A pall of black smoke rising over the trees from the south. The main gate.
“We’re under attack,” he whispered, more to himself than as a warning—his movements feeling sluggish. As if frozen in the midst of a dream. A nightmare.
He glanced back, hearing Bahadar’s voice behind him—low and urgent. The man’s hand cupped to his ear, trying to raise the officers stationed at the gate. “Sergeant Gavron, I say again, do you copy? Do you copy?”
A moment, and then the Sikh shook his head, sadness written across his impassive, bearded face. “No answer. Your orders, commander?”
They were dead. He felt numb, scarce even hearing the inspector’s question. All these years, and he’d never seen a serious attack on the Royal Family, let alone lost men defending them.
Before he could muster the words to form a response, something caused the senior officer to look south, his eyes widening as he saw a small group of seven, perhaps eight men emerging from the trees past the gardens and the fountain—perhaps three hundred meters away. Spread out, moving in quickly.
A skirmish line.
A faint shout, and the next moment, the supersonic crack of a rifle split the air—a round caroming off the granite above their heads—the sound serving to shatter the ennui gripping him.
“All teams, all teams,” Hilliard spat into his radio as he dove for cover behind the engine block of the Range Rover, more rounds coming in as the staccato chatter of automatic weapons fire began to fill the air. “We are under attack, I say again, we are under attack. Execute SCIPIO.”
Get the principals to the safe room. The bunker beneath Balmoral Castle dated back to the Second World War, and had been renovated five times in the decades since. Each time making it stronger, more secure. Impenetrable. They were trained for this, knew what to do.
It was just a matter of having the time to carry it out.
He reached into his suit jacket, his fingers closing around the polymer butt of his Glock 19 in its shoulder holster—glancing over at Bahadar Singh to see him kneeling a few feet away, weapon already drawn.
“Catherine and the young prince,” Hilliard gasped as he brought the Glock out, leaning back against the vehicle’s tire. “Where are they?”
The Sikh swore beneath his breath, his swarthy face paling at the thought. “Still down by the Dee.”
Hilliard closed his eyes. My God.
“All right,” he said, breathing heavily as another burst of fire impacted the stonework, closer now—adrenaline coursing through his veins. He was far too old for this. “We have to make contact with London, get reinforcements. Cover me when I break for the door—follow me in, then go secure Catherine and George. On my mark. NOW!”
5:49 P.M.
Aboyne, Scotland
“We have to be able to get a message out—alert someone about the attack.”
“There’s no one to alert,” Harry responded to Mehreen’s question, the airfield coming into view just to their southeast as he banked the plane into a long, sweeping turn over the Scottish fields below. “Just us. Going in with a VBIED like that, they came loaded for bear.”
Loaded with munitions I once could have prevented from ever reaching their destination, he didn’t say, his face darkening at the thought. An opportunity passed up, forfeited in his quest for vengeance.
His hands stained with the blood of the men who had died in that blast—and every man who was about to perish in defense of their Queen.
There was no atonement for this. Redemption, forever out of reach. Only the fight itself remained, a bloody slog to the end.
“By the time reinforcements can arrive from Aberdeen,” he continued, catching sight of the pair of vans parked at one end of the strip near the hangars as he lined up the Cessna for approach, flaps extending as the airplane came in, “the battle will be decided.”
5:51 P.M.
Balmoral Castle
So far, so good. Insh’allah, Farid thought as the SUV rolled to a stop fifty meters from the entrance of the castle.
The muzzle of his rifle led the way as the jihadist pushed his door open, stepping out into the drive, the men of his assault team spilling out of the vehicles behind him, weapons drawn. Hurrying to take up positions.
He saw a man in a dark suit sprinting across the grounds from a cluster of buildings off to the northwest and raised his rifle, a ragged burst of fire ripping from the G3’s barrel.
It was like being back in Syria once more, he realized, watching the man crumple to the ground. The same feeling. The euphoria of battle, heady and intoxicating. To serve a single moment in Allah’s struggle…it was worth the world and everything in it.
