In the high-stakes earth of political sympathies and power, swear is as rare as peace. For Damian Cross, a veteran hire bodyguard London with a gemmed chronicle in private surety, loyalty was never just a prerequisite it was a way of life. But when a subroutine tribute turned into a insanely profession scandal, Cross base himself caught between bullets and betrayals, limit by a forebode that would take exception everything he believed in.
Damian Cross had expended nearly two decades guarding CEOs, diplomats, and political science officials. His reputation was counterfeit in the fires of war zones and assassination attempts, his instincts honed by peril. When he was assigned to Senator Roland Blake a magnetic reformist known for his anti-corruption press Cross cerebration it would be a high-profile but univocal job. That semblance tattered one showery Nox in D.C., when an still-hunt left two agents dead and Blake scantily alive.
The round inflated questions few dared to sound in public. How had the assailants known the Senator s exact road? Why had Blake insisted on changing his security detail that morning, without informing Cross? And why, after extant the attempt on his life, did Blake on the spur of the moment want Damian off the team?
Cross, contusioned but alive, refused to walk away. Bound by his personal code and a spoken forebode he made to Blake s late wife to protect him at all Cross dug into what he progressively suspected was an inside job. He base himself navigating a labyrinth of backroom deals, falsified intelligence reports, and profession enemies hiding in sound off vision.
The betrayal cut deep when testify surfaced suggesting Blake had once employed buck private investigators to supervise Cross himself. The Apocalypse hit like a bullet. Was Blake protecting himself, or was he afraid of what Damian might expose? For a man whose life rotated around rely and watchfulness, Cross was facing the impossible: he had sworn his life to protect someone who no thirster believed in him.
Despite the rift, Cross refused to vacate the mission. He went resistance, gather tidings from trusty Allies and tapping into old networks. He unclothed a plot involving a defense tied to Blake s take the field a contractor Blake had in public denounced but privately negotiated with. The assassination undertake, Cross accomplished, wasn t just about political sympathies; it was about silencing a man walk a harmful tightrope between straighten out and survival of the fittest.
The deeper Cross went, the more he saw the truth: Blake wasn t just a place 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 protecting a man anymore; he was protecting a symbolization, imperfect and conflicted, of what happens when ideals meet the machine of world power.
The climax came when a second attempt was made on Blake s life this time at a buck private fundraiser. Cross, working independently, thwarted the round moments before it unfolded. Cameras caught him tackling the would-be assassin, but what they didn t show was the silent moment subsequently, when Blake looked him in the eyes and simply nodded no run-in, just a flutter of the swear they once shared.
Today, Damian Cross lives in relative namelessness, far from the foreground. Blake survived, but his was over, the outrage too big to run away. Still, Cross holds onto that Nox, not for the realisation, but for the principle: that a promise made in bank is not well wiped out, even when trust itself is.
Between bullets and betrayals, Cross once said in a rare question, there s only one thing that keeps a man upright his word. And I gave mine.
It s a admonisher that in a world where allegiances transfer like shadows, sometimes the superlative act of trueness is to keep a forebode, even when no one is observation.
