MacCallum swore, the man’s eyes wide with disbelief. “So the jets aren’t in the air?”
“No,” the DG responded heavily, “they are not. Nor are they likely to be, not in enough time to make a difference. This is no longer the Cold War, as I was just informed by General Lidington. The RAF no longer keeps its bombers on strip alert, ready to be scrambled at a moment’s notice to counter threats against the realm. Arming the aircraft alone would take forty minutes or more.”
“But RAF Lossiemouth,” MacCallum protested, “they’re responsible for maintaining QRA North.”
QRA. The Quick Reaction Alert…designed to maintain precisely that state of readiness, Marsh thought. A NATO burden that was, as ever, largely carried by the RAF. Based in the north at Lossiemouth, in the south at RAF Coningsby—in the heart of Lincolnshire.
“They are,” he said, “but in that capacity, they’re equipped for a purely air-to-air role. Rearming them for a ground-attack mission—well the general’s estimate was forty minutes.”
“Then Her Majesty…”
“Is on her own for the time being,” the DG responded, a note of morose resignation in his voice. “May God save the Queen…”
6:10 P.M.
Balmoral Castle
Scotland
Bahadar Singh turned just in time to see Winters go down, clutching at his throat, even as more rounds slammed into the young officer’s upper chest. His rifle falling from his hands as he crumpled into the grass.
No. A life extinguished in the space of a moment—the life of a brave man. An assault on righteousness itself.
In all his years as a police officer with the Met, he’d only lost a man once. Never had one killed in front of him.
But he couldn’t allow himself to dwell on that—not now. Or he too would be dead, along those he had sworn to protect. Death was ordained for every man, but not this day.
He dropped to one knee beside the officer’s broken body, the Glock recoiling into his hands—allowing the fury to consume him as he fired again and again, until bullets began chewing into the wall beside him, driving him back.
Singh ejected the half-empty magazine from the butt of the Glock, tucking it into the mag pouch on his belt as he slipped another one into its place.
If only he could get the rifle. He went prone, reaching out a hand for the butt of the H&K…but even as he did so, more bullets split the air over his turbaned head, one burying itself into the ground only inches from his hand.
And they were closer now—flanking him, moving in on his position. He paused for only a moment before rising, whispering, “May you continue on your journey to God,” as he looked down into Winters’ glassy, vacant eyes.
Time to move. Time to find his principals…
6:11 P.M.
No help was coming, Colin Hilliard realized, hurrying down the back corridor past Balmoral’s dining room toward the garden entrance—even as another explosion shook the castle. Not in time.
He knew that, somewhere deep in his bones. Could see it the face of the young officer at his side—the man’s H&K G36 carried at patrol ready as they moved. Another rifle slung over his shoulder, taken from the armory while they’d had the chance.
But there was no giving up—not while they yet had breath. And ammunition, he thought, his grip tightening on the Glock in his hand.
The door at the end of the corridor opened from the vestibule at that moment, the figure of an SO-14 officer with pistol drawn entering the corridor—followed immediately by a footman and Prince William, cradling a weeping Princess Charlotte in his arms, the little girl’s eyes wide with fear and terror.
And behind them…the Queen herself, her form cloaked against the spring chill in a light blue overcoat, a loose scarf covering her snow-white hair. Her old Wellington boots wet from tramping through the woods to the west of the castle with William and Charlotte—where they had been before the attack. Managing somehow to remain a regal figure in the midst of the chaos swirling around her.
Her eyes fell upon Hilliard and he drew himself up instinctively. “Your Majesty.”
“Commander Hilliard,” she began formally, refusing as ever to use his given name, “my husband. You’ve seen to his safety?”
“His Royal Highness has already been taken to the bunker, ma’am,” he replied. “My men and I will escort you there at once. It’s imperative—”
“What about Catherine?” William demanded, distress written across his face as he cut Hilliard off. “And George? They’re safe? Tell me they’re safe, Colin.”
