The Revelation of Eden Pruitt, page 1
The Revelation of Eden Pruitt
Book 3
K.E. Ganshert
Copyright © 2023 by K.E. Ganshert
Cover Design by Courtney Walsh
All rights reserved.
This novel is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to peoples either living or deceased is purely coincidental. Names, places, and characters are figments of the author’s imagination.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
For Kara
* * *
You are pure sunshine. Thanks for being such an encouraging reader. Your cupcakes are divine!
REVELATION
* * *
the act of revealing what
was once hidden;
an announcement
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
About the Author
Also by K.E. Ganshert
1
If he is the snake, Electus is his head. We are going to cut it off.
The words became a trapped echo reverberating in Eden’s skull. The girl with the glass eye had said them inside the White House Bunker, without a clue Eden Pruitt was part of that head. For the first eighteen years of her life, Eden didn’t have a clue either. She’d operated under the assumption that her parents were her biological parents and her biology was the same as every other person’s biology. Until she took a knife, sliced open her hand, and watched it heal before her eyes.
If only Cleo could heal as quickly.
Eden’s chest tightened as she sat beside her friend lying on the floor, hooked to a portable IV. Her complexion, usually aglow with health, had turned a muted and alarming gray. Scratches and scrapes mottled the left side of her face. An angry gash sliced through the skin above her right eyebrow. These injuries weren’t concerning, but the one on her leg twisted Eden’s guts. Blood had soaked through the bandage wrapped around Cleo’s thigh where a piece of sharpened marble had struck her femoral artery.
She needed professional medical attention, not the crude care the condescending young man had provided. Cleo needed a doctor; she needed her mother. But Dr. Beverly Randall-Ransom was in Chicago and Cleo and Eden were trapped beneath Washington, DC, in an outdated bomb shelter designed to protect the president of the United States at a time when America still elected presidents. Eden’s attention traveled up the wall to an archaic seal mounted above the wood paneling. An eagle clutched an olive branch in its right talon, thirteen arrows in its left, and a scroll in its beak that bore the words E Pluribus Unum.
Out of many, one.
The motto used to be on their money and their passports. It was a bygone ideology that considered diversity—of people, of opinion—to be one of the country’s greatest strengths. That was before The Attack and the massive restructuring of government that followed. A restructuring that no longer prized diversity, because diversity was a prelude to division and division was clearly the enemy. The seal was replaced by Concordia, the Roman Goddess of Harmony and Peace. A cruel irony considering the smoking war zone above.
Cleo turned her head.
Pinpricks of sweat beaded along her brow.
Eden bit back a scream. How could she get Cleo help when they were stuck underground with two hostile members of a mortally wounded resistance? Francesca Burnoli, with her glass eye and her pixie haircut and her pale, androgynous face streaked with grime and smoke. And the giant named Asher, with his broad shoulders and his bronze skin and his NBA height made even taller by his hair—a stack of tightly wound curls fading neatly into buzzed sides.
They radiated accusation.
Eden didn’t blame them. If the roles were reversed—if these two had shown up uninvited and shut down her emergency alert system—she would be just as outraged.
Bile burned in the back of her throat.
Fifty rebels. Reduced to ten.
Because of her and Cleo’s blasted curiosity. They’d been tracking Amir Kashif, the son of Lillian Kashif. She was Bella Bryson’s sister, and one of ninety-three names on the back of a strange pamphlet Eden and Cassian had stolen from the Bryson’s safe. Amir had passed something to Asher, and Asher had led them to a tunnel.
Cassian warned them against following that tunnel. They didn’t know where it led or who it led to. He didn’t want to make a rash decision. But Cleo had insisted and Eden had agreed, so Cass had been outnumbered. They’d gone. And because they’d gone, over thirty people were now dead and Cassian had been captured.
The room began to spin. Soldiers had shoved him into the back of a military truck with several others, one of whom was the infamous Prudence Dvorak. Not a member of a terrorist regime called Interitus, but the leader of a resistance working to defeat the Monarch. Who was, according to Francesca, Oswin Freaking Brahm.
Eden pictured him in her mind’s eye. Charming and handsome. Generous and admired. A successful entrepreneur and philanthropist who had donated millions to fund programs that provided long-term care and assistance for those still suffering from The Attack. Apparently, he was the one who orchestrated The Attack.
The news hit her with the same shocking jolt she’d experienced in Dr. Norton’s basement when he finally told her the truth about who she really was. What she really was. A weapon supposedly created by the most notorious terrorist of not only her lifetime, but all lifetimes. Karik Volkova. The name struck fear into the hearts of Americans everywhere. Turned out, that man was nothing more than a puppet. A disciple. Of the true villain.
