Page 44 of Eden and her Mercenary
"Fourteen people," she whispered. "Dead because they wanted to perfect the technology."
"And three survivors turned into weapons," I added grimly. "Remote-controlled human beings."
Eden closed her eyes, processing the horror. "What did you do to Whitmore?"
"Gave him a choice. Call off the hit on you and Stella, turn himself in and shut down the program, or face the consequences."
"And if he doesn't?"
I met her gaze directly. "Then the choice gets taken away from him."
She was quiet for a long moment. "I should feel guilty about that. About wanting him dead."
"But you don't."
"No," she admitted. "I keep thinking about those fourteen people. About what they did to Stella. About what they would have kept doing if we hadn't stopped them."
My phone buzzed. A text from Ryker: "Time's up. Did not call off the hit. No contact with authorities. Moving to Phase Two."
I showed Eden the message. She read it, thenlooked up at me.
"Go," she said simply.
"I'm not leaving you—"
"Yes, you are." Her voice was stronger now, carrying the determination I'd fallen in love with. "This isn't over until it's over. And I'll be here when you get back."
I kissed her gently, tasting the salt of her tears. "I love you."
"I love you too. Now go finish this."
An hour later, I met Ryker at the safe house. His expression was grim as he handed me a tablet showing surveillance footage.
"Whitmore's making a run for it," he reported. "Private jet filed a flight plan for a non-extradition country. Leaves in three hours."
"Where is he now?"
"Still at the lake house, packing. Security team's been reduced to two—the others left this afternoon."
I studied the feed, watching Whitmore move frantically through his house, stuffing documents and valuables into a suitcase. A coward's exit, abandoning his family and responsibilities.
"New plan," I said. "We intercept him en route to the airport."
"Risky. More exposure, more variables."
"But final," I countered. "No more chances, no more negotiations."
Ryker nodded, understanding. "I'll get the gear."
We positioned ourselves along the only road leading from Whitmore's property to the regional airport. The route wound through dense forest, with several isolated stretches perfect for our purposes.
"Target vehicle approaching," Ryker reported from his position a quarter-mile ahead. "Black sedan, two occupants."
I stepped into the road, assault rifle visible but not directly threatening. The sedan slowed, then stopped twenty feet away. Through the windshield, I could see Whitmore in the passenger seat, his face going white when he recognized me.
The driver—one of his security men—reached for his weapon. I raised my rifle slightly, shaking my head. The man froze, professional enough to recognize a no-win situation.
"Mr. Whitmore," I called out. "Step out of the vehicle, please."
