Page 71 of The Unlikely Spare

Before he can reply, a naval officer approaches, clipboard in hand.

“Five minutes until your speech, Your Royal Highness,” she says, either oblivious to or ignoring the tension between us.

“Thank you, Lieutenant.” Nicholas sends me one last loaded glance before following her toward the podium.

I take my position at the side of the stage as Nicholas walks up the steps.

Blake stands at the eastern perimeter, her body language relaxed but her eyes in constant motion. Singh is positioned on the raised platform near the sound booth, giving him clear sightlines over the heads of the seated dignitaries while Davis hovers near a group of media personnel.

Nicholas’s speech begins with the usual platitudes—appreciation for Australia’s military contributions, acknowledgment of the strategic importance of Darwin Harbor, a self-deprecating joke about royal naval traditions that draws appreciative laughter from the crowd.

He’s in full royal performance mode, his delivery flawless. He’s so good at what he does.

If only I didn’t suspect what playing this role costs him.

I scan the crowd methodically, dividing it into sectors, cataloging faces and body language. The assembled naval personnel stand at ease, respectful and attentive. Government officials cluster together, basking in being close to royalty. The civilian contingent seems appropriately awed.

Nothing flags as unusual until my eye catches on a man standing at the outer edge of the assembled group. He’s wearing a naval uniform that looks correct at first glance, but there’s something off about his posture. It’s too rigid, too aware. While everyone else watches Nicholas with varying degrees of interest, this guy’s attention keeps sliding sideways to security positions.

A cold feeling overtakes my stomach.

I speak into the mic inside my suit. “Subject of interest, northwest quadrant, naval officer with lieutenant stripes. Approximately forty meters from the stage.”

Blake’s reply is in my earpiece immediately. “Visual confirmation. Moving to intercept.”

I track her movement in my peripheral vision as she begins a casual circuit that will bring her closer to the suspect without alerting him. She’s good. Nothing in her body language suggests anything beyond mild interest in the ceremony.

A movement at the opposite side of the gathering catches my attention. A woman in civilian clothing breaks away from the main group. Her hand reaches into her bag with deliberate slowness, not the casual rummaging of someone looking for their phone.

My pulse accelerates. Two potential threats, opposite sides of the venue. Classic pincer movement.

“Possible secondary subject, northeast quadrant,” I murmur into my comms unit. “Civilian, green dress, reaching into bag.”

Nicholas is still speaking, unaware of the potential threats converging from opposite sides of his audience. He’s just launched into remarks about the enduring partnership betweenBritish and Australian naval forces, his voice carrying clearly across the parade ground.

“All units, be advised.” Cavendish’s voice is tight in my ear. “We may have multiple hostiles. Prepare for extraction on my mark.”

My weight shifts, muscles coiling in preparation. Every nerve ending sharpens, the world taking on that perfect clarity as I calculate the distance to Nicholas, plan the fastest route to get him to cover.

My eyes snap back to the first suspect just in time to see him pull something from beneath his jacket. It’s not a weapon, but something smaller. My brain processes the shape, the way he holds it.

Canister. Gas or smoke, designed to create chaos.

My heart jumps into my throat.

The man raises the canister overhead in a smooth motion. Whatever’s about to happen, it’s happening now.

My hand moves toward my weapon as I surge forward.

Too late.

He triggers the canister, and smoke billows out in a thick cloud.

Screams erupt from the crowd as people begin to scatter, herd instinct kicking in. Bodies collide, pushing, stumbling. The orderly assembly dissolves into chaos in seconds.

At the same moment, the woman in green pulls something cylindrical from her bag. The shape is unmistakable even at this distance.

It’s a flash-bang grenade.