Eden tried to wrap her mind around it, but her brain refused to grasp this new information as reality. She crouched down to wipe Cleo’s brow, to check her pulse.
At the opposite end of the room, Francesca held a walkie-talkie to her lips as she guided a survivor from Bunker Three to Metro Center, her attention glued to the wall of surveillance monitors. Eight screens captured a variety of footage—from the smoking, apocalyptic scene above ground to the subway system underneath. One of those screens featured a prison-like room. A young man sat inside, slumped in a corner with his ankles and wrists bound by steel. He was the primary source of Francesca’s escalating panic—a prisoner they were calling ‘the asset’. A prisoner with the same biology as Eden.
Francesca’s walkie-talkie squawked. “I’m here. Over.”
“The dose will be in the inside pocket of his jacket,” Francesca said. “Handle it carefully. Over.”
On one monitor, the survivor Francesca was guiding bent over a dead body. He was retrieving a dose of something—tranquilizer, Eden assumed. Some specialized, super potent cocktail they must use to keep the asset in line. Otherwise, he would have no trouble breaking his steel restraints and busting down the door.
Asher sat with his chin propped on his fist, watching the scene with laser-like intensity. But he didn’t notice it. Neither did Francesca.
A glint of metal.
A tiny mechanical sparrow on the periphery of the screen. Eden barely had time to cock her head before the sparrow swept the air with an infrared laser.
Francesca came out of her seat, shouting into the two-way radio.
The survivor stood abruptly. He spun in alarm, his eyes wide as the sparrow released a spray of bullets.
He fell.
The gunfire went silent.
With a roar, Francesca slammed her walkie-talkie onto the conference table.
Asher kicked a chair.
Horrified, Eden stared at the screen where two men now lay, side-by-side. Both of them dead.
“What was that?” Francesca asked.
Asher pointed a remote at the wall of monitors. He flipped channels from one area of the metro to another, until he found four more mechanical sparrows—so small, they were easily missed. He released a long sigh. “S and K drones,” he muttered.
“S and K drones?” Eden repeated. “What are those?”
“Military drones programmed to search and kill.”
An uneasy silence filled the room.
Cleo broke it with a moan as her head tossed restlessly.
The scream came back. It rolled up Eden’s throat. She had to swallow it down. She wanted to sprint into the tunnels, grab every one of those drones, and crush them in her fist. It wasn’t a foolish desire. She could do it with relative ease. But then w
“This is why they evacuated.” Asher continued flipping channels. “They dropped bombs above ground. They sent these below.”
Francesca grabbed her assault rifle from the table and turned to the door.
Asher took her elbow. “What are you doing?”
“Someone has to administer that dose,” she said.
“Don’t be an idiot,” Asher replied.
“Any minute, the asset will be strong enough to join the drones and we’ll be toast.” She shot Eden a murderous look, her good eye shining with animosity. This was, after all, Eden’s fault. “What’s left of the Resistance will be completely decimated.”
“If you go out there, you’ll be decimated.” Asher took the gun from her hands. “How about we come up with a plan that doesn’t require more body bags?”
“I don’t think there is one, Ash.”
“We can’t afford to lose you.” He rubbed his jaw, his attention swiveling slowly to Eden. “But we can afford to lose her.”
Eden took a step back.
Asher narrowed one eye as though seeing her properly for the first time—a disposable heartbeat. “Let’s make her get the dose.”
2
Eden’s ears caught fire.
Make her get the dose?
“You said no more body bags,” Francesca said, regarding Eden with a look of utter disdain. “If we send her out there, she’ll be dead and we’ll be back at square one.”
Eden gaped. They were discussing her like she was completely inconsequential. Her life of no value whatsoever. She pulled back her shoulders, tempted to leave right now and prove Francesca wrong. Eden wouldn’t die. She could dodge bullets as easily as swatting a fly.
“Neither of us is going out there without a solid plan,” Asher said.
The two argued.
Eden clenched her jaw. They were wasting valuable time. Cassian was slipping further away. Cleo, too. She turned to the screens. Her attention jumped from one to the next as she tracked each of the mechanical sparrows. Then she focused on a single screen, watching intently as the drones passed. “Thirty-eight seconds,” she mumbled.
Asher and Francesca stopped bickering.
“They’re flying in a pattern,” Eden said. “Thirty-eight seconds apart.”