“They were down by the banks of the river when the attack began,” Hilliard replied, unable to lie to him. “Inspector Singh is on his way to them now. He’s a good man, your Highness—you know that. They’re going to be all right.”
He could see a reply forming on the Prince’s lips, but it was cut off as another RPG slammed into the building from the south, the walls trembling around them—dust and chunks of plaster falling from the ceiling. “And now I must insist that we move you all to the bunker. Immediately.”
“Take them,” William replied, handing Charlotte over to the footman and gesturing for him to go on. “I’ll wait for Catherine.”
There was no time for this. He shook his head. “I’m sorry, sir but that’s not possible. I—”
The Prince’s face flushed with anger, his right hand clenching and unclenching spasmodically as he glared at Hilliard. “I will not hide here and cower like a dog while my wife and son are in danger. Give me a rifle.”
Love. It drove men to madness, he thought, meeting William’s eyes. “Your Highness, I am charged with protecting your life. I cannot permit you to endanger yourself in this—”
“Commander.” The sound of the Queen’s voice cut Hilliard short, steel glinting in her eyes as he turned to face her. “My grandson was not making a request.”
6:13 P.M.
The road to Balmoral
Walking to the ramp of a C-130 high above Lebanon. Riding shotgun in a dusty old Toyota Hilux across the desert of southern Iraq. Perched knee-to-knee in the open door of a Little Bird, the stark landscape of Afghanistan flashing past at 150 knots just meters below.
It was the moments before a battle began that were always the hardest, Harry thought, glancing out the window of the Ford Transit—the granite bell tower of Crathie Kirk visible through the trees as they sped down the road toward the River Dee and Balmoral itself.
Those moments of soul-searching uncertainty, as a man made his peace with God.
God. Harry glanced back toward the kirk, his face hardening into a bitter mask. There was no peace to be made this time, none to be found for him—not since Carol’s death. Since she had been taken from him.
For she walked with God…and she was not, for God took her.
The good, ever taken from this earth before their time. Men like himself, left behind in their stead. Spared?
Condemned, more like it. Damned to fight on, clawing desperately through the mud—hands drenched in the blood of their fellow man. Finding their peace only in the grave.
Curse God and die.
The anguished plea of Job’s wife, resonating down through the millennia…to him. Never more so than in this moment.
Kill Tarik. That was the only thing left to him, the impetus that had brought him to this country. That had become the cause of so much suffering, so much death. It all ended today.
Redemption? No, there was no atonement to be found at the end of this road, but something far older. Retribution. As old as time itself.
He straightened in his seat as the police vehicle turned off the main road past a deserted parking lot designed for tourist traffic, hand tightening on the grip of his AK—its sling wrapped around his shoulders.
“There,” he said suddenly, reaching over to put a hand on the McTaggart’s shoulder, his eyes narrowing as they fell upon the sight of a utility van parked just off the road near the bridge—nearly concealed beneath the canopy of spring gree
n that shaded the approach to the river. “Hold up, hold up.”
The constable gave him a startled look as he hit the brakes, bringing the vehicle to an abrupt halt. “What’s going on?”
Harry ignored him, looking back over his shoulder at Darren Roth—gesturing toward the van. “Anything look familiar?”
A moment’s pause, and then a nod of recognition. “You know it.”
They’d both seen it a hundred times or more over in the sandbox—an abandoned vehicle by the side of the road. A VBIED, just waiting for a Coalition convoy to come by.
Harry pushed his door open, his rifle already up against his shoulder as he stepped out, its muzzle sweeping the trees.
“Everyone dismount,” he said, the distant crackle of small-arms fire borne to him on the westerly breeze. “We go the rest of the way in on foot.”
Chapter 33
6:15 P.M.
Balmoral Castle
Madness. Hilliard opened his mouth to protest, but no words came out, the look on the Queen’s face silencing him before he could speak. Cold resolution in her eyes—the air of one who had been born to command. “Your Majesty, I—”
“Sir!” A shout cut him off and he turned to see one of his officers stagger from a passageway farther down the corridor to the west, nearly falling against the wall as he pushed himself forward—his pistol clutched in his left hand, his right arm hanging limp and useless by his side.
