Page 79 of Dalla's Royal Guards
She glanced back as she settled into a seat. Raja hadn’t moved. He stood there, as if rooted in place, his eyes fixed on her with something raw—something dangerously close to fear.
Kramer O’Toole lowered the phone, his hand tightening just slightly before he forced it open, letting the device drop onto the polished surface of his desk. The screen flashed a final status report from Detri’s unit:Mission failed. Target escaped. Casualties sustained. No capture.
He didn’t blink.
Didn’t curse.
Didn’t rage.
He simply stared at the glowing text, the silence in his office stretching long and thin like a wire ready to snap. He reached for his drink—whiskey, three fingers, the only constant he trusted anymore—and brought it to his lips.
He sipped the drink, his mind swirling with what could have happened. How could Al-Rashid defeat the skills of his team? Did the woman have some supernatural talent that played a part in it, or were they just lucky?
He stiffened when his phone vibrated again. A low curse slipped from him when he noticed the number. He had been resistant when Detri had said he called in a friend. His lips pressed into a tight line as he picked it up and answered.
“Stella.”
“Detri should have stayed out of my way,” she hissed. “Now he’s dead.”
He didn’t respond immediately.
Stella wasn’t one for dramatics. If she said Detri was dead, then he was ashes in a twisted hunk of metal somewhere on the outskirts of Simdan.
“Keep your teams out of my way in the future,” she continued, her voice sharp as a garrote. “Next time, I won’t just miss your target, I’ll send a bullet through every person in my path.”
Kramer let the silence stretch again. Then, coolly: “Can you still finish it?”
Stella snorted. “Oh, I’ll finish it. Be ready. But I’m not making promises about what shape the woman you want will be in when I deliver her. You said alive. She’ll be alive.”
He sank into the plush leather office chair and leaned back, his eyes narrowing.
“Just make sure she’s breathing and she can talk.”
The click was her only reply. Stella had hung up without a goodbye.
He fingered the cell phone and stared at the darkened screen before setting the phone down more carefully this time. For the first time in years, he felt a chill run through his body.
He pressed the intercom. “Doris.”
A moment later, the door to his private office opened with a soft click. Doris, ever efficient in her sleek gray suit and tidy bun, stepped inside.
“Yes, Mr. O’Toole?”
“Prepare for departure to Dubai. Immediately. I want the jet fueled and diplomatic clearances cleared as soon as possible.”
“Yes, sir.”
As Doris turned to leave, he lifted his phone again and punched in the number to Hannibal Crosse’s private line.
The connection was swift.
“Kramer,” Crosse snapped before he could even speak. “What the hell is going on? I gave you one directive: bring me the kid. Now I’ve got rumors spreading across the country about a warrior rising from the desert, and my troops are barely holding ground.”
Kramer leaned forward, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“I’m aware of the situation, Hannibal. I have it under control.”
“No, you don’t. Because if you did, you’d know that Hellman’s men have already lost two provinces and are down to half strength in three others. People are flooding into the resistance ranks. They think the realDalla Bogadottirhas risen from the dead and come back to save the King of Kashir! I’ve got villagers screaming about ancient prophecy and retribution from the gods!”