The lighter crack of pistol fire struck Farid’s ears and he spotted the figure of a man taking shelter behind the hood of a Range Rover near the castle’s main entrance, trading fire with the group of mujahideen advancing from the south.
“With me,” he spat, seizing one of his men by the shoulder as he moved past, a rifle slung over the young man’s back—an RPG-7 in his hands. “There.”
Colin Hilliard could hear bullets slamming into the thick oak of Balmoral’s carriage porch as he braced himself against the door—leaning out, pressing the Glock forward in both hands.
“Come on now, lad,” he bellowed, catching Singh’s attention with the shout, “shift your arse!”
The Glock recoiled into the heel of his hand as he fired, again and again—laying down covering fire as the Sikh inspector rose up from behind the Range Rover, pivoting toward the door. Toward safety.
And then Hilliard saw it—a man standing out in the middle of the drive near the attackers’ SUVs, perhaps forty meters off. Making out the distinctive shape of an RPG on the man’s shoulder just as the Glock’s slide locked back on an empty magazine.
There was no time to engage, to respond. The SO-14 commander dropped his now-useless weapon—reaching out, his hands seizing hold of Singh’s shoulders and jerking the man the rest of the way inside.
The next moment, the RPG slammed into the Range Rover without and their world exploded around them.
5:54 P.M.
The gliding club
Aboyne, Scotland
“The name’s Oyelowo,” Roth said, passing over his military identification card to the tall, red-haired constable as they walked over from the plane to the parked SUVs, both of the vehicles aging Ford Transits, painted in the colors of Police Scotland. “Darren Oyelowo, military intelligence.”
“Aye…sergeant said he had spoken to you on the phone,” the man responded. “Not often we hear from Five. I—”
“Balmoral Castle is under attack,” Harry interjected, his voice flat, emotionless. “A terrorist cell under the command of Tarik Abdul Muhammad. The Shaikh.”
The constable’s face registered shock, murmuring a curse beneath his breath as he attempted to recover himself. “And who is this?” he demanded, turning to Roth.
“An ally,” Darren responded, glancing past him toward the Fords. “We’re going to need your vehicles. We saw an explosion at the castle on the way in. It’s already beginning.”
The constable shook his head, swearing softly once more as if dumfounded by the news.
“Either of you spend any time in the army?” Harry asked, glancing from one man to the other.
“I did,” the shorter, older officer responded, taking a step forward. There was an earnest look in his eyes as he gazed at Harry, almost one of…recognition. Between warriors. “In the Falklands. Scots Guards, Second Battalion. Fought my way up Mount Tumbledown that night back in ’82.”
Harry nodded, knowing the story well. The vicious, close-quarters fighting that had ensued as the British forces stormed Argentinian positions with bayonets fixed.
“All right then, you’re coming with us,” he said, heaving his duffel bag up onto the hood of the nearest SUV and extracting one of the AKM assault rifles, holding it up in one hand as he cleared the action, handing it to the man. “Time to kit up.”
/> 5:54 P.M.
Balmoral Castle
Ballater, Scotland
Chaos. Hilliard’s eyes flickered open, stinging with the smoke surrounding him. His ears still ringing from the force of the explosion—drowning out all else.
He put out a hand, clawing himself forward through the debris. Struggling to rise, making it to his hands and knees before collapsing once more—the assault on his senses overwhelming, disorienting him. Move, his mind screamed at him, move or you’re a dead man.
And then he realized it wasn’t his mind at all—his vision clearing to see Bahadar Singh staggering to his feet just a few feet away, the inspector’s suit torn and smoldering—his dark turban still firmly bound around his head. Bahadar shouted at him again, extending a hand and he took it—his body crying out in protest as the powerful Sikh dragged him to his feet, throwing the older man’s arm over his shoulder as they both crashed through the inner door and into the entry hall of Balmoral.
Safe. But only for the moment, Hilliard thought, feeling another explosion rock the entryway, plaster and bits of stone raining down on them from the ceiling above.
