Page 80 of Dalla's Royal Guards
“She is real,” Kramer said softly, staring out the tall windows behind his desk. “And she’s more dangerous than we thought.”
There was a long pause.
Crosse’s voice dropped. “You’re telling me she’s not just some actress Mario or the Al-Rashid brothers found to play warrior?”
Kramer turned back from the window, his face hard. “She’s not acting.”
“Then kill her.”
“No,” Kramer said flatly. “We can’t. Not yet.”
Crosse’s temper flared again. “Why the hell not?”
“Because killing her now would make her a martyr. We need her broken. Discredited. If we can’t convince the people that she’s a false prophet, we need her to say it herself. On camera. Publicly.”
“And if she doesn’t?”
Kramer’s smile was thin. “Then we make it look like she did.”
Silence hummed on the line. Then Crosse growled, “You’d better have this under control, O’Toole. If we lose Kashir, we lose everything.”
Kramer leaned back in his chair again, the leather creaking beneath him. “Don’t worry. I’m not just going to deliver you the Warrior of the Sands, I’m going to bring down the entire royal lines ofbothNarva and Kashir, once and for all.”
He ended the call before Crosse could respond. Closing his eyes, he remembered the brief glimpse he’d caught of the woman materializing. The illusion of wings flaring behind her. A glow surrounded her. The way the bullets had curved around her. He swallowed at the memory of being able toseethrough her.
As he opened his eyes, he began to realize something else.
This might be one of the few times when he might not win.
His gaze flicked to the corner of his desk. A new folder, delivered less than an hour ago, lay open. Inside was an additional problem.
CIA Deputy Director: Debra Carr-Myers.
The CIA deputy director was asking questions. She was digging too deep for comfort. His contact was supposed to have taken care of anything pertaining to Kashir. He had contacted Adam shortly after Detri shared what had happened in Kashir.
Kramer knew that the CIA would be monitoring the situation. The American government agency was concerned about who controlled the distribution of Vasbin. They would know every move that was going down. He would bet his finest bottles of whiskey that they knew about the woman.
“Dalla Bogadottir,” he murmured, reaching for his whiskey again. “Who are you? What are you?”
He wanted—needed—to know. Because for the first time in his life, he had a thought that unsettled him to the core:
What if this time, he wasn’t the hunter?
What if he was the one being hunted?
Twenty-Two
The night air shifted as the helicopter banked gently toward the island. Below, bathed in the golden hush of lights glowing against stone and sea, Narva shimmered like a jewel set into the sapphire waters of the Mediterranean. Dalla leaned forward slightly, her gaze sweeping the darkened horizon.
Even at this hour, the kingdom was stunning.
From above, the centuries-old buildings looked like something out of a dream—domed rooftops and narrow cobblestone streets, ancient spires that reached into the night sky, and lamplight flickering across tiled courtyards and weathered stone archways. The city spiraled outward from the cliff-side palace like a living, breathing mosaic.
Her breath caught as they passed low over the sea cliffs. A greenbelt of meadows, gardens, and olive trees graced the interior, softening the stone edges of the old fortress. The palace itself—built into the cliff like a crown—rose with timeless grace above the village below. It was old and new, familiar and foreign, and something deep within her stirred.
“It’s not much bigger than Central Park,” Nasser said beside her, sensing her awe. “But what it lacks in size, it makes up for in history, wealth, and secrets.”
Dalla smiled faintly, her fingers tightening around the bow resting across her knees. “I know. I’ve been here before… a long time ago. It is strange to see Narva through the eyes of the seagulls.” She didn’t look at them, eyes fixed on the city below. “I walked those streets with Gerold and Pascal. I had more than one heated barter with the spice traders, and I bought some beautiful fabrics embroidered with gold thread here. It seems almost as if it were a dream, and yet I can picture it as if it were yesterday. I wonder if the scent of saffron and the shouts from the sailing merchants still fill the air.”
