Page 32 of Dalla’s Royal Guards (Second Chance #3)

Twenty-One

Dalla listened in silence as Raja ended his call with Hussain, his voice calm despite the chaos they had just escaped.

She didn’t feel calm. Nowhere near it.

Nasser’s fingers tightened gently around hers. She looked down, realizing her hand was trembling. When she glanced up, he was watching her—brows furrowed, concern dark in his eyes.

“Are you okay?” he murmured, voice pitched low enough for only her.

She hesitated, then gave a quick nod. “I’m fine.”

It was a lie. But it was the only response she could manage.

“We’re almost there,” Raja said from the front seat, his voice as steady as his posture.

Dalla turned to the window. The soft glow of the road lights slipped across the glass, casting her reflection back at her—eyes hollow, lips pressed tight, jaw locked. A ghost with her face stared back at her.

She bit down on her lower lip again, harder this time, trying to stop the scream rising in her throat.

Just pull over. Let me out. I’ll run. I’ll vanish again—before I lose them. Before they die again. This time, because of me.

“What is it?” Nasser asked again, gentler this time.

Her trembling was spreading, and a chill sank deep into her bones. Tears burned her eyes, and she fought for control.

They are safe. They are safe , she repeated to herself reassuringly. They are safe.

She forced a breath into her lungs and looked at him. “It’s nothing,” she said.

Another lie. But her voice didn’t shake. She tugged her hand free and pulled the jacket she was wearing close, trying to keep the cold from sinking any deeper.

“Speak to me, Dalla,” Nasser begged, reaching out to caress her cheek.

She couldn’t reply. Not because she didn’t want to—but because she couldn’t. Her throat locked up to keep her cry of anger and fear concealed. Her vision shimmered, not from tears but from the memory, from the fiery bloom of the explosion that still echoed in the backs of her eyelids.

She could still hear it—the sharp whistle of the bullet as it sliced past the Land Cruiser, close enough to feel its hunger. She had felt the air shift, the heat from the explosion roaring up behind them.

If Raja hadn’t shouted.

If Musad hadn’t swerved…

It would’ve been them.

Panic clenched her ribcage like a vise. Her lungs refused to expand. A tremor ran through her fingers, invisible but undeniable.

She closed her eyes, fighting the panic threatening to engulf her. The soft click of Nasser’s seatbelt caused her to look around.

She turned just as he slipped free, his arms going around her in one fluid, protective motion. She folded into him, into the warmth of his chest, the strength of his presence, the grounding scent of him—earth, steel, and something uniquely Nasser.

His lips brushed her temple.

“It’s going to be alright,” he murmured, his voice low and steady.

“How do you know?” she whispered, her fingers fisting the front of his shirt.

“Because,” he said, resting his cheek against her hair, “we’ve got too much to live for to die now.”

A soft sob caught in her throat—relief, pain, and love all tangled into a knot too big to name. She closed her eyes and pressed closer to him, soaking in the safety he offered, knowing it wouldn’t last.

Safety had always been a temporary thing in her world. Love, even more so. Even having something—or someone—to live for didn’t guarantee they would survive. Her parents, her sisters, and brother were a perfect example of that.

She pulled back, brushing away strands of hair that had come loose. The vehicle slowed at a guarded gate. The headlights swept across concrete barricades and barbed wire fences. A security officer gave a nod of recognition as Raja flashed his credentials. The gate opened.

The executive terminal unfolded ahead of them, quiet and sharply lit under floodlights. A military helicopter, matte black and battle-worn, sat like a sleeping dragon waiting to lift them beyond danger.

Musad followed Raja’s quiet directions, maneuvering them to a stop a short distance from the helipad, and then he was out of the vehicle, opening her door before she could even reach for the handle.

He didn’t speak.

He didn’t need to.

The moment she stepped out, he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her flush against him. His breath was rough against her hair, his heartbeat thundering against her cheek.

She wrapped her arms around his waist and held him, listening to his heartbeat. The terror hadn’t passed. The adrenaline from their brush with death lingered like smoke.

