Page 7 of Eden and her Mercenary
I watched as she blinked back tears, her hand never stopping its gentle rhythm on Stella's head.
"That's not normal for a fighting dog," I remarked.
"No, it's not." Eden's eyes met mine. "Fighting dogs are trained to attack other dogs, not people. And they're certainly not trained to release on command, which she did instantly when I called her back."
I mulled this over. "So, she's had some kind of specialized training."
"Exactly." Eden nodded. "And that's why I think there's more to this than just some asshole wanting his fighting dog back."
A muffled bark from outside reminded us of the other dogs. Eden stood, stretching her stiff muscles. "I should check on them, give them water."
"I'll help." I grabbed a large metal bowl from under the sink and filled it while Eden fetched supplies from her van.
Outside, the dogs greeted us enthusiastically, tails wagging as we set up water bowls and distributed kibble. Stella had followed us out but stayed close to Eden, eyeing the food bowls warily.
"She doesn't eat around other dogs," Eden explained, noticing my observation.
I watched as she took a separate bowl and led Stella to a quiet corner of the yard, murmuring encouragement as the pit bull cautiously began to eat.
"You're good with them," I said. “How did you get into the business of transporting dogs?”
Eden shrugged.
"I was in a bad situation once," she said, keeping her eyes on Stella rather than meeting mine. "A long time ago, I had an abusive boyfriend. When I finally got out, I had nowhere to go, so I stayed at a women's shelter in Toronto."
I watched Stella lick her bowl clean, her tail giving that hesitant half-wag that broke my heart.
"There was this woman there," she continued. "Her dog had saved her life—literally thrown himself between her and a knife. The shelter wouldn’t take the dog, so she was going to have to give him up or go back to her husband."
I remained silent, just listening.
"I had an old Civic then. Offered to drive her and the dog to her sister's place in Montreal." She smiled at the memory. "After that, word got around. Suddenly I was the person people called when a dog needed to get from point A to point B, no questions asked."
"How long have you been doing this?" I asked.
With her eyes still on Stella, she answered, "Fifteen years, thousands of miles, and hundreds of dogs later." She looked up at me finally. "Most transports are simple, shelters overcrowded in one city, space available in another. But occasionally..."
"Occasionally you get the special cases," I finished for her.
"Yeah. The ones running from something—or someone."
My phone started vibrating in my pocket. It was Ryker.
"That was fast," I said. "What'd you find?"
"Royal, you need to be careful." My brother's voice was tight, urgent. "That plate is registered to a company called Junction Security Solutions."
"Never heard of them."
"You wouldn't have. They're like us, a private military contractor—but does the dirty work the government doesn't want their fingerprints on."
I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the night air. "What would they want with a rescue dog?"
"That's the million-dollar question," he said. "But I dug deeper. Junction has connections to a research facility outside Toronto. Place called Prophecies Biomedical."
Eden had moved closer, straining to hear. I put the phone on speaker.
"What kind of research?" I asked.