Balmoral had been built in the middle of the 19th-Century—as a country house, not a hold-fast. Not intended to stand up against an assault from the weapons of that age, let alone this one.
And from what he had seen out there, they were outnumbered nearly two-to-one.
“Go,” he said, pushing himself away from Bahadar Singh to stand erect—still unsteady on his feet. “Go…find Catherine and George, bring them back. Keep them safe.”
5:59 P.M.
Thames House
London
“Sir!” Marsh’s head came up as the door came flying open, Alec MacCallum barging in without knocking. “We just received a Flash-Traffic from the ranking SO-14 officer at Balmoral, Colin Hilliard—the head of Her Majesty’s bodyguard. They’ve come under heavy attack, small arms and RPGs.”
“Good God,” the DG exclaimed, his eyes wide as he rose from his desk. It was true. Roth’s warning, come to pass. “And the Queen?”
“Being escorted to the bunker beneath the castle as per the Special Protection Command’s emergency protocols. But the castle itself is under assault and Hilliard is losing men.”
Marsh winced, feeling guilt wash over him. Spend nearly four decades in the intelligence business, and you knew what it was to have made wrong calls. It came with the territory. But ever since 9/11, those wrong calls seemed ever to come marked with the blood of dead British citizens. And now…the Queen.
Recriminations would have to wait for another time. Drowned in a bottle of Glenlivet.
“The PM has to be notified at once,” he said, collecting himself with an effort. “What resources do we have in the area?”
“Nothing close enough, I’m afraid,” MacCallum replied. “Ballater has a constabulary, but they’re unarmed and untrained for this kind of situation. All available firearms units were routed to Aberdeen to respond to the shopping centre attack.”
And that was its purpose, the DG realized in a sudden flash of clarity. A diversion. And it had worked. “The MoD?”
The analyst shook his head. “Closest assets would be stationed at RAF Lossiemouth. I believe they’re still basing several squadrons of fast-movers out of there.”
The Royal Air Force base was only about fifty miles due north of Balmoral, Marsh thought, his eyes narrowing. On the shores of the North Sea, not far from the Moray Firth.
“All right, get General Lidington on the phone,” he said finally, naming the Chief of the Defence Staff. “This is going to have to go straight to the Prime Minister.”
6:01 P.M.
The gliding club
Aboyne, Scotland
“I should be going with you,” Mehreen said, arms folded across her chest, standing there beside the Cessna in the long shadow cast by the receding sun.
Harry looked up from adjusting the straps on his chest rig, his eyes meeting hers as he picked up his rifle. He shook his head.
“Not a chance. Five didn’t give you the training you’d need to survive what we’re headed into, and I gave my plate carrier to the officer. Don’t have another one.”
Not that it would have done him much good with the kind of opposition they were going up against, he didn’t add. The plates were rated against pistol rounds, not the 7.62x51mm NATO the terrorists’ rifles were chambered for.
Which meant he was just going to have to take his chances. Come what may.
“Nick would come back from the grave to kill me himself if I put you in that kind of risk,” he said, putting a hand on her shoulder and squeezing gently. “I need you to stay here. Keep an eye on Conor Hale if he wakes up, as he’s likely to. The sedative won’t hold him much longer. Make sure he doesn’t get away from you—we may need him later.”
“Later?” she asked, looking up into his face. “What do you mean?”
He’d said too much.
“I have to go,” he responded, his face darkening as he turned away from her, hearing her call out once more as he crossed the runway toward the parked Ford Transit. The older constable standing there by the open door, the plate carrier already on over his uniform. An awkward fit, but it was better than nothing.
“Ready?” Darren Roth asked, looking him in the eye. Harry nodded soberly, turning to the constable. Recognizing the look in the man’s eyes as he handled the rifle. The look of a man bracing himself for a return to something he had convinced himself he’d left far behind. His mind and heart, torn between fear and…lust.
Once the taste for battle entered a man’s blood, there was no getting it out. No matter how many years passed.
