Page 16 of Eden and her Mercenary (Changing of the Guards)

Royal

T wo weeks later, I sat in a chair beside Eden's bed, my body stiff from barely moving.

The ventilator's rhythmic hiss had become the soundtrack to my vigil—a constant reminder that machines were doing what her body couldn't yet manage on its own.

Her condition remained critical but stable, the doctors' cautious phrasing offering neither comfort nor despair.

I'd only left her side for brief stretches when Ryker or Wren forced me to shower or eat. The hospital staff had stopped trying to kick me out when visiting hours were over after Declan had a private conversation with the administrator.

The door opened, and I tensed automatically before recognizing Declan's silhouette. His expression was grimmer than usual, jaw tight with barely contained anger.

"We found them," he said without preamble, closing the door behind him.

I straightened, suddenly alert. "Junction? "

"Higher." He handed me a tablet. "The hit came directly from Prophecies Biomedical. Specifically, from the director of their military applications division—James Whitmore."

The tablet displayed a photograph of a distinguished-looking man in his sixties—silver hair, patrician features, the confident smile of someone accustomed to power. I committed his face to memory, feeling something cold and deadly settle in my chest.

"Why Eden?" I asked, my voice rough from disuse.

"It wasn't random." Declan pulled up another file—security footage from Prophecies the night we'd stolen the neural mapper. "Harrison's security clearance triggered a silent alert when she accessed certain files before helping you. Those files contained evidence of illegal human testing."

"Human testing?" I echoed, the implications hitting me like a physical blow. "The neural implants weren't just for dogs."

"No. According to our source, they've been experimenting on political prisoners from countries with questionable human rights records. Plausible deniability if anything goes wrong."

I looked at Eden's pale, still face, understanding dawning. "They think she has the files."

"Or knows what's in them. Harrison is dead, found a week ago floating in Lake Ontario" Declan's voice hardened. "Whitmore can't risk exposure. The contracts alone are worth billions, not to mention the criminal charges if this gets out."

"So he sends a sniper to silence a dog transporter." Rage built inside me, familiar and clarifying. "Where is he now?"

"That's why I came in person." Declan met my gaze directly. "He's in Pearl Lake. Arrived this morning with a security detail, ostensibly for a fishing weekend at his lakeside property."

"Convenient," I said, the word like ash in my mouth.

"Very." Declan checked his watch. "My people are tracking his movements, establishing patterns. When you're ready—"

"I'm ready now," I interrupted, standing so abruptly my chair scraped against the floor. Eden didn't stir at the sound, her artificially induced sleep unbroken.

"Ryker's already preparing," Declan continued as if I hadn't spoken. "But there's something else you should know." He hesitated. "Dr. Reeves is Whitmore's son-in-law."

The surgeon. The coincidence that wasn't.

"Has he tampered with her care?" Cold fear replaced the rage momentarily .

"No. We've had every medication, every procedure verified by independent sources. If anything, he's been exceptionally thorough in her treatment."

"Small mercies," I muttered, leaning down to press a kiss to Eden's forehead. "Keep her safe while I'm gone," I told Declan. "No one gets near her without your approval."

"Already arranged. Wren's on her way to relieve you." He paused at the door. "Royal—Whitmore isn't some street thug. He has government connections, military contracts. This has to be clean."

"It will be," I promised, though we both knew what I meant. Not clean as in legal, but clean as in untraceable. Whitmore wouldn't be the first powerful man to simply disappear.

I took one last look at Eden, memorizing the curve of her cheek, the fan of her eyelashes against too-pale skin. "I'll be back soon," I whispered, though I knew she couldn't hear me. "Hold on."

Ryker was waiting in the hospital parking lot, his expression darkening when he saw my face. "Declan told you."

"Everything." I slid into the passenger seat of his all-black sedan. "Where are we headed?"

"Safe house first. Gear, planning, surveillance photos." He pulled out of the lot, driving with careful precision that belied the tension radiating from him. " How are you holding up?"

"I'll be better when Whitmore’s dead," I said flatly.

Ryker nodded, not bothering with platitudes. We'd both learned early that revenge didn't heal wounds, but it could cauterize them—stop the bleeding long enough to survive.

The safe house was one of the MacGallan’s properties, a cabin similar to mine but outfitted with security systems and reinforced walls. Inside, the dining table was covered with surveillance photos, maps, and building schematics.

