Page 27 of Dalla’s Royal Guards (Second Chance #3)

Eighteen

Harlem traced the rim of his glass with one finger, watching the families gathered around low tables in the café.

Laughter, clinking cups, and the frantic aroma of delicious meals filled the air.

The cool glass beneath his touch lacked condensation—no surprise.

There wasn’t enough humidity in the arid city of Dima for that.

He let his gaze wander beyond the polished windows, past the mosaic-tiled fountain, to the construction cranes dotting the skyline. The streets bustled below, alive with energy, youth, and the promise of something better.

The country was healing.

Raja had done that.

Harlem’s lips tugged in quiet pride as he studied the excited faces around him. A split-second decision twenty years ago to find a scruffy orphan had made a difference to millions of people.

Twenty Years Ago – Flashback

Gunfire cracked behind him as Harlem gunned the motorcycle around a sand-blasted curve, his body leaning low. The back wheel skidded as they tore through a market street scattered with crates and flapping canopies. Ludwick Mercer was a damn ghost, but today—today Harlem was the shadow on his heels.

The assassin’s bike swerved, clipped an empty water cart, and spun out in a cascade of metal and dust along the street. Ludwick rolled several times before coming up on his feet.

Harlem swerved, killing the engine as he slid sideways behind an abandoned World War II army truck that was still in use and came to a stop inches from the open back as Ludwick opened fire. He kicked down the stand and leaped from the saddle, sprinting after his target.

This part of Simdan was still in chaos—fractured from a civil war that had started six months before with the assassination of the ruling family. Ludwick was counting on the chaos to shield him. The assassin had underestimated Harlem’s desire for revenge.

Harlem followed Ludwick through a maze of crumbling alleyways. The heat pressed down like a fist. Fortunately, between the heat of the day and the war, the streets were deserted.

Breathing heavily, he slowed as he entered a shadowed stretch. Sweat beaded on his brow and soaked through his shirt.

There.

Ludwick stood at the far end, a filthy boy clutched to his chest, a gun pressed to the child’s temple. The kid was rail-thin, hair matted, clothes torn, but what stopped Harlem cold was the boy’s eyes. They were calm, defiant, and far too knowing for a child that young.

Harlem didn’t bother shouting. It would be a waste of his time and breath. Ludwick didn’t care about the boy. No amount of pleading would save the boy’s life.

He advanced slowly. “Why the scholar, Ludwick?” His voice was like smoke, cool and deadly.

“Money’s money,” Ludwick sneered. “It was a straightforward job.”

Harlem took another step. “True, but that’s not your kind of target. A history professor from a little-known university? Even you have standards.”

The gun didn’t waver as Ludwick chuckled in response. “No, he wasn’t my usual standard, but you are. Granger was the bait. Simple collateral damage, just like this kid will be. The real target… is you.”

Harlem sensed the danger behind him. He was torn because he knew there was little chance of the boy surviving unharmed. If he didn’t kill the man behind him, they would both die. If he did, the boy would die before he could kill Ludwick.

The boy’s chin lifted before his gaze lowered meaningfully. Harlem followed the movement. The kid had a shard of metal gripped tightly in one trembling fist.

With a barely perceptible nod, he let out a breath and spun, firing over his shoulder.

A man crumpled behind him. Harlem twisted again when a man’s scream cut through the alley at the same time the echo of more gunfire rang out.

He straightened when he saw Ludwick screaming on the ground, a piece of metal jutting from his thigh.

The boy held Ludwick’s fallen gun, arms shaking but steady.

Blood poured onto the alley floor. He’d struck Ludwick’s femoral artery. The assassin had minutes to live.

He turned his attention to the boy. The kid didn’t run. A myriad of expressions crossed the boy’s face, most unreadable. Harlem inched closer.

“You’re safe now.”

The boy’s eyes flicked between him and Ludwick, wild and uncertain. The gun shifted toward Harlem, then back.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Harlem said quietly.

The boy shook his head, backing toward the shadows. And then he was gone. Harlem turned, his gaze following the boy as he disappeared around the corner before he turned back to Ludwick. He squatted next to the assassin.

“Who sent you?” he asked.

Ludwick released a hoarse laugh. His head rubbed against the dirty concrete as he shook it back and forth. Harlem tapped his pistol against his leg.

“Can you believe this? Killed by a fucking kid with a piece of metal,” Ludwick muttered in a strained, pain-filled voice.

“Who sent you?” Harlem repeated.

Ludwick’s tongue came out, and he licked his dry lips. His eyes were growing cloudy as his heart pumped the blood out onto the ground. He shook his head again.

“Is-is it… true?” Ludwick whispered.

“Is what true?”

Ludwick’s mouth opened and closed and his throat worked up and down as he tried to force the words out. Harlem kept his eyes focused on Ludwick’s face. His pallor was beginning to turn blue.

“You-you… can’t… di?—?”

Harlem bowed his head, cursed, and rose to his feet. He looked over at the other dead man. Walking over to him, he used his foot to roll the man over.

Arnold. Another mercenary for hire.

He looked towards the end of the alley where the kid had disappeared. He needed to find him. The boy had been smart, calm, and resourceful in the heat of a deadly confrontation.

Most likely that meant he was someone of significance somehow, young though he was. An agent of change.

Harlem tucked his pistol behind him and walked toward the end of the alley, glancing back and forth before he returned to his bike.

Three days later, Harlem stood outside an abandoned building. That’s how long it took him to find the kid. He cautiously entered the structure, climbing the stairs to the third floor.

There were six apartments on the top floor. Five were missing doors. He entered the sixth one. He paused when he saw broken shards of glass sprinkled in front of the door. The ghostly shells of broken lightbulbs lay against the wall.