“They’ve broken through from the kitchen court,” he gasped out—the blood staining his white dress shirt only too visible as he approached. “Executed several of the staff. Collins and Morris are down.”
My God. They were cut off, Hilliard realized, paling at the man’s words. Two more of his men dead.
He put out his hand toward the young offer at his side, gesturing for him to hand over his rifle.
“Take the Queen back through the gallery,” he ordered, his voice low and urgent even as a burst of gunfire came from the direction of the ballroom, punctuated by screams, “up the staircase to the second floor, and from there to the tower. Move quickly. Don’t stop until you’ve reached it.”
“Aye, sir.”
Hilliard turned toward the Prince, rifle in hand as his officers shepherded the Queen away.
“Your Highness,” he said quietly, handing the weapon over and watching as William extended the H&K’s folding stock—seizing the charging handle in his left hand and working it to chamber a round, “you’re with me.”
6:17 P.M.
“Your Highness!” Bahadar Singh called out, weapon in hand as he stumbled down the river bank, his dark eyes scanning for any sign of the Royals. They had to be here…somewhere, he thought, hearing more gunfire from back in the direction of the castle, a dissonant sound among those made by the rushing waters of the Dee only a few feet away.
No one had followed him, or at least he didn’t think so—it was impossible to say—his eyes flickering back to the heights above as he made his way through the trees. “Your Highness!”
Movement. A flash of blue in the midst of the bright spring green and he pulled up, his breath catching in his throat. His Glock at the low ready as he scanned the undergrowth. The faint cry of a child reaching his ears. “Catherine?”
There was only silence for a painfully long moment—then a woman’s voice. “Bahadar?”
Catherine. “Your Highness!” he exclaimed, pushing through the brush to find the Duchess of Cambridge kneeling there among the rocks, her young son held tightly against her body as if to shield him from harm. “Are you all right?”
“What’s going on?” she demanded, eyes wide with fear and shock as he stooped down beside her. The little boy sobbing uncontrollably, despite her best efforts to calm him. “Who is it, Bahadar—who’s attacking us?”
“Terrorists,” he responded grimly, remembering the black flag bearing the shahada he had seen unfurled before the castle. Jihadists, to be more accurate.
His own faith had been born out of the fires of Islamic India. Two of the earliest gurus tortured and executed by the Mughals, bitter persecution from which had risen the Sant-Sipāhīs of Khalsa—an order of warrior saints to protect the faithful from their oppressors. When all efforts to restore peace prove useless, when no words avail—lawful is the flash of steel. It is right to draw the sword.
“My husband, Bahadar,” Catherine began anxiously, clasping his wrist, “is he all right?”
“Hilliard is with him,” he responded, doing his best to reassure her. The senior officer had been on his way to the Prince’s side when they’d separated. He could only hope he had made it. “And I’m going to take both of you to him. I—”
A burst of automatic weapons fire chewed through the air over their heads, followed by the clearly audible slap of bullets hitting the waters of the Dee.
“Run, your Highness,” Singh bellowed, giving Catherine a shove down-river as he glimpsed figures moving through the trees above them—his Glock coming up in both hands. “Run!”
6:21 P.M.
London
Come on, Julian Marsh thought, staring at the phone in his hand as it went straight to voicemail for the fifth time.
“Is there a problem, sir?” his driver asked, taking his eyes off the road for only a moment as they navigated their way through London traffic. With the convening of COBRA, he had been summoned to No. 10 Downing Street, along with the chair of the Joint Intelligence Committee.
“No,” the DG lied, shaking his head as he tucked the mobile into the pocket of his suit. Roth wasn’t answering his phone.
An ominous silence.
He needed to reach him, and now—the intelligence he had been given by the American of critical importance with the warned-of attack having become reality.