"Whitmore's staying here," Ryker indicated a modern glass and cedar structure on the north shore of Pearl Lake. "Minimal staff—a housekeeper, personal chef, and four security personnel, all ex-military."

"Entry points?"

"Limited. Main door, service entrance, balcony off the master suite." He pointed to each on the blueprint. "Property has motion sensors, cameras, and a panic room."

I studied the layout, already formulating a plan. "Security rotation?"

"Two on at all times, rotating four-hour shifts. They're professional, but predictable."

"Weaknesses?"

Ryker's smile was cold. "Whitmore himself. Man of habit. Takes a swim every evening at 7:30, followed by a drink on the dock. Alone."

Perfect. "Water approach?"

"Possible. Lake patrol is minimal this time of year. We've got a silent electric outboard that can get us within fifty yards without detection."

I nodded, committing the details to memory. "Tonight, then."

"Tonight," Ryker confirmed. "Declan's arranged for a diversion on the far side of the property at 7:15. Should draw at least one of the security team away."

We spent the next hours in methodical preparation—checking weapons, memorizing escape routes, establishing contingencies. The familiar ritual calmed me, narrowing my focus to the task ahead. Eden's face remained at the edges of my consciousness, both motivation and warning.

An hour before sunset approached, we loaded our equipment into a small boat docked at a private slip owned by the MacGallan’s. The electric motor hummed almost imperceptibly as we glided across the lake, keeping to the shadows cast by the shoreline trees.

"Approaching target," Ryker murmured into his comm. "Status on diversion?"

"Two minutes," came Declan's voice through our earpieces. "Security team alerted to possible intruder at the perimeter fence."

"Copy." I checked my watch—7:23. Right on schedule.

We cut the motor fifty yards from Whitmore's dock, letting momentum carry us the remaining distance. Through binoculars, I could see him emerging from the house, wearing a plush robe over swim trunks, a towel draped over one arm.

"Target in position," I confirmed.

"Diversion activated," Declan reported. "Two security personnel responding, heading north away from your position."

Perfect. We drifted silently toward the dock, staying low in the boat. Whitmore descended the steps to the water's edge, removing his robe and hanging it on a hook. Without his tailored suits, he looked older, softer—a man in his sixties trying to maintain the physique of someone decades younger.

He dove into the water with surprising grace, surfacing several yards from the dock and beginning a steady crawl toward the floating platform anchored thirty yards out.

"Now," I said quietly.

Ryker guided the boat to the dock, securing it with a silent hook as I slipped onto the wooden planks.

I moved to Whitmore's robe, confirming what our intelligence had suggested—a small handgun in the pocket, his phone, a silver flask.

I removed the gun, ejecting the magazine and clearing the chamber before replacing it.

Then I settled into the deck chair positioned for his return and waited.

Whitmore completed his swim in just under fifteen minutes, pulling himself up onto the dock with a grunt of effort. He reached for his towel, freezing when he saw me sitting in his chair.

"Good evening, Mr. Whitmore," I said pleasantly. "Lovely night for a swim."

His eyes darted to his robe, calculating. "Who are you? How did you get past security?"

"My name wouldn't mean anything to you." I leaned forward, letting him see the gun resting casually on my thigh. "But Eden Wade—that name you know."

Recognition flashed across his face, quickly masked. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Please." I gestured with the gun. "Let's not waste what little time you have left with lies."

Fear replaced the confusion in his eyes. "Whatever you think I've done—"

"I don't think, I know." I stood slowly, moving toward him with deliberate steps. "You ordered the hit on Eden Wade because you believe she has information about your human testing program. Project Cerberus isn't just about dogs, is it?"

Whitmore straightened, a different kind of calculation entering his expression. "You're making a serious mistake. Do you have any idea who I am, who I'm connected to?"

"I know exactly who you are." I closed the distance between us. "A man who experiments on prisoners. A man who puts profit above ethics. A man who tried to kill the woman I love."

"Listen," he said, his voice taking on a placating tone. "There's been a misunderstanding. Whatever you think Ms. Wade knows, I assure you, the situation can be resolved without further violence."

"I agree." I pressed the gun against his chest, right over his heart. "Your death will resolve it quite effectively."

Real fear flashed in his eyes now. "Wait! I can offer you money, protection, whatever you want."