Page 40 of Dalla’s Royal Guards (Second Chance #3)
Twenty-Six
CIA Headquarters: Langley, Virginia
Debra Carr-Myers exhaled slowly as she stared at the neatly organized box on her empty desk. Her office, always immaculate, now looked sterile. Decommissioned.
Her fingers hovered over the stack of files tucked neatly in the corner—classified dossiers, red-stamped reports, and a handful of surveillance summaries. It had taken her four months to get everything Adam took back, but she had done it—with a vengeance.
This private collection of classified documents was going with her.
Because Debra Carr-Myers was no longer just a deputy director.
She was about to become the Director of the CIA.
Adam hadn’t taken it well. Not after his offshore accounts—suspiciously fattened by Kramer O’Toole’s “consulting bonuses”—came to light through an anonymous source. Debra hadn’t even needed to file the report. Someone else beat her to it.
She didn’t ask who.
Some truths revealed themselves when they were meant to.
She turned to her computer to shut it down when the screen flickered.
Tiny yellow smiling bugs swept across the screen.
Thousands of them—crawling, dancing—a wave of digital insects that scurried across the monitor’s glass in a pattern before turning in unison.
She jerked back. “What the?—?”
The bugs paused. A line of text unfurled.
DON’T BE AFRAID
A second later, a cheerful yellow smiley face popped up.
And then she was there.
“Hello, Debra,” a gorgeous, fully defined, holographic woman greeted in a cheerful voice. “I’m RITA. Welcome to your new level of security clearance.”
She dropped hard into her chair.
“Jesus. What—who—are you?” she breathed.
“I’m RITA. I work at Cosmos Raines Industries.”
Debra’s gaze darted to the files.
“Cosmos Raines… as in the playboy inventor?”
RITA laughed and waved an elegantly manicured hand with red nails dotted with rhinestones in dismissal. “Yes, well, Cosmos is a bit more than that.”
Debra sat forward, her gaze flicking to the files in the box again. “I don’t suppose you know anything about Operation Rebirth, do you?” she asked cautiously.
“Oh, I know lots of things,” RITA said brightly. “But yes. Operation Rebirth: sometimes, people are born at the wrong time, and sometimes, the universe corrects itself.”
“That’s… that’s what this is?”
“It’s the simplest way to explain it. Harlem, Dalla, Runa, Lily—they’re not anomalies. They’re balance. The universe always tries to find an equilibrium between light and darkness. And sometimes… it needs warriors to do it.”
Debra stared.
“Am I part of it?”
RITA’s laugh was a melodic trill. “I like to think I am, so maybe you are, too. Your former boss was not. Horrid man on a good day. It really was time to take out the trash with him.” She leaned forward with a conspiratorial grin.
“There are a lot of strange and wonderful things happening in this galaxy, Director Carr-Myers. And in others. Cosmos wanted me to welcome you to the team.”
And then she was gone.
Debra blinked.
She looked at her computer screen. The screen was empty. Just her login prompt staring back.
She reached for the folders.
The papers inside them were gone.
She stood abruptly, her pulse hammering.
Her eyes narrowed.
“Cosmos Raines,” she muttered.
A slow smile tugged at her lips.
“I guess if I’m part of the team, I should introduce myself.”
Dubai, United Arab Emirates
Kramer O’Toole sat in the high-backed chair near the floor-to-ceiling window, staring out over the glittering expanse of Dubai. The city lights pulsed and shimmered against the night, a vibrant, restless creature. In the reflection of the glass, his own image looked ghostly pale.
Next to him, a thick folder lay on the side table.
The latest report of his collapsing financial empire and, almost cruelly neat in its placement, Doris’s letter of resignation.
A faint ring of moisture spread across the crisp paper, marking where his untouched glass of scotch had sweated in the heat of his hand.
He lifted the glass again, absently swirling the amber liquid. He didn’t drink. His mind was too busy clawing for answers.
Four months.
That’s all it had taken. Four months to raze everything he had built over two decades to ash.
His accounts were seized, his businesses gutted, and his allies silent.
Contacts he once counted as friends now avoided him like the plague.
Kramer thought of all those who were shunning him now. One day, vengeance would be his.
He needed Dalla Bogadottir.
Her immortality. Her power.
With it, he could rebuild.
His jaw clenched. He would find her. He would make her give him the secret to her immortality.
He was so lost in his tangle of desperation and fury that he didn’t realize at first that he was no longer alone.
A ripple of awareness crawled down his spine.
Slowly, he lifted his gaze to the reflection in the glass.
