In the high-stakes earthly concern of political sympathies and great power, bank is as rare as peace. For Damian Cross, a veteran soldier guard with a tinseled history in buck private surety, loyalty was never just a prerequisite it was a way of life. But when a subprogram tribute soured into a insanely political scandal, Cross found himself caught between bullets and betrayals, restrain by a call that would take exception everything he believed in hire bodyguard London.
Damian Cross had gone nearly two decades guarding CEOs, diplomats, and political science officials. His reputation 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 attractive melioris known for his anti-corruption agitate Cross cerebration it would be a high-profile but unequivocal job. That semblance destroyed one rainy Nox in D.C., when an still-hunt left two agents dead and Blake barely alive.
The lash out inflated questions few dared to sound publicly. How had the assailants known the Senator s demand route? Why had Blake insisted on dynamical his security detail that morn, without informing Cross? And why, after surviving the attempt on his life, did Blake suddenly want Damian off the team?
Cross, contusioned but alive, refused to walk away. Bound by his personal code and a verbal promise he made to Blake s late wife to protect him at all costs Cross dug into what he progressively suspected was an interior job. He establish himself navigating a labyrinth of backroom deals, falsified tidings reports, and political enemies hiding in kick vision.
The perfidy cut deep when bear witness surfaced suggesting Blake had once hired buck private investigators to supervise Cross himself. The Revelation of Saint John the Divine hit like a slug. Was Blake protecting himself, or was he afraid of what Damian might uncover? For a man whose life rotated around swear and watchfulness, Cross was facing the out of the question: he had sworn his life to protect someone who no longer believed in him.
Despite the rift, Cross refused to vacate the mission. He went resistance, gathering intelligence from trusty Allies and tapping into old networks. He exposed a plot involving a defence tied to Blake s campaign a contractor Blake had publically denounced but in private negotiated with. The character assassination attempt, Cross realized, wasn t just about politics; it was about silencing a man walking a harmful tightrope between reform and natural selection.
The deeper Cross went, the more he saw the Sojourner Truth: Blake wasn t just a target he was a puppet in a much larger game. Caught between aspiration and fear, the senator had alienated both Allies and enemies. Cross wasn t just protecting a man any longer; he was protecting a symbolic representation, imperfect and conflicted, of what happens when ideals meet the simple machine of power.
The culminate came when a second attempt was made on Blake s life this time at a common soldier fundraiser. Cross, workings severally, disappointed the attack moments before it unfolded. Cameras caught him tackling the would-be assassin, but what they didn t show was the unhearable second later o, when Blake looked him in the eyes and simply nodded no row, just a flitter of the trust they once divided.
Today, Damian Cross lives in relative namelessness, far from the highlight. Blake survived, but his career was over, the outrage too boastfully to scat. Still, Cross holds onto that Nox, not for the recognition, but for the rule: that a forebode made in swear is not well wiped out, 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 monitor that in a worldly concern where allegiances shift like shadows, sometimes the sterling act of trueness is to keep a promise, even when no one is observance.
