Chris had never been one for big, noisy cities—especially not those teeming with snobs. Sadly, Boston perfectly fit that description. Despite his distain, he was present at this place for a business purpose, acting as the IRA representative in a weapons trade agreement.

Today, the deal pushed him onto the busy streets filled with unfamiliar tall buildings as he made his way to the warehouse. As he neared his destination, he was taken aback by a sudden commotion—a woman’s voice pleading, drowned out by crude laughter and jeers. Frowning, he quickened his pace while weaving through the crowd.

Ahead, he spotted a young woman cornered by a group of men. With no delay, Chris took a step forward, his voice tough and penetrating amidst the noise.

“Get your filthy hands off her, will ya?” he barked, shoving one man back as he placed himself between her and them. With a practiced flick, he swiftly unsheathed his gun, its metallic surface shimmering under the light. “Now, get outta here,” he commanded, his voice low and cold. He waved the men away, using the barrel of his gun, while keeping eye contact until they retreated and disappeared into the busy crowd.