The Sixth Day (A Brit in the FBI 5)

“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. Betr

ayal 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.

Enough fuss outside, and he would be able to slip in the back.

He could smell smoke, feel the concussions of the missiles outside. He couldn’t keep up the onslaught forever; he would eventually run out of ammunition. Once it was all gone, the drones were programmed to divert back to base—if they survived the attack, of course. And these degenerates, these self-serving criminals, he would punish them, kill them all. What made him so confident was the fact they didn’t know his limitations.

He knew in the event of an emergency, Parliament had procedures in place for everything—fire, bomb threats, biological attack, suspicious packages—you name it, they had procedures, procedures, procedures, endless lists of procedures.

He knew exactly what security was doing inside Parliament. They needed to get the PM out of the building, but since there was a war raging outside, the normal procedures couldn’t be followed. They’d try to get him out another way or secure him inside a designated room. Roman knew they’d conclude the PM—and hoorah!—the bloody president of the United States, and the Queen—well, he did feel a bit of remorse about killing her—would all be safer inside. And he knew exactly where they’d be taken. He also realized getting through security would be hard, even with his drones and Arlington.

So, he’d make them come to him.

He pressed his comms and said to Cyrus, “Now!”

One of the drones flew into the hallway and disappeared. Moments later, a huge explosion rang out, so close and loud the birds shrieked. Roman laughed.

He didn’t want to kill them with the bomb, no, but he knew they’d make a break for it the moment the room filled with smoke and they’d have to leave, and they’d come right to him. He wanted to look at the prime minister, the head of the monster, the one ultimately responsible for the mission to kill his brother. He wanted to kill him, face to face, like a man. He stood in Westminster Hall, a vast empty space, once the center of British justice. It made him laugh at the irony. This time he would mete out justice. He was prepared, the drones hovering and ready.