Page 38 of Dalla’s Royal Guards (Second Chance #3)

Twenty-Five

Stella had always trusted her instincts.

The moment Kyle—the nervous twitch of a boy playing in a man’s world—had muttered something about Kramer losing it over Detri’s so-called death, it had sunk in that maybe the twerp had evidence that countered what she and O’Toole believed.

She should have questioned the bastard’s survival of the crash earlier. She had coaxed out what Kyle knew about Detri and his plans with a beer and a carefully placed hand on his groin.

Men, she thought. So easy to manipulate.

It hadn’t taken long to put the pieces together after Kyle spilled what he knew.

Detri had survived the car explosion and contacted Gunther.

They’d needed men, equipment, and information—which Kyle had provided.

Detri was planning something big. Bigger than Kramer.

He was after something that Stella was sure to want too.

And the name on everyone’s lips was Dalla Bogadottir.

Stella had heard the name whispered with reverence and fear. A woman who couldn’t die. A woman who came back.

Again.

And again.

And again.

She smiled as she adjusted the scope on her rifle, her body perfectly still among the jagged timbers of the ancient ship protected from the elements by the cave and sand.

Yesterday, she had scoped it out, following the trail Detri and Gunther had left behind.

The hidden passage had once been a smuggler’s prize corridor to riches.

Kyle, ever useful, had pulled the historical records for her. A passage to the sea. Ships unloading illicit cargo. A woman who came from nowhere.

She hadn’t needed to guess what Detri was planning. She had only needed to wait.

And patience had always been one of her best qualities.

From her perch, she had watched them descend—Dalla, framed between the Al-Rashid brothers, with another woman stumbling beside them. She had watched as Detri turned the group, heard the moment Dalla made her confession.

And just like that, Stella knew.

She knew what Detri and Kramer both wanted. This wasn’t about ideology, or politics or military control. This was about immortality. Dominion. And Dalla Bogadottir was the key.

Fuck that! Men have ruled the world long enough, she thought. It’s time a bitch took the crown.

Stella exhaled slowly and sighted the two men flanking the group. Adrenaline mixed with the repercussion of the rifle as she pulled the trigger twice in rapid succession.

She watched as both men dropped, blood spraying the damp cave wall behind them.

She couldn’t help taunting them for being found out, their plans ruined so soon, but it was only a moment; she got to business immediately after.

“Drop your weapons and put your hands up, Detri. Tell your Pitbull to do the same or I’ll put a bullet between your eyeballs. Sidearms as well. Come on, boys. You know the routine.”

She watched and waited as Detri nodded to Gunther and they slowly dropped their rifles before they pulled and dropped their sidearms.

“Now, the Al-Rashid brothers. Detri might be stupid enough to think you aren’t carrying, but I know you are. Drop your weapons, or we’ll see if your lady friend can regrow limbs,” Stella ordered.

Her lips twitched when Detri cursed as Musad and Nasser Al-Rashid each tossed a pistol into the sand in front of them.

Only when she was sure that she wouldn’t face multiple threats did she shoulder her assault rifle, pull her twin pistols, and step out from behind the ribs of the ancient shipwreck like a shadow peeling away from the dark.

Her boots crunched softly in the sand.

Detri’s eyes narrowed. “You crazy bitch!”

She rolled her eyes. “Always the same line. Always the same men,” she retorted, shooting Detri in the chest from less than five feet away.

Gunther released a growling curse and dove for his weapon.

She fired again, striking Gunther in the upper back.

Both men lay face down, unmoving, in the sand.

She turned, leveling her gun at Musad when he started forward. She chuckled when he stopped before stiffly straightening to glare back at her.

“I don’t need the CIA. I don’t need the princes. I just need her,” she said with a serene smile.

Her finger tightened on the trigger, and she breathed in, feeling the excitement of an impending kill. Her excitement turned to outrage when Dalla sprung forward with surprising speed. Stella had already committed to the shot when Dalla shoved Musad hard, knocking him out of the line of fire.

The reverberation of the pistol flowed through her arm. Dalla gasped, her body jerking as the bullet tore into her ribcage.

“Damn you!” Stella cursed

“No!” Nasser shouted hoarsely, diving forward to catch Dalla as her knees gave out.

“Damn you!” Stella cursed again, lifting both pistols at the same time.

Dalla’s arm swung towards Stella. In a strange, pain-filled haze, she watched the gun in her left hand fall from her grasp, feeling her body jerk from some kind of impact.

