Page 37 of Dalla’s Royal Guards (Second Chance #3)

She followed them as they moved along the crumbling parapet that overlooked the cliffs and sea beyond, nearly out of sight from the main path. Perfect.

She made her way forward, angling for a better view. Her large tote bounced gently against her hip, weighted slightly by the familiar bulk of her concealed firearm. Just as she reached the next ledge, she caught a flicker of movement out of her peripheral vision.

Someone moved in the shadows.

She froze, turning ever so slightly to zoom in with the camera on her phone.

The figure shifted again, partially hidden beneath the rustling branches of a leaning olive tree at the far edge of the ruins, but enough for her to recognize who it was.

Detri Malinski. Her stomach turned to stone.

The brutal mercenary’s face was half-shadowed beneath the low hang of branches, but she recognized him from the numerous photos she had of him back in her hotel room. As she zoomed in, she noticed a raw, red sheen along his cheek and jaw.

The crash in Simdan. He must have been in the vehicle that exploded.

Her mind raced as she tried to understand why Malinski would risk coming to Narva. Was he hoping to kidnap a royal brother?

That doesn’t make sense. Hellman or Crosse would have gone after the sister, the kid, or even Mario. Not the heirs of Narva.

She knew that O’Toole had a vested interest in Kashir because of the Vasbin, but what benefit would he get from attacking the Al-Rashids on their home turf?

Her gaze moved from Detri to the threesome slowly descending the stone steps.

Her eyes moved from the men to the woman before they narrowed.

Her gut was telling her this was personal.

She could understand if it had been Gunther Krauss.

From the report she read, the woman had shot an arrow through his brother’s chest.

No, something else was going on, and she bet it had something to do with the woman.

Debra released a low curse when she noticed a second shadow. She really hoped the Al-Rashid brothers had their security team close by.

“Yoo-hoo! Dee, darling!” she called, waving as she hurried toward them with a bright, amiable smile. “Fancy meeting you here!”

Musad turned, instantly alert. He shifted in front of Dalla without a word, his hand resting on the grip of the gun concealed beneath his jacket.

Nasser tugged Dalla gently back against him, his posture tightening like a spring.

Debra noted they were still partially concealed by the crumbling upper wall of the parapet.

Debra reached them, her steps slowing as if to catch her breath. “Don’t panic,” she said in a low voice, lifting her hand palm up, “but you’re being hunted. Detri Malinski is here, and he isn’t alone. I suspect you know who I’m talking about. Please tell me you have a security team following you.”

Musad’s jaw flexed. “Who the hell are you?”

“Debra Carr-Myers, CIA. We don’t have time for introductions.”

She stepped forward just as the sharp crack of a bullet split the air.

The bullet tore through the sleeve of her blouse, cutting a fine line and spinning her sideways into Musad’s arms.

“Sniper!” Nasser hissed.

Behind them, a series of gunshots, followed by screams from late afternoon visitors, filled the air. Debra caught sight of security taking fire.

She fought a groan of pain as Musad grabbed her injured arm to yank her down against the wall. Behind her, Nasser had done the same with Dalla as a shower of dust and stone exploded between them.

“Keep your head down!” he growled, shielding her with his body.

Debra gritted her teeth, the pain lancing down her arm reminded her of why she’d given up fieldwork for the comfort of a desk job.

Looking over Musad’s shoulder, she paled.

Two men holding assault rifles were coming down from the parapet.

She reached inside her tote bag, but froze when a pair of boots appeared in her line of sight.

Raising her chin, she stared into the cold eyes of Detri Malinski.

Behind him was Gunther Krauss. She shrank back against Musad as they strode forward.

“Don’t be stupid. I won’t hesitate to shoot you all, and we know that only one of you can survive that. Everyone up,” Detri sneered, motioning with the tip of his assault rifle. “Now.”

Debra stumbled and stiffly rose with the help of Musad, grabbing her tote bag with her good hand and slinging it over her shoulder.