Behind them, Nasser opened the hatch and retrieved their gear. Her longbow gleamed under the harsh lights, its polished curve still bearing faint scuffs from battles long past. The quiver followed, its dark fletching soft against his shoulder.

Raja released a low whistle when he saw the weapon. Her lips quirked in a strained, amused smile.

“I don’t believe I’ve seen a bow like that outside a museum,” he murmured, gaze flicking to her once again, curiosity sharpening.

“No doubt,” Nasser replied before he gave Raja a respectful nod. “Thank you—for everything. I’m sorry for the chaos we’ve brought.”

Raja snorted. “Please. This is nothing. Compared to Katie’s labor, today’s been… relatively peaceful.”

Dalla smiled faintly at the dry humor.

Musad spoke up, his arm still wrapped around her waist. “I need to speak with the pilot.”

Nasser nodded, adjusting the longbow in his hand. “I’ll store our gear.”

Dalla watched as Musad and Nasser walked side-by-side toward the helicopter. She released a deep sigh and wrapped her arms around her waist. Raja stood beside her, the silence between them stretching for a beat before he broke it.

“Are you alright?”

She nodded, shooting him a strained smile. “Yes. I’m fine. Thank you for your assistance tonight.”

He looked at her then—not as a king, not as a soldier—but as a man watching something rare, something he couldn’t quite explain.

“You love them, don’t you?” he asked.

Her eyes softened, shimmering not with fear this time, but with something far deeper.

“Yes, I do,” she answered simply.

She lifted her chin and stared over at the helicopter, then back at him. “A friend once told me that I would know when I found my true love… that they would accept me as I was. That they would be my partner, and they would know my soul without me saying a word. Musad and Nasser do that.”

She released a low, shaky laugh. Raja’s head tilted slightly, listening. She lifted her hand and brushed it against her cheek.

“He also told me I’d bring danger to them… and that I’d be scared. That I’d fight it. He was right. I am terrified of losing them. And I hate how powerless I feel to stop it.”

Silence fell between them again. But this time, it felt… strained. Dalla shook her head and looked down. She didn’t know why she had shared the memory of that conversation so long ago with Raja.

“Dalla, we’re ready!”

The sound of Nasser’s voice—his warm baritone—wrapped around her, causing her to look up and turn. She started forward, but stopped when Raja gently grasped her arm with a firm hand. His strangely still expression startled her.

“Who was your friend?” he asked, his voice almost too quiet to hear.

She gave him a sad, haunted smile. “I knew him as Hakeem once… a very long time ago. But now… he calls himself Harlem.”

Raja’s fingers slipped away from her arm. She walked towards Musad as he strode up to her, his face a mirror of quiet concern. She grasped his hand when he held it out, smiling in reassurance at his questioning expression.

Behind her, she could feel Raja’s gaze burning into her back—frozen, stunned… and something darker.

She glanced back as she settled into a seat. Raja hadn’t moved. He stood there, as if rooted in place, his eyes fixed on her with something raw—something dangerously close to fear.

Kramer O’Toole lowered the phone, his hand tightening just slightly before he forced it open, letting the device drop onto the polished surface of his desk. The screen flashed a final status report from Detri’s unit: Mission failed. Target escaped. Casualties sustained. No capture.

He didn’t blink.

Didn’t curse.

Didn’t rage.

He simply stared at the glowing text, the silence in his office stretching long and thin like a wire ready to snap. He reached for his drink—whiskey, three fingers, the only constant he trusted anymore—and brought it to his lips.

He sipped the drink, his mind swirling with what could have happened. How could Al-Rashid defeat the skills of his team? Did the woman have some supernatural talent that played a part in it, or were they just lucky?

He stiffened when his phone vibrated again. A low curse slipped from him when he noticed the number. He had been resistant when Detri had said he called in a friend. His lips pressed into a tight line as he picked it up and answered.

“Stella.”

“Detri should have stayed out of my way,” she hissed. “Now he’s dead.”

He didn’t respond immediately.

Stella wasn’t one for dramatics. If she said Detri was dead, then he was ashes in a twisted hunk of metal somewhere on the outskirts of Simdan.

