Page 64 of Dalla's Royal Guards
Musad didn’t hear Nasser hiss his name in warning. He was already moving, drawn forward by a force he couldn’t name—rage, protectiveness, fear, love—all braided together until he could no longer tell where one ended and the other began.
He didn’t care who this man was.
If Harlem was a threat to Dalla, he would end him.
Whatever the cost.
Eighteen
Harlem traced the rim of his glass with one finger, watching the families gathered around low tables in the café. Laughter, clinking cups, and the frantic aroma of delicious meals filled the air. The cool glass beneath his touch lacked condensation—no surprise. There wasn’t enough humidity in the arid city of Dima for that.
He let his gaze wander beyond the polished windows, past the mosaic-tiled fountain, to the construction cranes dotting the skyline. The streets bustled below, alive with energy, youth, and the promise of something better.
The country was healing.
Raja had done that.
Harlem’s lips tugged in quiet pride as he studied the excited faces around him. A split-second decision twenty years ago to find a scruffy orphan had made a difference to millions of people.
Twenty Years Ago – Flashback
Gunfire cracked behind him as Harlem gunned the motorcycle around a sand-blasted curve, his body leaning low. The back wheel skidded as they tore through a market street scattered with crates and flapping canopies. Ludwick Mercer was a damn ghost, but today—today Harlem was the shadow on his heels.
The assassin’s bike swerved, clipped an empty water cart, and spun out in a cascade of metal and dust along the street. Ludwick rolled several times before coming up on his feet.
Harlem swerved, killing the engine as he slid sideways behind an abandoned World War II army truck that was still in use and came to a stop inches from the open back as Ludwick opened fire. He kicked down the stand and leaped from the saddle, sprinting after his target.
This part of Simdan was still in chaos—fractured from a civil war that had started six months before with the assassination of the ruling family. Ludwick was counting on the chaos to shield him. The assassin had underestimated Harlem’s desire for revenge.
Harlem followed Ludwick through a maze of crumbling alleyways. The heat pressed down like a fist. Fortunately, between the heat of the day and the war, the streets were deserted.
Breathing heavily, he slowed as he entered a shadowed stretch. Sweat beaded on his brow and soaked through his shirt.
There.
Ludwick stood at the far end, a filthy boy clutched to his chest, a gun pressed to the child’s temple. The kid was rail-thin, hair matted, clothes torn, but what stopped Harlem cold was the boy’s eyes. They were calm, defiant, and far too knowing for a child that young.
Harlem didn’t bother shouting. It would be a waste of his time and breath. Ludwick didn’t care about the boy. No amount of pleading would save the boy’s life.
He advanced slowly. “Why the scholar, Ludwick?” His voice was like smoke, cool and deadly.
“Money’s money,” Ludwick sneered. “It was a straightforward job.”
Harlem took another step. “True, but that’s not your kind of target. A history professor from a little-known university? Even you have standards.”
The gun didn’t waver as Ludwick chuckled in response. “No, he wasn’t my usual standard, but you are. Granger was the bait. Simple collateral damage, just like this kid will be. The real target… is you.”
Harlem sensed the danger behind him. He was torn because he knew there was little chance of the boy surviving unharmed. If he didn’t kill the man behind him, they would both die. If he did, the boy would die before he could kill Ludwick.
The boy’s chin lifted before his gaze lowered meaningfully. Harlem followed the movement. The kid had a shard of metal gripped tightly in one trembling fist.
With a barely perceptible nod, he let out a breath and spun, firing over his shoulder. A man crumpled behind him. Harlem twisted again when a man’s scream cut through the alley at the same time the echo of more gunfire rang out. He straightened when he saw Ludwick screaming on the ground, a piece of metal jutting from his thigh. The boy held Ludwick’s fallen gun, arms shaking but steady.
Blood poured onto the alley floor. He’d struck Ludwick’s femoral artery. The assassin had minutes to live.
He turned his attention to the boy. The kid didn’t run. A myriad of expressions crossed the boy’s face, most unreadable. Harlem inched closer.
“You’re safe now.”
