Page 34 of Dalla’s Royal Guards (Second Chance #3)

Twenty-Three

“They’re no longer in Simdan. Hadi had a military helicopter take them to Narva three days ago,” CIA Field Agent Harris Totter said.

Debra Carr-Myers pursed her lips, the Bluetooth connection to her phone firmly in her ear as she stood beneath the pale blue glow of Simdan International’s west terminal. The departure board overhead ticked softly as it refreshed, blinking destinations and delays in rhythmic succession.

The air carried the scent of expensive perfume from the boutique across from her layered with warm cinnamon pastries from the nearby café. Polished marble reflected the quiet shuffle of designer shoes and rolling luggage.

Around her, weary travelers drifted in tidy clusters—families herding sleepy children, solo passengers gripping boarding passes, a couple laughing quietly near the duty-free shop. No one paid attention to her.

Three days of bureaucracy, diplomatic hoops, and rerouted flights—just to find they were already gone.

“Do we have anyone on the ground in Narva?” she asked, eyes scanning the board hopefully for a direct flight.

“I wish,” Harris said, his voice scratchy in her ear. “The place is gorgeous—coastal cliffs, ancient spires, olive groves, you name it—but nothing ever really goes down there that flags division interest.”

Debra spotted a few Narvan tourists passing by—sun-kissed, well-dressed, and laughing. If they knew who was hiding in their quiet kingdom, they gave no sign.

“What do you know about the incident that happened in Simdan?” she asked, her voice tight.

Harris’s slow exhale blew noisily through her earpiece.

“Looks like there was a car chase. Ended badly for some mercs. Not sure if they were after Hadi or the Al-Rashid brothers. Could’ve been a snatch-for-ransom, could’ve been fallout from Kashir.

Sources say Crosse and Hellman aren’t thrilled about the brothers’ rescue of their niece and nanny. It’s caused some backlash.”

Debra’s gaze snapped back to the board.

Narva… There. A flight tucked into the bottom corner. Late, but available.

“And what about the woman?” she asked as she quickly booked the flight with a few taps in an app on her phone. “Dalla Bogadottir.”

Harris hesitated. “Yeah... that’s where it gets weird.”

Debra’s hand tightened around her phone. “How weird?”

“Nothing on CCTV. Every camera file’s been scrubbed. Thoroughly. “Like someone didn’t just wipe them—they salted the digital earth behind them. No footage exists. But the eyewitness accounts?” Harris’s voice dropped. “That’s where it goes off the rails.”

“I’m listening,” Debra said quietly.

“Gunfight. At least six mercs, maybe more, surrounded Nasser Al-Rashid, their driver, the girl, and her nanny. SUV was flipped. About to blow. Then—out of nowhere—Bogadottir appears on top of the vehicle with a bow. She just appeared . With an actual medieval longbow. She takes out the attackers one by one while bullets are flying all around her.”

Debra’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “She wasn’t hit?”

“Not even grazed. And there were bullets in the stone wall behind her, clustered, like a dozen men with guns were aiming for the lady standing on top of that car—and they should have hit. Instead, it’s like they passed right through her.

It’s like physics just gave up trying. And that’s not even the wildest part of the story. ”

“There’s more?” she asked, voice dropping.

“No,” Harris admitted. “Several bystanders—civilians, not drunk or anything—they swear that when she appeared out of thin air… they saw wings.”

Debra blinked slowly. “Wings?”

“Yeah. Big, glowing ones. Like—angelic or mythical or something. I know how it sounds. But they weren’t the kind of people who said that kind of thing lightly.”

Her mind raced. “Anything else?”

“Kramer O’Toole and a guy named Harlem Jones are circling this hard.

O’Toole called in a freelancer—Stella. Real nasty piece of work, even in black-ops circles.

As for Jones... I don’t know his angle yet.

Hell, I still can’t believe it is him. It doesn’t make sense if it is.

Anyway, he met with Bogadottir just before the convoy left for the airport. ”

“She met with him?” Debra asked, watching another flight board flicker to Narva. Departure in one hour.

“Oh, yeah. I was assigned to tail O’Toole’s IT kid, Kyle Worthington.

He’s an arrogant little punk with sticky fingers and zero tradecraft.

I’ll admit, seeing him with Stella shocked me.

Pretty ballsy move for a twerp like him.

As I was scanning the room, I noticed Jones.

He isn’t the type of guy you ignore. I could tell he was waiting for someone.

A few minutes later, in walks the lady who’s plastered all over Kashir in statues and murals and tourist merchandise.