“Move!” Detri snarled, motioning toward the lower level of the ruins.

They were herded down a winding staircase through the oldest part of the fortress. In the distance, the sounds of gunfire, shouts, and sirens faded as they entered a closed section of the fort.

Dust clung to every surface. Stone stairs led them deeper into the belly of the ruins. Finally, they emerged at the entrance to a wide, eroded cavern—half natural, half carved by forgotten hands. Salt-stained walls glistened faintly. Seawater lapped softly in the distance.

A rusted iron gate hung open, the chain cleanly severed.

The passage to the sea.

Dalla’s breath hitched. “The smuggler’s tunnel,” she whispered.

The cavern yawned around them, revealing the ancient bones of a shipwreck partially embedded in the sand, its skeleton exposed.

A battered Zodiac inflatable rested nearby, its anchor driven into the damp earth.

The tidemarks crawled high up the cavern walls—evidence that this place didn’t stay dry for long.

“Charming place,” Debra muttered, wincing as Musad helped her off the last step.

She pursed her lips when Detri suddenly swung around. His voice cracked through the space.

“Who are you?”

Debra straightened, blood soaking into the fabric of her blouse as he strode toward her, weapon raised.

“Tourist,” she replied in a cool tone.

Detri’s lip curled. “Gunther. Check her bag.”

Debra tried to stop him—instinct overriding sense—but Gunther moved fast. A hard backhand sent her sprawling, pain flaring white-hot in her cheek. He dumped the contents of her tote onto the sand. Her gun clattered beside her wallet. Her badge landed last.

Gunther picked it up and glanced between her and Detri.

“Well, well,” Detri murmured, crouching beside her. “CIA. What do you know about her ?” He nodded toward Dalla.

Debra met his eyes. “Very little. That’s why I’m here.”

“Honesty. Interesting,” he mused. She pushed herself up to a standing position when he rose and stepped back, looking at her badge. Then his gaze slid to Dalla. “Pretty impressive that they would send a deputy director to do a field agent’s job.”

“Yeah, really impressive,” she muttered, lifting her good arm so she could press her hand against her aching cheek.

Detri tossed her badge down on the pile from her tote and turned his attention to Dalla. “What are y exactly?”

Dalla glared into his eyes, shoulders squared. “I am Dalla Bogadottir, daughter of Sven, Viking warrior of the Northern Clans of Jarl Asvaldsson.”

Detri’s weapon shifted toward Musad. “Wrong answer.”

“You asked me what I am, and I told you the truth,” she said, her voice like steel. “I was born in a village that no longer exists. I’ve bled on battlefields your history books haven’t recorded. And I will not let you harm them.”

Debra hissed out a breath at Dalla’s proud, tense confession.

Musad and Nasser didn’t speak—didn’t move—but Debra saw their reaction to Dalla’s passionate declaration: the subtle shudder in Musad’s shoulders and the way Nasser’s fingers flexed helplessly against the small of Dalla’s back, desperate to pull her closer, desperate to shield her.

Debra’s throat tightened painfully, but she forced herself to focus as Detri’s expression shifted from fury to an awed triumph.

She could almost see him calculating the value of his captured treasure and finding it priceless.

His victory was short-lived, however, because at that moment the sound of silenced bullets striking flesh sent all of them to the sand.

The two mercenaries who had come down from the parapet earlier folded, their bodies sprawled out in the damp sand, their blood mixing with the black granules.

Detri knelt on one knee, swiveling to the ancient wreck and aiming his weapon as a woman’s voice drifted from behind the skeletal shipwreck, amused and bored all at once.

“Tsk. Tsk. Playing dead. That’s a new one, even for you, Detri. Does Kramer know?”

Stella stepped into the dim light, sleek and lethal, pistols nestled in her palms.

Debra’s blood went cold.

“Oh, hell,” she breathed. “We’re all going to die.”

Except one , she reminded herself.

There was only one among them who could be killed and not stay dead.

Dalla.

And that almost terrified her the most.