by R D Shah
In his wing mirror Munroe watched the passengers leap out of the Humvee and drag out the dead driver and front passenger as the other jeep carrying Kessler ploughed past them, back on Munroe’s tail. Up ahead the road was already beginning to fill with the early morning commuters. Somewhere below him the mobile was ringing again but there was no time to search for it, and as he sped ahead his choices became limited. Either hit the sidewalk and slam through an old woman wearing a knitted crochet bobble hat, hunched over with a wheelie bag, or come to a screeching halt. Munroe took the third option and skidded left through the entrance of Bordeaux’s Jardin Public and onto the white gravel walkway, beeping his horn as he went. A few joggers dove off to the grass as he zoomed through the lush green park and past an old-style carousel across the waterway to his right. The operators of the carousel flicked their heads towards him in surprise and watched as he sped past, sending up plumes of white dust from his wheels. Ten diving joggers, a stunned group of Tai Chi enthusiasts and a scrambling black Labrador later and Munroe was out of the park and back on the streets of Bordeaux, heading up Rue de la Course and into the north of the city.
The Humvee behind had now gapped the distance, having fared well on the park’s gravel walkways, and again the sound of gunfire flared up, the focus now on the boot of Munroe’s car where the 911’s engine was being put through its paces. The road ahead was thankfully fairly empty, but Munroe swerved back and forth attempting to avoid taking a direct hit, and he only just missed a parked-up municipal police car which immediately took after him and was almost clipped by the chasing Humvee. Luckily for everyone involved it was a crappy Citroën Berlingo and, even if it could have kept up, its chase was cut short as one of the jeep’s passengers leant out of the window and delivered a few shots to the police car’s front wheels, bringing it to a tire-burning full stop.
Munroe was now accelerating ever faster and he glanced down to see his iPhone sliding around the passenger footwell. He lurched downwards and grabbed it before momentarily ducking down again as another round clipped his headrest, sending pieces of foam against the windshield like the feathers of an exploding chicken.
Kessler could have been lying about the Guy Fawkes remark, but it wasn’t a chance Munroe was about to take. Given the audacious rescue of Icarus on Waterloo Bridge and the equipment they had used, anything was possible. The incident would have prompted tighter security around the centre of British power, but if his own experiences in the special forces had taught him anything, it was that there were no coincidences, and nothing was impossible if you had the sheer will and equipment to carry it out. If there was going to be an attack on Parliament they needed to know. And know now. How long had Kessler said… within the hour? And this jaunt through the streets of Bordeaux was making his window of opportunity narrower and narrower.
Munroe glanced down at the mobile and tapped the missed call symbol before looking back at the road. A cold bolt of fear ran through his body as he saw a yellow school bus with the red sign sticking out of its side reading ‘Arrêt’ just metres ahead. Munroe flung the 911 to the right, missing it by inches, and in that moment his perception melted into slow motion as he caught sight of a small brown-haired boy staring at the near miss with a look of absolute exhilaration on his face.
At least someone was enjoying the show.
With both hands on the wheel and the iPhone once more on the floor, the gunfire opened up again. Kessler’s men were not only merciless, they were fucking reckless, and it only bolstered Munroe’s belief that what Kessler had told him about the attack on Parliament was true. They were going above and beyond to stop him from telling anyone. Using automatic weapons in a populated city during a high-speed pursuit was insane, as was taking out a police car. The French may have garnered an unfair stereotype of surrendering easily since World War Two, but nothing could be further from the truth. When it came to gun crime or perceived terrorist attacks, the authorities came down fast and hard. There was no attempted soft negotiation as in the UK and the disabled police car’s occupants, now a few miles back, would already have made the call. An armed squad would already be en route to intercept them.
Somewhere beneath his seat the phone was ringing again and unable to take his hands off the wheel Munroe chose to ignore it and focus all his attention on making his escape, but with the ever-increasing traffic on the road and the build-up of commuters it was going to be tough to outrun his pursuers. If he had enough time then sure, the 911 could take them easily, but that was the point, he didn’t have the time. He needed to speak with McCitrick now.
Over the pounding grind of the Porsche’s engine a serene calm descended over Munroe and he already knew what he was going to do before he even decided to attempt it. The idea was so brazen, so irresponsible that it went against all his training, but he knew he could pull it off… probably.
Munroe retrieved the gun from between his thighs and weighed it in his hands. At a guess there were four, maybe five rounds left in the clip, and he turned his attention back to the straight road which stretched on for roughly three quarters of a mile. He could see further up there was a break in the traffic, and he dropped the gun back in his lap, slammed back the gearstick and gave it all the 911 had to offer. If he could just put enough distance between the Humvee and himself he had a chance.
As he pushed the car faster, winding between vehicles, he never once let up on the accelerator. Then when he reached an empty space in the road, void of traffic and about fifty metres from the next set of traffic lights, he veered off to the right, padded down hard on the brakes and with the handbrake yanked upwards as far as it could go brought the 911 to a sideways stop. The rubber of the tires was still screeching to a halt in a cloud of black smoke as Munroe flung open the driver’s side door and stepped out onto the street with his gun raised. He’d managed to put a good 200 metres between him and the Humvee. As it hurtled towards him, a carbine poked out of the back window and began firing.
