Chapter 6
A violent tremor suddenly racked Alistair's frame.
Alistair jerked his hand back as if Ronan’s chest had scorched him. He gripped the edge of the mahogany table, his knuckles whitening, his face draining of what little color the morning had brought him. He pressed his left arm tightly against his side, his breath hissing through his clenched teeth in a sharp, agonized whistle.
"Alistair!" Ronan immediately dropped all pretense of flirtation, reaching down to steady him. "What is it? What hurts?"
"Nothing," Alistair gasped, squeezing his eyes shut against a wave of pain so intense his neck tendons stood out like taut wires. "A cramp... just... a sudden stitch in my side. Leave it."
"That's not a damn cramp! You're white as salt!"
"I said leave it!"
Alistair shoved Ronan’s hands away with sudden, panicked strength, rising abruptly from his chair. But the sudden movement was too much; his knees wobbled, and he had to brace both palms flat against the desk to keep from falling.
He stood there for several agonizing seconds, his head hanging low between his shoulders, his chest heaving as if he had just sprinted a mile uphill.
"I need air," Alistair choked out, not looking at Ronan. "The tea... was too bitter. Continue reviewing the blueprints with the captain of the watch. I will... return shortly."
Without waiting for Ronan’s response, Alistair turned and walked toward his private study, his steps stiff, jerky, his left hand pressed flat against his lower ribs as if holding in a fracture.
Ronan stood alone in the library, his hands hovering in midair, his heart pounding in his ears.
*A stitch in the side?*
Ronan stared down at his own left flank. There was nothing there. Just his leather holster and his sturdy cotton shirt.
He rubbed the back of his neck, frustration and confusion boiling inside him. *He’s hiding an illness. A degenerative disease, or internal bleeding from some old sickness he never told me about.*
The thought made Ronan’s stomach curdle with sickening dread. *If it's an illness, a bodyguard can't shoot it. Kevlar can't stop a failing heart.*
A sudden vibration in his pocket snapped him out of the spiral.
Ronan pulled out his tactical radio. The voice of his second-in-command, Miller, crackled through the speaker, low and hurried.
"Ronan. We've got movement on the eastern perimeter. Rail spur behind the old coal warehouse. Two scouts in black kit cutting through the perimeter fence with heavy hydraulic shears. They're setting up something along the tree line."
Ronan’s jaw set into iron. All the helpless romantic longing and terrifying medical dread condensed instantly into cold, lethal focus.
"Hold your position and don't engage," Ronan barked into the mic, checking the cylinder of his .357 revolver. "I'm coming down. Nobody touches this estate while I'm breathing."
***
The coastal fog hung thick and cold over the abandoned rail spur at the eastern edge of the Vance estate. Rusted freight cars sat half-swallowed by blackberry brambles and wild ivy, their iron sides weeping red streaks into the soggy ground.
Ronan moved through the wet brush like a panther, his senses dialed to absolute sharpness.
Ahead, through the curtain of gray mist, he heard the faint, metallic *snip-snap* of steel cables being manipulated. Two men in tactical rain gear were crouched near the boundary line, working frantically around an iron switchback post.
Ronan didn't wait for backup. He didn't call for a tactical surround.
With a low roar, he charged out of the brush, closing the thirty-yard gap in seconds.
"Hold!" one of the saboteurs yelled, spinning around and reaching for a submachine gun strapped to his chest.
Ronan didn't slow down. He lowered his shoulder, slamming straight into the first man with the force of a runaway locomotive. The impact shattered the man's collarbone with a sickening crack, sending him flying backward into the rusted rail ties where he collapsed, motionless.
The second man, however, didn't draw a gun.
He grinned—a vicious, yellow-toothed snarl—and pulled a heavy tension wire secured to the base of the switchback.
*Trap.*
A tripwire snapped. From the darkness of the trees, a concealed counterweight dropped, releasing a coiled spring of industrial high-tensile razor wire that had been strung between two freight cars like an invisible garrote.
The deadly steel coil whipped through the fog with a high, shrieking whistle, snapping horizontally across the path straight toward Ronan’s torso and outstretched arms.
Razor wire at that velocity didn't just cut; it flayed flesh to the bone, severed arteries like twine, and sliced through muscle tissue like warm butter. A normal man would have been disemboweled or had both forearms stripped to the radius.
Ronan saw the silver blur a split second before impact. There was no time to drop. He simply threw his thick forearms up in an instinctive defensive cross to shield his throat, bracing for the agony.
*SHNNNG.*
The razor-sharp barbs slammed across his forearms and tore straight through the thick canvas of his tactical jacket, whipping around his chest with violent, crushing force. The sound of shredding fabric was deafening in the misty quiet.
The impact felt like... a mild slap from a wet branch.
A dull, thudding vibration rippled through his forearms, accompanied by that familiar, prickling warmth beneath his skin—like stepping into a hot shower on a freezing morning.
Ronan blinked.
He seized the deadly steel coil with his bare, leather-gloved hands, wrenched the tension wire off the post with a roar of pure adrenaline, and snapped the cable in two against the rusted iron rail.
The remaining saboteur stared at him in utter, paralyzed horror. His eyes bulged as he looked at Ronan standing in the center of the shredded wire, completely upright, completely unharmed.
"What the fuck are you?" the saboteur whimpered, stumbling backward into the mud. "You... that wire slices through engine blocks..."
"I'm Lord Alistair's wall," Ronan growled, stepping forward through the tangle of steel.
He brought the butt of his heavy revolver down across the man's jaw, silencing him instantly.
Ronan stood over the two unconscious syndicate operatives, his chest heaving with triumphant, electric energy. He looked down at his arms.
His heavy tactical jacket was ruined—slashed into dozens of ribbons, the cotton lining spilling out in ragged tufts. The fabric over his chest was shredded in long, horizontal gashes that exposed his skin to the freezing wind.
Ronan pulled back the torn cloth and inspected his bare forearms and ribs.
Smooth. Golden-toned. Not a scratch.
There wasn't a single drop of blood. Not even a red welt where the razor barbs had struck him at terminal velocity.
Ronan threw his head back and laughed—a booming, arrogant, wild sound that echoed through the misty rail yard.
"Unbreakable," he muttered to himself, rolling his shoulders, feeling an intoxicating rush of invincibility flood his veins. "They could drop an artillery shell on me and I'd walk away with clean teeth."
He clicked his radio on, wiping mist from his brow. "Miller. Bring the van to the rail spur. Two packages packaged and ready for interrogation. Perimeter’s clean."
***
The interrogation of the two saboteurs lasted until past midnight in the estate's reinforced cellar.
They were low-level mercenaries hired through a shell company in the lower docks, but they confirmed what Ronan had already feared: the Gala was indeed the primary strike zone. The Morvath syndicate had smuggled high-caliber precision rifles into the upper balconies of the museum using the banquet service route. Their objective was simple and total—assassinate Lord Alistair Vance, eliminate his line of succession, and seize the northern shipping charters before sunrise.
