Page 102 of Dalla's Royal Guards
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.
Musad stepped into view. Blood streaked down one side of his temple, but his stance was steady. Beside him, emerging from the haze like a mirage, was Nasser.
Relief swept through Mario. He had been worried about the brothers. They had taken far too many chances during the month-long battle to regain control of Kashir. He rushed forward.
“Hellman? Crosse?” he asked, his voice terse.
Nasser’s jaw tightened. “Haven’t seen either.”
“Crosse is dead,” Musad said flatly. “He tried to retreat through the north wing. I found what was left of him.”
“Hellman’s still out there?”
Before Mario could respond, the loud crack of gunfire and the whistle of a bullet split the air from above them.
He twisted, his heart pounding, when he realized they were exposed as Musad and Nasser shielded him.
Palace: Narva
Hari sat alone in the vault beneath the palace, the sounds of war echoing faintly against the chamber’s ancient walls. The rat-tat-tat of gunfire, shouted commands in multiple dialects, and the sharp bark of explosions filtered from the radio on the nearby table. His hands rested on his knees, clenched into fists that trembled with age, fear, and helplessness.
On the other side of the border, Kashir—by the grace of his son-in-law and two sons—was fighting for its freedom.
Hari’s heart ached with each passing report, each shout over the comms, each call for backup. Nasser’s voice was calm, clipped, even as he issued orders to his squad. Too calm. Too steady. The calm that came only when a man no longer feared death.
