In the high-stakes earth of politics and superpowe, trust is as rare as peace. For Damian Cross, a veteran soldier hire bodyguard London with a fringed account in buck private surety, trueness was never just a prerequisite it was a way of life. But when a subroutine protection detail turned into a madly profession outrage, Cross found himself caught between bullets and betrayals, restrict by a promise that would challenge everything he believed in.
Damian Cross had gone nearly two decades guarding CEOs, diplomats, and politics officials. His repute was forged in the fires of war zones and assassination attempts, his instincts honed by peril. When he was assigned to Senator Roland Blake a attractive reformist known for his anti-corruption agitate Cross cerebration it would be a high-profile but unambiguous job. That illusion shattered one showery Nox in D.C., when an ambush left two agents dead and Blake scantily alive.
The lash out raised questions few dared to voice in public. How had the assailants known the Senator s demand route? Why had Blake insisted on dynamical his surety that morning, without informing Cross? And why, after living the undertake on his life, did Blake on the spur of the moment want Damian off the team?
Cross, bruised but alive, refused to walk away. Bound by his personal code and a spoken call he made to Blake s late wife to protect him at all Cross dug into what he more and more suspected was an inside job. He found himself navigating a maze of backroom deals, falsified tidings reports, and profession enemies concealment in plain visual sense.
The perfidy cut deep when testify surfaced suggesting Blake had once employed private investigators to monitor Cross himself. The Apocalypse hit like a slug. Was Blake protecting himself, or was he afraid of what Damian might expose? For a man whose life revolved around swear and vigilance, Cross was facing the unimaginable: he had committed his life to protect someone who no yearner believed in him.
Despite the rift, Cross refused to empty the missionary work. He went underground, gather intelligence from sure Allies and tapping into old networks. He exposed a plot involving a defense contractor tied to Blake s campaign a Blake had publicly denounced but in camera negotiated with. The assassination undertake, Cross realised, wasn t just about political sympathies; it was about silencing a man walk a unsafe tightrope between see the light and survival.
The deeper Cross went, the more he saw the truth: Blake wasn t just a direct he was a puppet in a much bigger game. Caught between ambition and fear, the senator had estranged both Allies and enemies. Cross wasn t just protective a man anymore; he was protecting a symbolization, imperfect and conflicted, of what happens when ideals meet the simple machine of world power.
The climax came when a second set about was made on Blake s life this time at a buck private fundraiser. Cross, working severally, disappointed the snipe moments before it unfolded. Cameras caught him tackling the would-be assassinator, but what they didn t show was the unsounded second afterwards, when Blake looked him in the eyes and simply nodded no row, just a flicker of the swear they once divided up.
Today, Damian Cross lives in relative namelessness, far from the foreground. Blake survived, but his was over, the outrage too large to hightail it. Still, Cross holds onto that Nox, not for the realisation, but for the principle: that a prognosticate made in rely is not well impoverished, even when bank itself is.
Between bullets and betrayals, Cross once said in a rare interview, there s only one thing that keeps a man vertical his word. And I gave mine.
It s a monitor that in a earthly concern where allegiances shift like shadows, sometimes the superior act of loyalty is to keep a call, even when no one is watching.