“I’m going to need you to do the driving,” he said, “you know this area better than any of us, Constable…I don’t believe you gave me your name?”
“McTaggart,” the man responded, seeming startled from his thoughts. Shifting the AKM to his other hand as he stuck out his right. “Rory McTaggart.”
Harry hesitated only a moment before grasping the older man’s weathered hand in his own, forcing a grim smile. “Let’s do this.”
6:05 P.M.
Balmoral Castle
Ballater, Scotland
Pandemonium. Bahadar Singh could still hear the sound of automatic weapons fire from without as he made his way hurriedly down the corridor toward the great tower and the old servants’ quarters beyond, bullets ricocheting off the stone walls.
He caught a brief glimpse of their attackers through the shattered glass of a window as he passed, men with assault rifles advancing on the carriage porch, laying down a hail of fire as they moved.
Singh lingered for a moment in the shadow of the window, eyeing them, his Glock drawn and carried low by his side.
But he had no shot—and couldn’t afford to draw their fire on himself. Not while his charges were yet unaccounted for.
The door at the opposite end of the corridor came flying open and he turned—his weapon coming up instinctively.
It was one of the staff—a butler he recognized from earlier visits—the man’s face white as a sheet, his hands raised at the sight of the gun.
“Go,” Singh whispered brusquely as he lowered the Glock, pushing past the man into the tower beyond. “Hide.”
The door to the wine cellar—and the bunker beneath—was just down the corridor to the right as Singh entered the tower, finding a pair of SO-14 officers flanking the rear entrance, H&K G36 assault rifles at the low ready.
“What in God’s name is going on, sir?” the furthermost officer asked, taking another cautious glance through the tower’s windows. They would have had a better firing position from the upper floors, he realized, but that would have left the path to the bunker compromised. “Who are they?”
He had just started to respond when a third officer entered from the north, also carrying a rifle. “Winters,” he said, recognizing the younger man, “you’re with me.”
“Hilliard’s orders,” the f
irst officer countered, looking back from his position by the window, “were to take up positions here and secure the tower for Her Majesty’s arrival.”
“Then do so,” Singh responded, his dark eyes brooking no defiance as he beckoned to Winters to follow, “but Catherine and George are out there. And I’m going to get them. Cover us as we go out.”
The officer looked at him for another moment, then nodded, stepping aside from the door. They weren’t going to be able to save everyone’s life this day, but the safety of their principals was paramount. Far above their own.
“You take right, I’ll take left,” he instructed Winters as the more bursts of gunfire resounded from the south, pausing with his left hand on the door, his right holding his Glock. “Clear as we go. Ready?”
A nod. And then the door was open, Winters leading the way out—rifle already up and against his shoulder. His eyes searching the copse of trees not far from the tower.
Singh followed him out, the muzzle of his Glock sweeping north, back toward the eastern wing of the castle. Clear.
He glanced back at the younger man, gesturing for him to follow as the two of them sprinted across the pavement toward the cover of the adjacent buildings—and the banks of the Dee itself, not more than a hundred meters beyond.
And somewhere out there, a mother and her little boy. His face hardened, feeling a dark fury rise within him. He forced it away, knowing how such rage could rob a man of his judgment—his reason. Krodh. One of the Five Thieves.
Yet the thought of them being harmed…
He reached the corner of the building, his Glock coming up once more as he rounded it, Winters only a step behind.
And then he heard it, another ragged burst of gunfire—far closer this time. Felt something warm spray across the back of his neck.
Followed by a strangled cry.
6:09 P.M.
Thames House
Millbank, London
“Of course, General, I understand. Thank you,” Julian Marsh responded, returning the phone to its cradle just as MacCallum entered his office.
He ran a hand across the lower half of his face, shaking his head as he glanced at his section chief. “The PM has convened COBRA to determine what measures are available to him under the Civil Contingencies Act. General Lidington,” he gestured at the phone, “is on his way to No. 10 Downing Street now.”
Embrace the Fire (Shadow Warriors Book 3) Page 65
