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.
He waited, listened, stroking Arlington’s head. Normally he would hood her, but he wanted her ready, needed her keen senses to alert him.
It didn’t take long. He heard them coming, heard the voices, the calls, and readied himself. He’d blocked all other egress points from outside with drones. They had no choice but to come to him, from the Commons Chamber where they huddled to the small waiting room for guests that connected to the library and into the great hall.
He slowed his breathing, calmed his pounding heart. Once he killed the PM, his prime target, he wanted to kill Nicholas Drummond. He’d led the team that killed Radu.
They were coming closer, the voices louder now. He pulled two Night Hawks from his vest, set them on the floor, set the needles in place, and started their engines. They whirred into life, rose into the air. He used his wrist to position them, one above him, one on the opposite side of the entrance.
This was almost too easy.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-FIVE
That was a bomb! What’s Ardelean doing?”
Nicholas said to his father, “He’s driving them. He thinks security is following protocol and taking the president, the Queen, and the P.M. to the river.”
Harry said, “So if he came in the Terrace Pavilion, he might still be there. Let’s go. I’ll follow you.”
Nicholas hit his comms. “Ben, you have Melinda safe?”
“I do. Go ahead. We’re fine here. The drones are still attacking, but the worst is over. There are some inside buzzing around, but we’ve been shooting them down. It’s like the Wild West in here. Sounds like the response outside is knocking those back, too.”
“Copy. Adam?”
“I’m watching the terrace, but I don’t see him. Parliament’s internal security system isn’t working—he’s jammed the cameras. Oh yeah, Ardelean punched in a program that’s halted the subway cars in their tracks. The entire tube system grid is offline.”
Nicholas closed his eyes at that news, imagined the chaos underground. Nothing he could do about it. “Okay, Ardelean’s here, I can feel him.”
They started off at a jog. Mike was limping, couldn’t help it, and Nicholas pulled up short.
She said, “Let’s go, it’s nothing. I twisted it back in the tunnel. Go, Nicholas, we don’t have time to waste.”
His warrior. They set off again, Mike on his heels, gritting her teeth against the pain.
The terrace pavilion was on the opposite side of the building. Security was thick, but, with Harry, they quickly passed through every checkpoint. It took ten minutes to get to the terrace with its stunning view of the river. They saw falcons and drones still swooping and diving, but not attacking.
“You’re right. He’s here. The birds are waiting for him.”
Nicholas took them to a door tucked away in the corner of the Commons library. “If I’m right, he’s going to be on the other side of this door.”
Harry said, “He’ll have those small drones with him.”
They heard the loud voices of people coming. Nicholas quickly called Ben. “Keep everyone back. Stay in the Commons Chamber.”
“Too much smoke, people are freaking out. We need to get them out.”
“Then don’t come toward the river. Lead people south, toward the House of Lords. And watch out for drones.”
“Copy that.”
“Okay. Now, we need a diversion.”
Mike pulled a thick book from the nearest shelf. “Sir, is this one really important?”
Harry shrugged. “They’re all important, but it’s better than sticking our heads in.”
The terrace river entrance was on the bottom floor. They crept down the library stairs, into a kitchen that fed onto the terrace, Mike with the book in her hand. At the door to the terrace, Nicholas raised his hand. He took the book from Mike, waited for her to get into position with her Glock, her back against the wall. An M4 would be better, but it would be too unwieldy in the tight space. He motioned his father to stay back.
Nicholas put a hand on the door handle, signaled with his fingers three, two, one, then threw the door open and tossed the book into the dark space beyond.
Mike came through right after him, her gun up.
It was dark, too dark, but she heard the faint whir of a drone. She shot toward the sound, into the dark, and the whirring stopped.
One down.
She heard the flap of wings and was ready when the falcon slammed into her. She struck it in the chest with her fist. The bird wheeled back, not hurt, but surprised. Suddenly there was light in the room, the switch turned on by Harry, and they saw Ardelean wasn’t there.
And then Nicholas realized where he was. “Westminster Hall, he’s in the hall! He’s got a whole army of drones with him. He was trying to herd everyone there. Up the stairs, up the stairs!” Nicholas took off, straight up the stairs into Westminster Hall.
Ardelean was standing with his back to them, arms spread wide.
Above him, motionless, were hundreds of drones.
His falcon saw them, though, and shrieked a warning. Ardelean turned slowly, stared at Nicholas.
He said, “Drummond, how nice of you to come before all those rapacious grasping criminals come flooding in here, believing they’ll be safe from me. It saves me the trouble of tracking you down. Do you know, I believe it’s time for you to die. Like my brother.”
The small drone moved into position by Ardelean’s shoulder, but before it could fire, Nicholas shouted a command at the falcon, a word he’d overheard Ardelean scream to his falcon that made it attack Mike.
“Ob?ine! Ob?ine!”
The falcon wheeled in midair and went after the small drone, shrieking, talons out. She whipped the drone to the floor, then flew after another, then another, before dropping to the stone floor, exhausted wings spread. She looked to her master for a reward, confused when there was no fresh meat coming.