Page 92 of Dalla's Royal Guards
Behind them, a series of gunshots, followed by screams from late afternoon visitors, filled the air. Debra caught sight of security taking fire.
She fought a groan of pain as Musad grabbed her injured arm to yank her down against the wall. Behind her, Nasser had done the same with Dalla as a shower of dust and stone exploded between them.
“Keep your head down!” he growled, shielding her with his body.
Debra gritted her teeth, the pain lancing down her arm reminded her of why she’d given up fieldwork for the comfort of a desk job. Looking over Musad’s shoulder, she paled. Two men holding assault rifles were coming down from the parapet. She reached inside her tote bag, but froze when a pair of boots appeared in her line of sight. Raising her chin, she stared into the cold eyes of Detri Malinski. Behind him was Gunther Krauss. She shrank back against Musad as they strode forward.
“Don’t be stupid. I won’t hesitate to shoot you all, and we know that only one of you can survive that. Everyone up,” Detri sneered, motioning with the tip of his assault rifle. “Now.”
Debra stumbled and stiffly rose with the help of Musad, grabbing her tote bag with her good hand and slinging it over her shoulder.
“Move!” Detri snarled, motioning toward the lower level of the ruins.
They were herded down a winding staircase through the oldest part of the fortress. In the distance, the sounds of gunfire, shouts, and sirens faded as they entered a closed section of the fort.
Dust clung to every surface. Stone stairs led them deeper into the belly of the ruins. Finally, they emerged at the entrance to a wide, eroded cavern—half natural, half carved by forgotten hands. Salt-stained walls glistened faintly. Seawater lapped softly in the distance.
A rusted iron gate hung open, the chain cleanly severed.
The passage to the sea.
Dalla’s breath hitched. “The smuggler’s tunnel,” she whispered.
The cavern yawned around them, revealing the ancient bones of a shipwreck partially embedded in the sand, its skeleton exposed. A battered Zodiac inflatable rested nearby, its anchor driven into the damp earth. The tidemarks crawled high up the cavern walls—evidence that this place didn’t stay dry for long.
“Charming place,” Debra muttered, wincing as Musad helped her off the last step.
She pursed her lips when Detri suddenly swung around. His voice cracked through the space.
“Who are you?”
Debra straightened, blood soaking into the fabric of her blouse as he strode toward her, weapon raised.
“Tourist,” she replied in a cool tone.
Detri’s lip curled. “Gunther. Check her bag.”
Debra tried to stop him—instinct overriding sense—but Gunther moved fast. A hard backhand sent her sprawling, pain flaring white-hot in her cheek. He dumped the contents of her tote onto the sand. Her gun clattered beside her wallet. Her badge landed last.
Gunther picked it up and glanced between her and Detri.
“Well, well,” Detri murmured, crouching beside her. “CIA. What do you know abouther?” He nodded toward Dalla.
Debra met his eyes. “Very little. That’s why I’m here.”
“Honesty. Interesting,” he mused. She pushed herself up to a standing position when he rose and stepped back, looking at her badge. Then his gaze slid to Dalla. “Pretty impressive that they would send a deputy director to do a field agent’s job.”
“Yeah, really impressive,” she muttered, lifting her good arm so she could press her hand against her aching cheek.
Detri tossed her badge down on the pile from her tote and turned his attention to Dalla. “Whatarey exactly?”
Dalla glared into his eyes, shoulders squared. “I am Dalla Bogadottir, daughter of Sven, Viking warrior of the Northern Clans of Jarl Asvaldsson.”
Detri’s weapon shifted toward Musad. “Wrong answer.”
“You asked me what I am, and I told you the truth,” she said, her voice like steel. “I was born in a village that no longer exists. I’ve bled on battlefields your history books haven’t recorded. And Iwill notlet you harm them.”
Debra hissed out a breath at Dalla’s proud, tense confession. Musad and Nasser didn’t speak—didn’t move—but Debra saw their reaction to Dalla’s passionate declaration: the subtle shudder in Musad’s shoulders and the way Nasser’s fingers flexed helplessly against the small of Dalla’s back, desperate to pull her closer, desperate to shield her.
