Page 39 of Eden and her Mercenary
"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 ofhabit. 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 intruderat 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.