Bogadottir walks in and sits across from Jones like she knows him.

Not long after she came in, the brothers showed up.

I thought for sure they were going to draw weapons. ”

“How do you know it was Jones?”

“It’s weird. I don’t really know him, but I did meet him once, about twenty years ago, not long after I first started with the division.

Like I said, he isn’t the kind of guy you forget.

He was meeting Reynolds—the director before Wilkes.

When I saw him again, I thought I was losing my mind.

It took some digging in the archives, but I matched a face with a name—at least, I think it’s him. But the guy hasn’t aged a day.”

“What happened after the meeting?”

“By the time I saw them again, they were with Hadi, en route to the airfield. I stayed with the twerp—he was my assignment,” Harris said.

Debra was quiet. “Keep digging. Quietly. I want to know where Jones is now. Who he is. What he wants.”

“Yeah, me too. What about Stella?”

She eyed the shadowed reflection in the concourse window. “I’ll take care of Stella,” she replied, her voice like steel. “You focus on Jones.”

“Copy that.”

Debra ended the call and let her hand fall to her side. She stared at the board once more, then down at the digital boarding pass glowing on her screen.

Narva. Gate 6B. Now boarding.

A grim smile curved her lips.

If she was lucky, she would be on Narvan soil before sundown.

And if the whispers were true...

Then the Warrior of the Sands wasn’t a ghost. She wasn’t a myth.

Which meant she was chasing a real person—with a unique, questionable past.

Sunlight from the open balcony doors kissed Dalla’s skin.

She lay nestled, eyes closed, in a protective cocoon of steady heartbeats, lazy breaths, and the subtle hush of Narva’s sea breeze.

For the first time in what felt like forever, she wasn’t waking in a bed of sand, fear, or in a hazy world that she couldn’t remember.

She was waking in safety.

She stretched slightly, toes curling beneath the covers, only to suck in a surprised breath when two sets of hands stirred against her skin.

One trailed upward, fingers gentle and reverent.

The other slid low, slow, purposeful.

A soft laugh slipped from her lips. She blinked open her eyes to see Nasser grinning down at her. He was propped up on one elbow, his golden-brown eyes alight with mischief.

“Good morning. I think she is happy to see us,” he murmured, his voice still husky with sleep and desire.

“You two have been saying that every morning for the past three mornings… and every afternoon and evening, too,” she teased.

It had all been wonderful. Dalla could tell with every touch and sound that this wasn’t just about desire. This… this was love. Deep, aching, all-consuming love.

Musad’s low chuckle rumbled against her back when his arm banded around her waist, turning her so that she was pressed up against his aroused cock.

“I think we should add brunch and a few other times of the day.”

Dalla laughed, reaching for Nasser even as she pressed back against Musad.

The double attack on her senses sent flames through her.

Their hands continued their gentle exploration, Nasser’s palms warm as they molded to her breasts, his thumbs grazing across the peaks that were already sensitive from the last three days; Musad’s fingers finding their way between her thighs, teasing and coaxing until her breath caught and her laugh melted into a low, hungry moan.

She shifted instinctively, caught between them, her body alive and pulsing with want as she maneuvered herself and Musad to their knees in a spooning position while Nasser was moved up in front of her, his cock aligned with her mouth.

The covers were pulled down, revealing the tangle of limbs and warm skin in the early light.

Dalla looked into Nasser’s delighted eyes with a daring expression. “You’re at my mercy,” she boasted.

“And you are at mine,” Musad growled in her ear. He wrapped his hand around her long braid, exposing her throat.

She couldn’t help releasing another moan and pressing back into him. He groaned, slowly lowering her head down Nasser’s shaft and back up as he stroked her clit. She felt Musad all around her and thrilled at Nasser’s moans.

“You two are insatiable,” she said with mock exasperation when Musad brought her fully back up.

“Guilty,” Nasser murmured, running his hand along her jaw and throat. “But you make it impossible not to be.”

“You are, too,” Musad goaded as he pushed through her moist curls with one finger, and then two, matching the slow rhythm of her mouth on Nasser.

Dalla’s eyes locked with Nasser’s in open adoration, her fingers curling around his shaft as she poured everything she was feeling into the slow, sensual strokes of her tongue and lips—her love, her fear, her need to hold onto this moment.

Her body trembled between them, Musad’s deep strokes almost touching her womb and her desperate moans of need wrapping around Nasser’s silky flesh.

“Dalla, are you ready for this?” Nasser asked, his voice low and filled with need.