The first barrage was well off target and hit the road beside him, but the second delivery was closer, one bullet grazing the back bumper of the 911. Despite the onslaught Munroe held firm, his aim unwavering, and as the Humvee closed in Munroe prepared to pull the trigger.
His first shot ricocheted off the bonnet but the second hit the windscreen. His perception now slowed and as he controlled the adrenalin spike already pumping through his veins, as experience had taught him to do, everything around him faded away; every sense in his body honed in on the target.
The next two shots were quick, tearing into the driver’s head and body, sending the Humvee out of control; it careered to one side and up the sidewalk before slamming bonnet first into a concrete pavement bollard. There was no give and the impact flipped the vehicle upside down onto the tarmac, sparks flying from the sides of its roof until it ground to a full stop just metres from where he was standing.
Munroe let out a short, relieved sigh. He was a bloody good shot, if he did say so himself, but he’d got lucky and he knew it.
At a glance all the passengers now hanging from their seatbelts were either dead or out cold. He took a step towards the upturned wreck with his gun still raised, but the sound of police sirens in the distance made him reconsider, and he turned around and got back into the 911. He was aware of a few bystanders nearby gawping at what had just happened but he made no eye contact and reached over to the passenger’s side for the umpteenth time and retrieved his iPhone. He was already returning McCitrick’s call as he turned off the main street in the opposite direction of the wailing sirens, and now began to trek a route out of the city. He’d have to find a quiet backroad and dump the car before making it on foot to the nearest bus station. That was unless he could find another older model car in the process.
The phone connected and McCitrick came on the line, his voice intense. “What the hell’s going on, Ethan?”
“I haven’t got time to explain. You need to clear out Parliament, now.”
There was a br
ief hesitation before the answer came. “Parliament! What are you talking about?”
“I’ve got information that an attack’s going to happen at Parliament within the next forty minutes, maybe less.”
“From who?”
“From the guy you sent me to check out. He’s with a group called Daedalus. You probably know more about that than I do.”
There was now a long pause and when McCitrick came back on he sounded monotone and cold.
“Are you sure about this?”
“Not a hundred per cent, but the armed men trying to kill me would suggest the information is solid.”
There was now another pause. “OK, Ethan, I’ll call it in as a potential bomb threat. The cabinet are arriving for an early morning emergency session as we speak. Most of them are already there.”
“Then you better get your arse in gear,” Munroe replied as he heard McCitrick barking orders to someone in the background before coming back on the line.
“How compromised are you?”
“Not sure. Still in the middle of it. I’ll find somewhere safe to hole up and make my way back to the mainland. But McCitrick, I want some answers when I do. DS5 and everything else.”
There was one final pause, followed by a cold reply. “Fine, but I’ll call you.”
The line went dead and Munroe dropped the phone into his lap. An attack on Parliament was something from the movies, and if it did occur it would be as outrageous as the time the IRA dropped a couple of mortar shells into Number Ten Downing Street’s garden a few decades earlier. He was hoping it would turn out to be a wish on Kessler’s part – the guy was a bullshit merchant, no doubt – but his gut told him the slip had been genuine. Either way, he wasn’t about to be dragged further into this shitshow until he’d found out exactly what McCitrick wasn’t telling him. He needed to know everything there was to know about DS5, Daedalus, the whole shebang – and all the dirt he suspected came with it.
Chapter 14
Home Secretary Jacob Ryan stepped from his black Jaguar XJ Sentinel, barely acknowledging the security guard opening the door. He was already running late and as he swiftly made his way across the drive towards the visitors’ entrance of the Palace of Westminster, his mobile began to ring. Clutching his red formal brief binder in one hand he pulled the Samsung from his pocket and placed it to his ear, never slowing up his pace. “Ryan,” he answered gruffly, almost dropping his binder in the process.
“Secretary… we have a… Westminster… communication dow… return to… we’re on our…”
The line was crackling heavily and Ryan came to a stop and pressed the mobile closer to his ear. “McCitrick? You’re cutting out, I can hardly hear you.”
The line continued to fade in and out. “… urgent you… we have a… imminent.”
It was the words ‘urgent’ and ‘imminent’ that had Ryan look over his shoulder, and he began to walk back towards the Jaguar before raising the mobile into the air and staring at the signal bar before returning it to his ear.
“Imminent what, John?” he replied, and the closer he got to his car the more the interference faded until, within feet of the vehicle, the line fully restored.
“Sir, can you hear me?”
“Loud and clear. This better be important, I’m already late,” Ryan replied, rolling his eyes comically at his driver, who had exited the car upon his return and was standing dutifully waiting for any instructions to come his way.
“Sir, there’s been a bomb threat. The hard-line communications have been cut and mobile coverage is down. Local uniforms are on the way to you now.”
“On their way to me?” Ryan replied, puzzled but beginning to realise what was going on.
“Yes, sir. It’s the Houses of Parliament.”
Home Secretary Ryan allowed the phone to drop from his ear and gazed up towards the iconic, turreted tower of the Parliamentary Archives looming over the far end of the House of Commons as a feeling of panic washed over him.
