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“Nicholas, look. The birds.”
Ardelean’s cast of falcons was flying the length of the terrace, swooping, diving in and out like bats after mosquitos, and several smaller drones joined them, patrolling. Mike could see the bodies of the guards now, their blood spilling into the Thames. She yelled into her comms, “Terrace, all guards down! All guards down!”
Nicholas said into his comms, “Father, we can’t come from outside. Those drones will tear us apart before we get anywhere near them. We’re going to have to get to him from inside. How do we do it?”
“Nicholas. Do you remember the tunnel? I showed it to you a long time ago.”
“Yes, yes, I remember.”
“We’ll be bringing the president and the PM out that way, but be careful. No one’s used the tunnel in almost a century.”
They took off toward Big Ben. The sky was dark with smoke, fires raged along the edges of the building. There were bodies strewn on the ground amid smoking chunks of drone. First responders were racing into the nightmare scene, police firing into the sky. They saw a double-decker bus on its side, people crawling out through broken windows, heard screams, crying, and bullets, so many, deafening. They were in the middle of a war zone.
Finally, they heard the throaty whine of a Typhoon jet. Nicholas yelled, “Military is here, thank all that’s holy.”
They raced past Cromwell Green and the Old Palace Yard, down St. Margaret Street, running hard, to the corner, to Millbank House.
They dashed inside, badges out so the security wouldn’t toss them to the ground, ignoring shouts and cries of “What’s happening?” They pushed through the crowd of people who’d taken shelter inside the stairwell.
Nicholas pulled open the door, and they went down, and down, and down again.
“Nicholas, where are we going? What’s this tunnel?”
“There’s a tunnel between the two buildings, in case of emergency. It’s ancient, shut down after World War II. Part of it collapsed. It wasn’t deemed safe.”
Mike said with absolute conviction, “It’ll be safe enough.”
He sent her a mad grin, led her through the basement to a dark, cobwebbed corner to an old, wooden door with a gleaming lock and a NO TRESPASSING sign.
“Step back.” Nicholas shot off the lock. He kicked open the door, and a great gust of dust hit them in the face.
Nicholas coughed, choked out, “If the tunnel’s not blocked, we’ll be able to pass under the Chancellor’s Court, just off the Peer’s entrance. The terrace pavilion is on the opposite side of the building. You ready?”
“Let’s go.”
He took a small Maglite off his vest and shined it into the darkness. “Careful. There’s still rubble and who knows what else in here. Watch your step.”
She nearly stumbled on a pile of rocks, righted, and jumped over a huge chunk of timber. The air was dank, smelled of long-ago dirt and long-ago death, entombed and left to rot.
They dodged and ran. Nicholas swiped a spider web from in front of his face.
He grabbed her as she stepped down on a chunk of wood and her foot rolled. She knew immediately she’d hurt her ankle, but it didn’t matter. She took a step and another. “I’m okay, keep going.”
Adrenaline masked the pain enough so she could continue on. It hurt, it hurt a lot, but no choice. She moved with him forward, ever forward, into the darkness.
“Here, at last,” he said and started up a decrepit metal flight of stairs. They were three stories down, she counted over one hundred stairs, aware of pain tearing through her ankle, and then the door was in front of them.
It was locked. Nicholas banged the door, shouted, “Father? If you’re there, a little help, please.”
With a massive creak, the door opened. There stood Harry Drummond, backlit by the interior of Westminster Palace. “Took you long enough.”
Nicholas grinned and stepped through, pulling Mike with him.
They scarcely heard the battle rage outside—the walls were so thick. The room wasn’t large, but it was clean, neat, and, at the moment, full of a dozen very serious men and women bristling with weapons. Coming toward them, surrounded by guards, came the Queen. They hustled her into the dark tunnel without a word. The president went next, cocooned by Secret Service. He stopped when he saw Nicholas and Mike.
Nicholas said, “Sir. It is good to see you again, though I apologize for the circumstances.”
“Nicholas, Mike. I always wondered about an escape hatch from Parliament.” And he shook both their hands. “You two will take care of this, won’t you?”
