Page 31 of The Unlikely Spare (Unlikely Dilemmas #3)

Chapter Seventeen

Eoin

Morning finds me stationed at the western edge of the ceremonial grounds of the Royal Darwin Navy Base, sweat already pooling beneath my suit jacket as Prince Nicholas makes his way through a tour of Australia’s northern naval headquarters.

The heat sits heavy in the air, turning every breath into work.

But Nicholas looks irritatingly unaffected in his lightweight linen suit, that practiced smile never wavering.

Last night keeps playing in my head. The memory of him soft and sleep-rumpled, fingers tracing those dot paintings like they held secrets he desperately wanted to know and understand. The sound of his real laugh. How his pupils had blown wide. How our hands brushed.

“Quite the impressive display of military might, wouldn’t you say, Officer O’Connell?” Nicholas’s voice cuts through my thoughts as he approaches. My heart kicks up a notch. “All this security makes your job rather redundant, doesn’t it?”

“Security is never redundant, sir,” I reply. “Especially when the principal seems determined to find trouble.”

The naval commander beside Nicholas looks mildly alarmed, but Nicholas’s eyes narrow, something flashing in their depths. That otherworldly blue that photographs never quite capture.

“How fortunate that I have you to save me from myself then. Though I must say, your definition of ‘trouble’ seems rather broad. Last night, it included indigenous musical instruments. Today, what? Aggressive handshaking with admirals?” His smile turns sharper.

I hold his gaze, refusing to look away first. “I believe I have quite a good handle on what constitutes trouble.”

Nicholas’s eyes widen, his composure slipping.

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 between British 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.

“Move!” I roar, my weapon clearing its holster as I sprint toward Nicholas.

But he’s already in motion, abandoning his speech mid-sentence to leap down from the podium. For one brief moment, I think he’s following protocol, moving toward me or another member of his protection team.

He isn’t.

Instead, he heads toward a group of schoolchildren who had been positioned in the front row for a photo opportunity. They’re frozen in place, too young to process what’s happening, while adults scramble around them in panic. The smoke is spreading their way.

My chest constricts so tight I can’t breathe. Nicholas is putting himself between the children and danger, herding them toward the nearest building entrance.

Leaving himself completely exposed. An easy target.

“Get down!” I bellow as a loud bang echoes across the parade ground. It’s the flash-bang detonating.

The concussion hits like a physical blow, setting my ears ringing. White light sears across my vision. I push through it, relying on muscle memory and training.

Through the expanding smoke, I can make out Nicholas still shepherding children through the door, pushing them to safety while remaining exposed himself.

The eejit. The brave, reckless, fucking eejit.

“Multiple assailants converging!” I bark into my comm, never taking my eyes off Nicholas. “Northeast building entrance! Need immediate backup!”

The smoke is thicker now, reducing visibility to maybe ten meters. Another flash-bang detonates somewhere to my left, closer to Nicholas’s position. The overlapping waves of sound and pressure are disorienting, designed to confuse and incapacitate.

Nicholas has got the last child through the door and is about to follow when two figures emerge from the smoke.

Both in naval uniforms, they move with coordinated purpose, rushing the prince from different angles.

Nicholas reacts faster than I would have expected, dodging the first attacker with a sidestep.

But the second man is already there, grabbing Nicholas’s arm, attempting to drag him toward what I now see is a vehicle idling at the edge of the parade ground.

Engine running, doors open.

Fuck.

I don’t hesitate. The shot I fire goes high, deliberately over their heads. A warning, but enough to make the first attacker flinch and duck. Nicholas uses the distraction, driving his elbow into his captor’s solar plexus.

The man’s grip loosens and Nicholas tears free.

But there are more of them now, emerging from the smoke like ghosts. Three, maybe four additional figures, all converging on Nicholas’s position. He won’t make it back to the building entrance—they’ve cut off that route.

“Change direction!” I shout at him, already adjusting my own path to intercept. “Three o’clock! Move!”

Thank fuck, Nicholas listens to me. He immediately pivots and sprints toward a small maintenance building to his right.

I intercept the nearest attacker with a tackle that would have made my Gaelic football coach proud. We hit the concrete hard, the impact jarring through my bones.

The man is solid muscle beneath the fake uniform, but I have desperation and rage on my side. One precise strike to the temple, and he goes limp beneath me.

I roll to my feet immediately, assessing. Blake has the woman with the flash-bangs on the ground, knee in her back. Singh’s locked in hand-to-hand with another hostile near the podium.

The smoke is starting to thin, but the chaos continues—civilians still running, security forces responding, sirens wailing in the distance.

But all I care about is Nicholas.

He’s nearly at the maintenance building when the first attacker—the one he’d dodged—recovers enough to lunge after him. Twenty meters. Too far for me to physically intercept.

I fire again, this time aiming low. The 9mm round catches the man in the thigh, spinning him around with a scream. He goes down hard, clutching his leg. Non-fatal, but he won’t be chasing anyone.

Nicholas doesn’t even look back, just keeps sprinting for the building. Smart.

But my relief is short-lived.