The simple security feature was impressive for a young boy. He sidestepped around it, avoiding a carefully placed old newspaper that covered a hole in the floor. Another trap for an uninvited guest.

He scanned the room. It was devoid of furniture.

The paint was peeling off the walls, and parts of the ceiling had either collapsed or were barely hanging.

Faint spots where photos had hung stood out along the wall.

He could see the lime green linoleum in the kitchen was filthy and rolling up where the glue had come undone.

He walked into the kitchen. There was no water, no food, no power. The place felt deserted, but he knew it wasn’t. He could sense that the boy was there.

He exited the kitchen, walked down a narrow hallway, checking each room as he went. In the last one, he found the boy, sitting on the floor, the pistol in his hand, staring out of the window on a makeshift pallet of old blankets.

“I was expecting you sooner,” the boy said, not looking at him.

Harlem walked over to the window and stared down at the street. The boy would have seen him entering the building. It was a good spot.

“You weren’t easy to find,” he replied.

The boy shrugged and looked down at the pistol in his hands.

“Are you going to kill me?” the boy asked in a quiet voice.

Harlem folded his hands behind his back. “Right now I don’t see a reason to.”

The boy looked out the window again. “But you will, if you think you have to. I saw it—in your eyes.”

Harlem slowly nodded. “Can you think of a reason I would have to?”

“No,” the boy said defiantly, his eyes holding secrets and anger and pain.

Harlem tilted his head. Sometimes he hated who he was, what he had become, but other times… other times he was glad.

“Come on, boy. Let’s go.”

The boy looked up at him with a frown. “Where? I—I don’t have anywhere else to go.”

Harlem reached out a hand. “You do now. What should I call you?”

The boy stared at him, then his hand, before he looked at him again and lifted his chin.

“Raja Hadi.”

Harlem rarely felt surprise. This was one of those rare moments. He smiled down at the boy and motioned for him to take his hand.

“Well, Prince Raja of Simdan. One day your people are going to need you. Until then, I think it would be best for you to come with me.”

Raja reached up and grasped his hand. Harlem frowned when he noticed again how thin the boy was. He doubted Raja would have made it more than a few more days before he died of starvation.

“What are you going to do with me?” Raja asked.

He smiled and rested his hand on Raja’s thin shoulders. “I’m going to teach you how to take back your country. When it’s time, you will be ready.”

Present Day

Harlem blinked as a child’s giggle broke the memory. He lifted his glass of water and took a drink. The café was warm, alive. Safe.

Because of Raja.

He allowed himself one last sweep of the room before his gaze locked on a young woman walking toward him.

She walked through the mezzanine entrance with the grace and confidence of a warrior.

Her braid swung low against her back, her posture straight, but her eyes—her eyes carried the weight of memories.

Dalla Bogadottir.

He stood as she reached his table.

“Dalla,” he said, his voice a balm of old familiarity. “It’s good to see you again.”

She paused, studying him for several seconds before she swallowed, nodded her head in greeting, and lowered herself into the seat.

A passing server paused and asked her what she would like to drink.

Dalla smiled, never looking away from his face as she requested a glass of ice water.

Harlem waited in silence until the glass was placed in front of her.

“I see you found the chest,” he murmured.

She gave a faint smile. “And the coins. The note. Thank you for both… and for meeting with me.”

“I placed them there recently. I was in Simdan a few months ago for—business. The timing of your return… was fortunate.”

“You told me before that you had met others?” she asked, voice small.

He paused again, studying her face as she bit her lip. “Yes. On rare occasions. None recently, but that doesn’t mean they’re not out there.”

She nodded, though her gaze was wary. She didn’t fully believe him.

He didn’t blame her.

His eyes flicked to the café entrance. His lips twitched. He had been wondering how long it would take the Princes of Narva to make an appearance.

His gaze swept over the two men. They were tall—and very tense. They reminded him of coiled sand vipers waiting to strike.

He watched them move, one shadowing Dalla’s path, the other watching every corner of the room like a soldier on patrol. Protective. Possessive.

His lips twitched again when they met his gaze. A lesser man would have flinched at the heated warning in them. He offered a slow, respectful smile and nudged the empty chair beside him. Musad took the chair next to him—grudgingly—while Nasser took the other, sliding in beside Dalla.

Her muttered curse made him laugh.

“Don’t be mad at them,” he said. “I would have been disappointed if they had let you meet me alone. Though they should know by now that you are more than capable of slitting my throat with the seax at your waist—or killing me swiftly with the lovely brooch at your breast.”

Dalla choked on her water.

Musad’s eyes narrowed.

Nasser tensed, leaning forward.

Harlem lifted a hand, palm out. “I mean no disrespect. I’m simply remembering Dalla’s skills as a warrior. I didn’t come here for a fight.”

His gaze cut to the woman near the far wall who was watching too closely. The young man beside her was frowning at his screen, but his energy was wrong. They didn’t feel like tourists.

“There’s trouble coming,” Harlem said, his tone shifting. “And it’s not just mine anymore.”

“What do you mean?” Musad demanded, his voice low as he swept the interior of the café.

Nasser cursed, shifting slightly in his seat.

“I came to warn you,” Harlem continued, his voice low. “You’ve attracted curiosity. “Kramer O’Toole. Detri Malinski. O’Toole’s IT tech, Kyle Worthington, Possibly a few more. They’re closer than you think. And they’re very interested in Dalla.”

“How?” she hissed, looking at him with dismay.

“The Information Age is formidable.” Harlem shook his head. “It might be better to take this conversation to a more private location,” he suggested, rising from his seat.