“Keep your teams out of my way in the future,” she continued, her voice sharp as a garrote. “Next time, I won’t just miss your target, I’ll send a bullet through every person in my path.”

Kramer let the silence stretch again. Then, coolly: “Can you still finish it?”

Stella snorted. “Oh, I’ll finish it. Be ready. But I’m not making promises about what shape the woman you want will be in when I deliver her. You said alive. She’ll be alive.”

He sank into the plush leather office chair and leaned back, his eyes narrowing.

“Just make sure she’s breathing and she can talk.”

The click was her only reply. Stella had hung up without a goodbye.

He fingered the cell phone and stared at the darkened screen before setting the phone down more carefully this time. For the first time in years, he felt a chill run through his body.

He pressed the intercom. “Doris.”

A moment later, the door to his private office opened with a soft click. Doris, ever efficient in her sleek gray suit and tidy bun, stepped inside.

“Yes, Mr. O’Toole?”

“Prepare for departure to Dubai. Immediately. I want the jet fueled and diplomatic clearances cleared as soon as possible.”

“Yes, sir.”

As Doris turned to leave, he lifted his phone again and punched in the number to Hannibal Crosse’s private line.

The connection was swift.

“Kramer,” Crosse snapped before he could even speak. “What the hell is going on? I gave you one directive: bring me the kid. Now I’ve got rumors spreading across the country about a warrior rising from the desert, and my troops are barely holding ground.”

Kramer leaned forward, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“I’m aware of the situation, Hannibal. I have it under control.”

“No, you don’t. Because if you did, you’d know that Hellman’s men have already lost two provinces and are down to half strength in three others.

People are flooding into the resistance ranks.

They think the real Dalla Bogadottir has risen from the dead and come back to save the King of Kashir!

I’ve got villagers screaming about ancient prophecy and retribution from the gods! ”

“She is real,” Kramer said softly, staring out the tall windows behind his desk. “And she’s more dangerous than we thought.”

There was a long pause.

Crosse’s voice dropped. “You’re telling me she’s not just some actress Mario or the Al-Rashid brothers found to play warrior?”

Kramer turned back from the window, his face hard. “She’s not acting.”

“Then kill her.”

“No,” Kramer said flatly. “We can’t. Not yet.”

Crosse’s temper flared again. “Why the hell not?”

“Because killing her now would make her a martyr. We need her broken. Discredited. If we can’t convince the people that she’s a false prophet, we need her to say it herself. On camera. Publicly.”

“And if she doesn’t?”

Kramer’s smile was thin. “Then we make it look like she did.”

Silence hummed on the line. Then Crosse growled, “You’d better have this under control, O’Toole. If we lose Kashir, we lose everything.”

Kramer leaned back in his chair again, the leather creaking beneath him. “Don’t worry. I’m not just going to deliver you the Warrior of the Sands, I’m going to bring down the entire royal lines of both Narva and Kashir, once and for all.”

He ended the call before Crosse could respond.

Closing his eyes, he remembered the brief glimpse he’d caught of the woman materializing.

The illusion of wings flaring behind her.

A glow surrounded her. The way the bullets had curved around her.

He swallowed at the memory of being able to see through her.

As he opened his eyes, he began to realize something else.

This might be one of the few times when he might not win.

His gaze flicked to the corner of his desk. A new folder, delivered less than an hour ago, lay open. Inside was an additional problem.

CIA Deputy Director: Debra Carr-Myers.

The CIA deputy director was asking questions. She was digging too deep for comfort. His contact was supposed to have taken care of anything pertaining to Kashir. He had contacted Adam shortly after Detri shared what had happened in Kashir.

Kramer knew that the CIA would be monitoring the situation. The American government agency was concerned about who controlled the distribution of Vasbin. They would know every move that was going down. He would bet his finest bottles of whiskey that they knew about the woman.

“Dalla Bogadottir,” he murmured, reaching for his whiskey again. “Who are you? What are you?”

He wanted—needed—to know. Because for the first time in his life, he had a thought that unsettled him to the core:

What if this time, he wasn’t the hunter?

What if he was the one being hunted?