“Peter, with me,” he yelled to his driver before pulling open the driver’s side door, hurling in his red brief bunder and then taking off like a maniac towards the visitors’ entrance. “Bomb threat.”
“Then we have to get you out of here, sir.”
“Bollocks to that, no one’s been told.”
Peter continued voicing his concerns but Ryan ignored them and ran into Westminster Hall, barking orders at the posted security guard as he ran past. “Evacuate everyone, there’s been a bomb threat.”
The guard barely blinked before springing into action as Ryan sped onwards, sternly ordering the stunned groups of tourists making their own way inside as he ran: “Everyone out, now. There’s been a bomb threat.”
There was almost no reaction as people froze, and as Ryan hurried down the long, stone-slabbed hallway it was only Peter and the security guard now yelling behind him that caused the mass of people to start rumbling towards the exit.
Ryan slid around the corner to the left and he picked up his pace as he sprinted along the red and tan encaustic tiles of St Stephen’s Hall, lined by stone statues of kings and politicians past, infused with light from the stained-glass windows and shiny brass chandeliers overhead. He leapt over the five broad stone steps at its end in one bound and finally came crashing through the entrance and into the central lobby, slipping on the shiny tiles underneath him and bringing himself to full stop against the central reception desk.
“Bomb, everyone out, now!” As he caught his breath the crowds of visitors remained still, stunned at the outburst, with the exception of a single man with his young son who immediately took off running back in the direction of where Ryan had arrived from. “Didn’t you hear me?” he puffed. “There’s a bomb in Parliament, get out, now!”
Within seconds the people nearest to the exits began to move forward and then, like a herd, everyone else followed, a slow walk turning into a mad dash.
All the parliamentary security guards took off in opposite directions, some towards the House of Lords and others towards the House of Commons chamber, where there was a full house.
From behind, Peter came piling in after him, skidding to a halt and grabbing the Home Secretary’s shoulder, shouting something about protocol, but Ryan pushed him off and began running down the long hallway towards the chamber beyond. Peter was still yelling at him to stop but Ryan was now in full flight. To citizens of the UK these people were just politicians, but to him they were trusted colleagues and welcomed adversaries and he would do all he could to help.
He approached the first set of open double doors. The security officer ahead was just heaving open the inner set when the shockwave hit. Ryan was lifted off his feet and sent hurtling backwards to the floor as the explosion punched through the inner doors in a balloon of smoke, crushing the security officer behind them and sending wood and debris peppering the hallway.
The sounds of muffled cries for help were the first thing Ryan heard and he opened his eyes to see the blurred, faded sight of the crafted wooden ceiling timbers high above him. At first he thought his vision was damaged, but as he turned his head to one side he realised it was due to the air being filled with thick dust and smoke. His ears felt like someone had stuffed them with cotton wool and for the first few moments he had no idea how he got there, until he caught sight of Peter just off to his left, splayed out on the floor like the statue of David.
“Peter,” he managed in a whisper before he propped himself up using his elbows, and it was now that he saw the devastation the explosion had caused. Both of the inner doors were missing, and the Commons chamber beyond was full of a thick fog as a dim flame, subdued by the smoke, flickered forebodingly.
With his head still swimming, Ryan slowly dragged himself up onto his feet and instinctively staggered over to Peter, where he knelt down with a shaky wobble and pressed his finger against the security guard’s carotid artery. There was a pulse.
“I need help.” His throat was dry and it came out in little more th
an a croak.
He swallowed a few times and then tried again. “I need some help here.” This time his voice gained some traction and from somewhere in the lobby there now came other cries for help.
Ryan turned his head towards the Commons chamber and found himself gazing up the bronze statue of Winston Churchill next to the hollowed-out doorway, staring down at him with his usual expression of stern defiance. On sheer impulse the Home Secretary got to his feet. He stared into the dark abyss that had been the chamber moments earlier, and among the swirls and intermittent sparks of electricity igniting in the air there could be seen the outlines of people congregating near the demolished doorway. Ryan moved towards the opening as the first shadowy figure emerged and he raised out his hand supportively as the sounds of pained groans began to fill the hallway. He held it there, outstretched, as the first stumbling figure reached him and through the smoke a quivering bloody hand with two missing fingers clamped around his open palm.
* * *
The navy blue BMW 7 Series raced down Victoria Embankment without slowing as John McCitrick stared out of the passenger-side window at the smoke rising above the building tops, hovering over Parliament like a bad omen. He’d heard the explosion upon leaving the Ministry of Defence less than a quarter of a mile away and the smoke only confirmed what had happened. “Move it,” he growled to the driver, who to his credit was traversing the busy embankment road like a professional slalom skier and even passing on the wrong side of the road to avoid the white bollards.
“Well at least Big Ben’s still standing.”
“Shut up, you tool,” McCitrick barked, already repositioning his gun holster on his hip as the BMW screeched around the corner and approached Parliament’s car parks. The fact that communication to Parliament security had been impossible due to the lines being dead showed that whatever had happened was highly organised. Even the localised mobile coverage had gone black, and that was no easy thing to pull off… not at all.