The Sixth Day (A Brit in the FBI 5)

The room was pitch-black, the screens lit with tracers of red and green, like a demented Christmas decoration, overlaying on a topographical map of central London. There were five pilots at the ready, hands on controls, and the drones were amassed on the makeshift runway, the camouflage canopy stretching for hundreds of feet above them, sheltering the fleet from prying eyes. Roman needed to get them in the air and keep them low, away from the radar so they wouldn’t be seen before he was ready, before it was too late.

Cyrus Wendell, captaining the fleet, said quietly, “You were right, sir. The threat worked. They changed their plans, no more ridiculous barbeque at Buckingham. They’ll all be in Parliament, as you wished. Where will you be, sir? We wouldn’t want a mistake.”

“No, we wouldn’t, Cyrus. I’ll be on the boat, with the cast. It will be their first major exposure to the full army in a city environment. I want to be able to guide them until we arrive.”

To the pilots, Roman gave a different speech.

“Gentlemen, this is a watershed moment for our company. We’ve been tasked with building the biggest threat detection system in the history of Britain. Our drones will protect the skies of this city, will be used to stop attacks on our homeland by the people who hate us, who wish us dead. You are the front line of defense for your country. Be proud.”

There were cheers and applause. They were patriots, they were thrilled to be a part of this program.

Ardelean continued, “The plans are set, the flight paths programmed, all you need to do is get them in the air and the program will take over and fly them on instruments. You will only be needed if the drones go off course, or if it looks like one might be taken. Then, and only then, will you be allowed to take them over manually.”

“Copy that, sir. We’re ready for the final test run. All circuits are go.”

“Then let’s fly.”

He patted Cyrus on the arm, Cyrus, his one trusted employee, the one who knew he’d lied to the pilots, who knew very well this wasn’t a test, that there was no way to take the drones off their course once it was set, that Roman alone had control of their flight paths.

Roman headed for the dock. His fifty-one-foot Bladerunner speedboat awaited, and the cast was aboard, hooded, sitting on their cages, their flying jesses already on. Arlington stamped her feet; she was ready to get in the air.

He started the engine and heard the drones spark to life as well. He set the telemetry in his ear so he could keep track of the cast.

This is for you, Brother. We come from the skies; we come from the water; we come to hit them in their most vulnerable place. We will kill them, as they killed you.

Roman unhooded his falcons. They were hungry; they were ready. He stroked a wing here, a head there, making sure they all felt his touch. Arlington cheeped happily. She was excited, ready, and the rest of the cabal wagged their tail feathers in response.

Roman smiled at them, his beloved children. “It is time, my lovelies. Conserve energy. It will be a long flight. Now, fly.”

CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO

The Connaught Hotel

Carlos Place

Mayfair, London

Nicholas woke with a sense of unease he couldn’t shake. Something was wrong, but wha

t? The sun was up. Mike lay next to him on her back, one arm flung over her head, her beautiful hair spread across the pillow. He lay still, thinking, reassessing everything they’d done.

Mike sighed, rolled over, and saw he was awake. She raised her hand, touched his shoulder. “You okay?”

“Something’s worrying me, and I can’t figure out what it is.”

“We spent half the night warning people and planning for every contingency.”

“We’re missing something, I know it.”

She leaned up to kiss his whiskered cheek. “Every law enforcement official in London will be on high alert today, Nicholas, all eyes focused on the president and the prime minister. Everyone is ready if there’s an assassination attempt.”

“No, no, there’s something we’re missing.”

“We’ll be at Buckingham Palace for the barbecue. They have fighters ready and sharpshooters on the roof to take down any drone that tries to dive-bomb us. Secret Service will be all over the president and the prime minister. We’re only backup today. Now, do you want some breakfast? I saw some waffles on the menu and you know, I’d kill for waffles. Maybe with some strawberries on top.” She touched her fingers to his shoulder. “Nicholas, we do the best we can.” He said nothing. Mike looked around, saw her nightgown draped over the bedpost and pulled it over her head. Still, he looked preoccupied, worried, rather than looking at her, very unlike himself.

“Come on, Nicholas, maybe they can make you a frittata as good as Cook Crumbe’s at Old Farrow Hall. Who knows when we’ll be able to eat again?”

“I don’t want the president at risk at all. I want to find Ardelean before he has a chance to send a drone or one of his falcons.” He shook his head at himself, lifted the phone, and placed a breakfast order, with lots of strong coffee.