“Yes, yes, I remember.”
“We’ll be bringing the president and the PM out that way, but be careful. No one’s used the tunnel in almost a century.”
They took off toward Big Ben. The sky was dark with smoke, fires raged along the edges of the building. There were bodies strewn on the ground amid smoking chunks of drone. First responders were racing into the nightmare scene, police firing into the sky. They saw a double-decker bus on its side, people crawling out through broken windows, heard screams, crying, and bullets, so many, deafening. They were in the middle of a war zone.
Finally, they heard the throaty whine of a Typhoon jet. Nicholas yelled, “Military is here, thank all that’s holy.”
They raced past Cromwell Green and the Old Palace Yard, down St. Margaret Street, running hard, to the corner, to Millbank House.
They dashed inside, badges out so the security wouldn’t toss them to the ground, ignoring shouts and cries of “What’s happening?” They pushed through the crowd of people who’d taken shelter inside the stairwell.
Nicholas pulled open the door, and they went down, and down, and down again.
“Nicholas, where are we going? What’s this tunnel?”
“There’s a tunnel between the two buildings, in case of emergency. It’s ancient, shut down after World War II. Part of it collapsed. It wasn’t deemed safe.”
Mike said with absolute conviction, “It’ll be safe enough.”
He sent her a mad grin, led her through the basement to a dark, cobwebbed corner to an old, wooden door with a gleaming lock and a NO TRESPASSING sign.
“Step back.” Nicholas shot off the lock. He kicked open the door, and a great gust of dust hit them in the face.
Nicholas coughed, choked out, “If the tunnel’s not blocked, we’ll be able to pass under the Chancellor’s Court, just off the Peer’s entrance. The terrace pavilion is on the opposite side of the building. You ready?”
“Let’s go.”
He took a small Maglite off his vest and shined it into the darkness. “Careful. There’s still rubble and who knows what else in here. Watch your step.”
She nearly stumbled on a pile of rocks, righted, and jumped over a huge chunk of timber. The air was dank, smelled of long-ago dirt and long-ago death, entombed and left to rot.
They dodged and ran. Nicholas swiped a spider web from in front of his face.
He grabbed her as she stepped down on a chunk of wood and her foot rolled. She knew immediately she’d hurt her ankle, but it didn’t matter. She took a step and another. “I’m okay, keep going.”
Adrenaline masked the pain enough so she could continue on. It hurt, it hurt a lot, but no choice. She moved with him forward, ever forward, into the darkness.
“Here, at last,” he said and started up a decrepit metal flight of stairs. They were three stories down, she counted over one hundred stairs, aware of pain tearing through her ankle, and then the door was in front of them.
It was locked. Nicholas banged the door, shouted, “Father? If you’re there, a little help, please.”
With a massive creak, the door opened. There stood Harry Drummond, backlit by the interior of Westminster Palace. “Took you long enough.”
Nicholas grinned and stepped through, pulling Mike with him.
They scarcely heard the battle rage outside—the walls were so thick. The room wasn’t large, but it was clean, neat, and, at the moment, full of a dozen very serious men and women bristling with weapons. Coming toward them, surrounded by guards, came the Queen. They hustled her into the dark tunnel without a word. The president went next, cocooned by Secret Service. He stopped when he saw Nicholas and Mike.
Nicholas said, “Sir. It is good to see you again, though I apologize for the circumstances.”
“Nicholas, Mike. I always wondered about an escape hatch from Parliament.” And he shook both their hands. “You two will take care of this, won’t you?”
“We will, sir,” Mike said.
A Secret Service agent nudged the president. “We must go now, sir.”
The president gave them a salute and disappeared after the Queen into the darkness.
The prime minister was right behind the president, his security detail herding him toward the tunnel. He stopped, though, said, “Good luck,” before they hustled him into the dark.
Harry slammed closed the door behind them, barred it. Nicholas helped him move the tapestry and furniture back into place. “Everyone’s together in the Commons Chamber, including Ben and Melinda. We assume Ardelean is in the building, but we don’t know where.”
Nicholas said, “By the looks of the firepower he had, I’m betting he came in through the Terrace Pavilion. He must expect them to take the Queen, the president, and the PM out that way. He probably knows exactly what sort of security protocol would lead to that scenario and created it. He wouldn’t know about the tunnel, though. No way. It’s not on any blueprint.”
Harry gave them fresh magazines for their weapons. “Then let’s go get him.”
Mike looked behind her as they left the small, beautifully furnished room. No one could tell that the still-vibrant Flemish tapestry of a medieval hunting scene covered the entrance to freedom.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-FOUR
The Palace of Westminster—Parliament—was built on the site of William the Conqueror’s first palace. Rebuilt in Victorian times as a Gothic fantasy palace, it is an eight-acre jumble of buildings, courtyards, passageways, and corridors. There are 100 staircases, more than 1,000 rooms, and three miles of passages.
—BBC.com
Parliament
London
Roman knew all doors to the building would be heavily guarded, knew the biometrics would shut them all, making those inside feel they were safe. He also knew his Night Hawks would be the hardest weapons to defend against once they were inside, and he had a computer program installed that would open all the locks and let him move anywhere in Westminster Palace he wanted. He’d shut down their cameras, shut down their fire suppression systems.
He owned Parliament now.
The drones had worked perfectly, taking out all the exterior river guards. He thumbed a microdose onto his tongue, waited a moment, felt the punch of it, thumbed another. Barstow was dead and that gave him a shot of pleasure. But Barstow was only one of the dissolute powermongering monsters who believed they could do anything, betray anyone, and get away with it. They believed themselves immune from justice, above any laws they themselves had made. They—his own government—had killed Radu, and now they wanted to destroy him, and after all the technological advantages he’d provided them, the drone army he’d gladly built to help shut down terrorism. All a lie, a joke. Betrayal rang in his head, gnawed in his belly, and he fought back a scream of rage. No, no, another microdose to steady him.
His heart was pumping hard, his brain sparking with power, tunneling the world, making it narrow to a pulsing red point. It was time, time to prove who and what he was. It was time for payback.
He held out a fist, and Arlington came to land. He nuzzled her head, and she cheeped at him.
“Tired, my love?”
She cheeped again, agreeing with him, he knew. “I am, as well. We’re almost there.” He gave her a grouse neck from his jacket, and went inside Westminster Hall, the drones and birds buzzing all around him.
It was almost quiet, if you could call the panic of hundreds of people silence. He knew everyone was looking out at his birds doing their mad dance before they dive-bombed the windows, scaring the people inside to death. It was a deception he’d learned from them. They loved to distract, to get their prey ready to move in the wrong direction. A game his falcons played when they were hunting on the estate.