In the high-stakes earthly concern of political sympathies and world power, trust is as rare as peace. For Damian Cross, a veteran hire bodyguard London with a tasselled history in private surety, trueness was never just a prerequisite it was a way of life. But when a subroutine tribute soured into a deadly profession scandal, Cross found himself caught between bullets and betrayals, throttle by a foretell that would take exception everything he believed in.
Damian Cross had exhausted nearly two decades guarding CEOs, diplomats, and government officials. His repute was bad in the fires of war zones and blackwash attempts, his instincts honed by peril. When he was allotted to Senator Roland Blake a charismatic crusader known for his anti-corruption push Cross thought it would be a high-profile but straightforward job. That semblance destroyed one showery Night in D.C., when an ambush left two agents dead and Blake barely alive.
The assault raised questions few dared to sound publically. How had the assailants known the Senator s exact road? Why had Blake insisted on ever-changing his surety detail that morning time, without ratting Cross? And why, after surviving the set about on his life, did Blake suddenly want Damian off the team?
Cross, contused but sensitive, refused to walk away. Bound by his subjective code and a verbal foretell 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 base himself navigating a labyrinth of backroom deals, falsified tidings reports, and political enemies hiding in sound off vision.
The treachery cut deep when prove surfaced suggesting Blake had once hired private investigators to supervise Cross himself. The Revelation of Saint John the Divine hit like a bullet. Was Blake protective himself, or was he afraid of what Damian might uncover? For a man whose life rotated around rely and watchfulness, Cross was facing the unthinkable: he had pledged his life to protect someone who no thirster believed in him.
Despite the rift, Cross refused to abandon the missionary work. He went underground, gathering tidings from sure Allies and tapping into old networks. He exposed a plot involving a defence contractor tied to Blake s campaign a Blake had publicly denounced but in private negotiated with. The character assassination undertake, Cross realized, wasn t just about politics; it was about silencing a man walking a wild tightrope between see the light and survival.
The deeper Cross went, the more he saw the truth: Blake wasn t just a poin he was a puppet in a much bigger game. Caught between ambition and fear, the senator had unloved both Allies and enemies. Cross wasn t just protective a man anymore; he was protecting a symbolic representation, flawed and conflicted, of what happens when ideals meet the simple machine of great power.
The culminate came when a second attempt was made on Blake s life this time at a buck private fundraiser. Cross, working independently, unsuccessful the assail moments before it unfolded. Cameras caught him tackling the would-be bravo, but what they didn t show was the silent moment subsequently, when Blake looked him in the eyes and simply nodded no quarrel, just a flutter of the trust they once distributed.
Today, Damian Cross lives in relative namelessness, far from the spotlight. Blake survived, but his was over, the scandal too big to head for the hills. Still, Cross holds onto that night, not for the recognition, but for the principle: that a anticipat made in rely is not easily destroyed, even when rely itself is.
Between bullets and betrayals, Cross once said in a rare question, there s only one thing that keeps a man vertical his word. And I gave mine.
It s a reminder that in a earth where allegiances transfer like shadows, sometimes the superlative act of trueness is to keep a forebode, even when no one is observance.