A man stood behind him. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Dark skin like polished obsidian. Dressed in a black shirt and slacks that seemed to absorb the faint light. Hands resting casually in his pockets.
But it was the man’s eyes—calm, unblinking, ancient—that sent a chill through Kramer’s bones.
“I’d offer you a seat,” Kramer said dryly, voice rough, “but there isn’t one.” He’d always made his guests stand. Recently he’d doubted whether he would ever have a guest again.
The man didn’t respond. He simply stepped forward to stand beside Kramer, gazing out over the city as if he had all the time in the world.
Kramer studied him, instinct whispering warnings he tried to ignore. “Who are you?” he asked finally, forcing his voice to stay steady.
The man tilted his head slightly, a breath of a sigh escaping his lips.
“Harlem Jones,” he said.
Kramer frowned. “Am I supposed to know who that is?”
Harlem smiled faintly. “No. But I thought you might want a few answers before you die.”
The glass slipped slightly in Kramer’s hand. He set it down on Doris’s letter, spilling scotch across the paper.
He opened his mouth—money, he could offer money—but Harlem spoke first.
“My life began over three thousand years ago,” Harlem said, his voice low, rich with the weight of time. “I’ve served kings and killers. I’ve built empires—and helped destroy them. I’ve seen the worst… and sometimes the best… of what humanity offers.”
Harlem turned his head then, locking eyes with Kramer.
“The world changes. The powerful rise and fall. But some… some men…” He shook his head. “Their greed rots everything it touches.”
Kramer’s throat closed. He rasped, “Why me? I’ve lost everything. I’m powerless.”
Harlem’s lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Because you harmed someone I care about. Dalla Bogadottir.”
Kramer surged forward, desperate now. “I can change. I can fix this! Just give me—give me the power! Immortality! I swear—I’ll use it to do good!”
Harlem lifted Kramer’s glass, swirling the amber liquid with quiet finality. He brought it to his lips, took a small sip, before he studied the liquid inside. He sighed as he placed it carefully back on the table.
The silence stretched between them.
Hope clawed its way up inside Kramer’s chest.
Until Harlem shook his head.
“That’s the problem,” Harlem said softly. “You’re willing to do anything.”
Kramer stared, bewildered.
Harlem turned, walking toward the door with a calm, deliberate grace.
Kramer lurched to his feet. “Wait! Are you still— Are you still going to kill me?!”
Harlem paused, his hand on the door.
He glanced back once, eyes glinting in the dim light.
“You’re already dead. You just don’t know it,” he said.
And he was gone.
Kramer stood frozen, his heart hammering painfully. Minutes passed. The city glimmered indifferently beyond the window.
Slowly, he sat down.
He distractedly reached for his glass of scotch. He had to wrap both hands around it to keep from spilling the liquor. The warmth of the scotch slipped down his throat and pooled in his stomach.
“The man is a fucking lunatic,” he mused, staring out at the lights of the city.
He laughed—a broken, hollow sound that grew louder, harsher, until it echoed off the high ceiling.
He tipped the glass again and relaxed back in the chair.
A drop splattered onto his skin.
Kramer frowned when he looked down and saw a brilliant drop of red on the back of his hand.
He touched under his nose.
His fingers came away red.
The glass slipped from his hand, crashing to the marble floor in a burst of shattering crystal.
With shaky fingers, he raised his hand to his throat as the world tilted.
He dropped his hand to grip the arms of the chair. Poison coursed through his veins, burning like fire.
Darkness closed in at the edges of his vision.
When the cleaning crew entered ten minutes later, they found him slumped in a chair, staring blindly at the city lights, a faint, mocking smile still on his lips.
By then, there was nothing left to save.
Vasbin Mining Complex: Kashir
The air stank of smoke, sweat, and scorched metal.
Mario wiped blood from his cheek as he stepped over the rubble that had once been the outer wall of Hellman’s last stronghold.
The outer mining complex of the Vasbin was heavily damaged, but the valuable resources and main operating center inside the mountain remained preserved.
Broken crates and spent casings littered the ground outside.
Small fires crackled here and there, casting the twisted corridors in flickering orange light as he exited the building he and his team had secured.
He moved like a ghost through the debris, rifle slung low, boots crunching over rocky soil. Voices echoed from across the complex—Donovan’s, Henri’s, Enrique’s, Colin’s—all calling out for the wounded, for survivors, for each other.
The resistance had won.
But at what cost?
“Musad?” Mario shouted, turning outside and scanning the surrounding area.
The smoke parted—and there he was.