Asher’s brow furrowed. He turned to the wall, his furrow deepening as he traced his pointer finger through the air like one connecting an invisible dot-to-dot.
“What are you—?” Francesca began.
He held up his hand, his lips moving as his finger followed the same drone from monitor to monitor. Francesca tried speaking again. He gave his head a sharp shake and repeated the process. “She’s right,” he finally said.
“About what?” Francesca barked.
“The drones are flying thirty-eight seconds apart in a uniform pattern.” He pulled a framed map off the wall and set it on the conference table. Eden pointed out Metro Center. Asher shooed her off and drew a line instead from the bunker they were in now to a room much closer. “Once a drone passes outside these doors, we have thirty-eight seconds to get from here to there.”
“I thought you wanted to get the dose,” Eden said.
“Right, but we can’t unless we shut down the drones now, can we? And I can’t shut down the drones unless I get here.” He tapped the spot on the map. “Once I’m here, I can jam the drones and spoof their GPS systems. Then I can direct you to Metro Center.”
“You mean me,” Francesca objected. “We can’t trust her to administer something this important.”
“The asset’s way overdue, Fran. If he’s strong enough to snap, she’s a goner. That happens, you’re still alive and we can come up with a Plan B.”
Eden gritted her teeth. They were talking about her in third person again.
“Besides,” Asher continued, “I’m not trusting her to be my eyes and ears once I’m out there. I need you to direct us.” He handed Eden the semi-automatic.
She recoiled.
Francesca scoffed. “You expect her to properly inject the asset when she can’t even take a gun?”
He shoved the weapon hard against Eden’s chest. “If she doesn’t want us to throw her and her mangled little friend to the wolves, she’ll just have to figure it out.”
Eden glared. She had half a mind to take the gun from his condescending hands and show him exactly how well she could figure it out. But then a memory intruded, one that made her want to hurl the weapon as far away as possible.
Wind in her hair. Mordecai’s arm around her waist. Sirens wailing and people screaming as she aimed the gun at Cassian. As she aimed the gun at her mother. As she curled her finger around the trigger and squeezed.
“Keep your eyes on the screen,” Asher said to Francesca. “Let me know as soon as the next drone passes.”
With a shaky breath, Eden wrapped her hands around the weapon. She wasn’t afraid of her death or injury, but she was afraid of Cleo’s. She didn’t want to leave her friend, but staying would be of no help to Cleo or Cassian. Proving her worth—gaining their grudging respect—just might.
She followed Asher out of the room, past the dusty pallets of water and folded blankets, toward the sealed entrance. There he stopped. “Follow my lead. Do exactly what I say. Try anything funny and I won’t hesitate to put a bullet through your head. Got it?”
She nodded, her mouth pinched.
Asher entered a code.
The airtight mechanism released with a loud hiss.
“Ready and waiting,” he called to Francesca.
But Eden didn’t need Francesca. She could hear the drone through the bomb-proof door. It was six seconds away. If she cast her hearing far enough, she could pinpoint the sound of the others.
“Next drone approaching,” Francesca called back, “in four … three …”
The whirring of the mechanical sparrow grew closer. Louder.
“Two … one!” Francesca shouted.
Asher pressed a button.
The door slid open.
He held up his hand.
They waited on the threshold for one second. Two seconds. Three seconds. Then they stepped into the corridor as the drone ahead flew around a corner. Asher waved at her to follow. She did so quickly. They stopped at the turn. He peeked around the corner with his back against the wall, his lips moving silently as he counted the time. Then he gave his head a jerk. They stepped around the turn as the drone ahead flew out of sight.
They hurried after it, making their way in fits and starts. Eden’s heart hammered. Asher’s, too. Francesca issued directives whenever they had to divert from the path of one drone into the path of another.
Halfway, Francesca made a deadly miscalculation. She told them to go; the coast was clear. Eden’s superhuman hearing said otherwise. She grabbed Asher by the shirtsleeve just as he was about to step into the open.
His giant hand tightened around his gun so fast, she had no doubt he would make good on his threat. Thankfully, a drone flew around the corner before he could, right into the path he would have been walking if Eden hadn’t stopped him.
At its unexpected appearance, his face lost color. Francesca apologized profusely, her tone seeped in horror as Asher eyed Eden—not gratefully, but warily. Her hammering heart picked up speed as they made their precarious way to the entrance of the room Asher had pinpointed.
He used his thumb to press a code into the keypad. Eden waited for the lock to disengage. For the airtight seal to hiss.
