gun to poke through.

I shout a greeting as a distraction when I open my driver’s side door. Waving as I cross the pavement, I hustle towards the plane as if I’m here to eagerly welcome them. By the time they recognize I’m not who they’re expecting, it’s far too late.

Pop, pop, pop, pop.

I slow my pace and watch the men fall one by one off the stairs, dropping from alternating sides like a synchronized dance. Plummeting to the pavement, they begin to stain the clean ground red. I’m at the bottom of the stairs when a man in a tan suit with a rifle strapped around his back pauses in terror. He opens his mouth to shout a warning, but I don’t bother reaching for my pistol.

Wait for it.

I can sense the bullet whizzing above my shoulder before it buries into the center of his forehead. I step aside on the stairs so he can topple down. Tapping my earpiece, I speak to Vesper. “A little close for comfort.”

She ignores me. “Be quick about it,” Vesper says. “But I’d like a confession.”

“Are you asking me to play with my food?” I mutter under my breath as I take the stairs quickly.

“Don’t touch the pilot. He thought he was moving an ambassador—his jet was hijacked.”

If Vesper’s command wasn’t enough, when I look left, I see a man in the cockpit in a pilot’s uniform with his hands tied and duct tape around his mouth. His eyes look bloodshot and he’s sporting a shiner on his left cheek. I shut the door to the cockpit after assuring him rescue is on the way.

When I turn my attention to the back of the luxury jet, I find my target. The arrogant piece of shit in a tan suit with his hands in the air and a cocky smile on his face. It becomes instantly apparent that he’s not a local of Africa.

“You’re American?” I ask.

“Are you surprised?” he responds clearly, with no trace of an accent. He speaks calmly even though there are sweat beads dripping down his bald head.

“So, you’re not a terrorist, you’re just a corrupted fuck who takes advantage of a war-torn region?”

I slide into the captain's chair opposite of him with my pistol pointed at his head. The smell of his overbearing cologne makes me nauseous as I eye the gold rings around his hands that match his gold teeth. Even if he wasn’t a vile excuse of a human being I think I’d hate him.

I watch his eyes dart down to his weapon.

“Oh please reach for it,” I snarl, nodding toward his gun sitting on the table between us. “Give me an excuse to put a hole in your head right now.”

Keeping his hands in the air, he snickers. “Take it. There’s no need for such theatrics.” After sliding his gun off the table, I remove the bullets in front of him so he can watch them fall on the carpeted floor.

“How many of my men are dead?” he asks with a cruel smirk.