She dove for her weapon, her fingers scrabbling through the sand, while she aimed the pistol in her other hand at Nasser and Musad.

It was as she moved that she registered an intense pain in her chest.

Glancing down, she blinked at the ornate hilt of an ancient weapon sticking out of her chest, near her heart. She slowly lifted her head toward the woman being cradled between the two men. Dalla gazed back at her, her eyes holding determination, defiance, and… acceptance.

Before she could command her finger to pull back the trigger, an explosion of color ripped through her brain, and she staggered as her head jerked back. In the split second before her mind shattered, before death opened its greedy arms to her, her gaze lifted.

A tall, handsome black man was descending the stone staircase with deadly calm. Black coat. Silver pistol. Eyes cold.

Harlem Jones.

Their eyes locked.

You bastard, she thought.

Dalla lay cradled in Nasser’s arms, her breathing shallow, each inhale a struggle against the pain burning through her chest. Musad knelt beside her, his hands trembling as he pressed the cloth of his jacket over the wound. Blood soaked her blouse, pooling around them in the sand.

“Don’t cry…” she whispered, her lips brushing Nasser’s jaw

“Don’t talk. We’ll get you out. Help is on the way,” Nasser said, his voice thick, frantic.

“No,” she whispered again, softer this time. “It’s okay. My time…” Her gaze lifted to Musad. “It was always going to end like this.”

“Don’t say that,” Musad growled, blinking furiously. “We’ll stop the bleeding, we’ll?—”

She shook her head, a faint smile on her lips. “Promise me… you’ll live. Both of you. Love. Laugh. Remember me, but don’t stop living.”

Nasser leaned his forehead against hers, the tears falling freely. “I will never stop loving you.”

“Nor I,” Musad choked, pressing a kiss to her bloodied hand.

She smiled, a tear slipping down her cheek. “I will always love you… always.”

She fought against the weight pressing down on her. She didn’t want to go. There was so much she wanted to see, do, feel with them.

Rage surged as the familiar tingle of death surrounded her.

Harlem silently watched as Dalla’s form shimmered, not with light, but with stardust. Her skin glowed, the edges of her body unraveling into golden, glittering sand.

He could almost sense her soul mourning as she was pulled from the physical realm. Regret about his delayed arrival haunted him. The men Detri had hired to stop the security team hadn’t cared who they hurt.

Three young boys had been caught in the crossfire.

Two had been injured, one minor, one severely, the third terrified but uninjured.

Donovan and his team were moving in, but there had been a few assailants.

He had taken out the men who had shot at the boys before slipping around and down into the fort.

He stepped onto the sand and walked to Stella. He studied her blank eyes before he reached down and pulled Dalla’s seax from the assassin’s chest and cleaned it on her clothing. His gaze flicked to Detri and Gunther’s bodies before he turned to Dalla.

“No—no, no, no—” Musad whispered in a ravaged cry.

Nasser clutched Dalla to his chest, desperate to hold on to her form, but she was slipping through his fingers. He could have told the men that Dalla couldn’t stop from leaving, no matter how hard she tried.

His gaze moved to Debra who stood frozen, her gun limp in her hand. He wouldn’t have much time before he needed to leave. Already he could hear the approach of multiple footsteps descending into the fort.

Musad turned to him, rage and grief pouring from his eyes. “Bring her back. Please.”

Harlem shook his head slowly, pain written in the deep lines around his mouth. “I can’t.”

“Why? She was like you. She’ll be alright—won’t she? She’ll come back?” Nasser asked, his eyes glistening with tears, his voice harsh with grief.

“No one is like me. But…”

Both men froze and stared at him. Harlem studied Dalla’s peaceful face, her words coming back to him.

“I just wanted to know if there was a way that I could stay, here, with them, this time, instead of… dying.”

“Do you love them?”

“Yes.”

“There may still be hope,” he said before he stepped back, melting into the shadows of the cave without another word.

The air inside the palace was cool, refreshing after the salt-licked dampness of the cave.

The guards at the main entrance snapped to attention, concern flashing in their eyes when they noticed the blood coating the two princes. Their worried expressions changed to grief that was quickly hidden when they realized what had happened.

Hari stepped into the corridor from the sitting room, alerted by the change in energy before he even saw them. He had felt it in his chest—a phantom pain, the kind a father knows when something has gone terribly wrong.

“Where is she?” he asked softly, searching past them.

Musad’s jaw clenched. He looked down, unable to speak.