The mobile vibrated with an incoming call and he plucked it from his pocket, seeing the number of Thames House. MacCallum.
“Yes?”
“Are you with the Prime Minister?” the section chief asked, a raw urgency in his voice.
“No,” Marsh responded, glancing out of the car’s window at the passing street signs. “Probably four minutes out. Why?”
“MoD just red-flashed us—the RAF has been released to launch. But we’re not going to be able to keep a lid on this for much longer. Photos of the attack hit Twitter five minutes ago. Pictures of Balmoral itself—the carriage porch nearly destroyed by what looks like an RPG blast, part of the building on fire, the bodies of SO-14 officers visible in the rubble.”
This was bad. Very bad. “Where? How?” Marsh demanded, swearing under his breath.
“They originated from a Twitter account identifying itself as belonging to the Jund al-Britani. The ‘Soldiers of Britain.’”
“What do we know about them?”
“Nothing—the account only went live a few hours ago. We’ve reached out to Twitter to get them shut down, but the images are already spreading. Jihadi accounts all over the ‘net retweeting them and reposting.”
A virus. Spreading out from patient zero at the speed of light. Bad enough when it was a lie, but when it was truth…
Even worse.
“Sir…there’s something else you should know. Their second tweet—it references the Shaikh. Credits him with the attack.”
The worst of his fears, come to bitter fruition. Marsh closed his eyes, finding no words with which to respond.
“Do what you can,” he said finally, “buy us time. I’ll brief the PM. And, Alec…have you seen anything of Darren Roth?”
“No.”
Marsh grimaced. He’d had more than enough time to have reached Thames House. He—a sudden thought struck him, and he found himself unable to shake it. What if…no.
He wouldn’t have—Roth was a soldier, first and always. And a soldier did not disobey orders.
“Let me know the moment he arrives, Alec,” the DG said, taking a deep breath. “The moment he arrives.”
6:23 P.M.
Balmoral, Scotland
Cold, H
arry thought, his clothes still dripping from the snow-swollen waters of the Dee as they advanced through the trees, the AK-103’s folding stock extended against his shoulder. Darren Roth not five paces to his left. It was a bracing thing—cleared the senses. Reminded a man he was alive. Even if not for much longer.
Fording the river below the bridge had been a necessity dictated by the constraints of time. Where there was one IED, there could easily be more. Snipers covering the approach, any one of a thousand things that could slow down their advance. Unnecessary risk.
He could hear McTaggart breathing heavily behind him, the older man clearly already fatigued by his exertion. Age taking its inevitable toll.
Harry glanced back, “You good?”
“Aye,” the Scotsman replied, dogged determination glinting in his eyes. “The old woman loves to jog, always on me to join her. Thinking maybe I should have listened.”
Old soldiers never die.
Press on—that’s all that was left to any of them now. Committed, far past the point of no return.
The main gate of Balmoral was just ahead, their approach masked by a screen of pines. Harry took his support hand off the Kalashnikov, gesturing wordlessly for Roth and Flaharty to flank left.
Carnage. That was the only word to describe the scene as they emerged from the treeline—smoke still hanging in the air, along with immistakable stench of burning flesh.
It was all too clear what Tarik’s mujahideen had done—used a VBIED to overwhelm security and swarmed into the breach left behind—the charred bodies of two men who appeared to have been SO-14 officers lying not far from the burning wreckage of a delivery van. The holstered Glock still visible on the one man’s hip as they advanced out into the open—his right leg sheared clean away not three inches below it, leaving only a blackened, bloody stump.
It was a sight he remembered all too vividly from Iraq. Chaos. Blood. But back then, that blood hadn’t been on his hands.
His face darkened as he stepped over the bodies and into the nearly destroyed gate beyond, picking up the pace as another explosion reverberated through the trees, the rattle of automatic weapons fire growing more clearly audible with each step. In a just world, every man would pay the price for his own sins.
Embrace the Fire (Shadow Warriors Book 3) Page 66