Page 152 of The Unlikely Spare

Eoin fires—not to kill, just to force him back. But I know he must be almost out of ammunition. The crease on his forehead tells me he’s very aware of this fact.

More figures appear, spreading out with tactical precision. One calls down: “Stand down, O’Connell. You know how this ends.”

“The only way this ends,” Eoin shouts back, “is with me dead before you touch him.”

The certainty in his voice makes my throat constrict. He means it. He’ll die here, on this tourist platform, for me.

The thought is unbearable.

I’ve been so afraid of being hurt again, of giving someone the power to destroy me the way Daniel did.

But now, seeing the look on Eoin’s face, all my careful walls, my protective cynicism, my fear of being fooled again…none of it matters anymore.

He lied to me, yes. But he also chose me over his career, his duty, and his safety.

Daniel sold me out for money.

Eoin is prepared to die for me.

And whilst any protection officer would do that, I’m sure most protection officers’ voices wouldn’t break when they said those words. They wouldn’t have the same desperate fury in their stance.

This isn’t duty. It’s more than that.

And I realize I’ve already given him the power to hurt me again. The only question has been whether I’m brave enough to admit it.

There’s nothing like having a rather excellent chance of dying to remind you that you’ve got to be brave while living.

But I don’t have time to process my emotional revelation because our attackers are advancing. Eoin fires again desperately, but then stops. The measured approach of Pierce’s men tells me they know he’s running out of ammunition, the confidence of predators who know their prey is cornered.

A distinguished man with silver hair appears at the top of the stairs. He looks like someone’s benevolent grandfather.

“Eoin,” the man says conversationally, as if we’re simply having a casual chat over canapés at a fundraiser. “This has gone far enough.”

“Fuck off, Pierce,” Eoin snarls.

Pierce. The name hits me like cold water. This is him—Eoin’s mentor, the mastermind behind everything.

Pierce sighs. “I had hoped you’d see reason.”

He makes a gesture to his men, and they fan out even farther through the bush. Eoin’s gun wavers between targets like he’s conducting the world’s deadliest orchestra, but there are too many instruments for one conductor to control.

“Take them,” Pierce orders simply. “The prince unharmed. I’d prefer not to kill anyone, but O’Connell is expendable if he resists too much.”

Everything happens at once. They rush us from multiple angles. Eoin tries to shield me, firing his last rounds to force them back, but there are too many. I see one of them raising his gun toward Eoin’s unprotected side, and time slows to honey.

No. Not him. Not like this.

There—a fallen branch near my feet, thick as my wrist, knocked loose by our scrambling descent. Without thinking, I snatch it up and swing wildly at the man targeting Eoin. It connects with his arm, sending his shot wildly off-target.

“Run!” I scream at Eoin, already spinning to face the others with my laughably inadequate weapon. Years of fencing lessons kick in. I’m not going for choreographed movements. I use the basic underlying principles of keep moving, make yourself unpredictable. I feint left, swing right, using the branch like the world’s most inadequate épée.

If I can just create enough chaos, maybe he can?—

But Eoin doesn’t run. Of course he doesn’t. Instead, when an attacker sidesteps my wild swing and moves closer, Eoin lunges forward, grabbing my wrist to pull me behind him.

For a heartbeat, our eyes lock, and there’s something fierce in his expression, a savage pride mixed with absolute refusal to allow me to sacrifice myself.

And that’s when they overwhelm us.