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Chapter Twenty-Five
Thursday, 21st April, 2011.
Aldous knew it was going to be a good day from the moment he woke up. There was a kind of electricity in the air, like at Christmas. Only instead of the birth of a mythological figure, it was the date for the largest terrorist operation since the 7/7 bombings. Oh, and it was the Queen's birthday as well. Even though the festivities didn't begin until twelve and he lived only a mile away from Buckingham Palace, he dressed quickly and headed out after only a slice of toast.
And it wasn't just Aldous. The whole country knew something was different. In previous years, the sovereign's birthday had been marked modestly in the media, usually with a mention at the end of the six o'clock news and a few inches in the press. This year was different. “Traditionalist” publications were rallying behind the Royal family, calling for a day of celebration for all that was British, while “enlightened” papers printed page after page of scathing commentary, lambasting and lampooning the monarchy as do-nothing celebrities, an anachronism in society. There was no neutrality, no Switzerland. Everyone had a thought about the matter, everyone had an opinion to give. For the first time in broadcasting history, the BBC would be televising live the celebrations in Westminster (The reasoning of some cynical producers was that if anything did happen, they would be first to report on it).
Aldous met with Richard Quick outside the famous east façade of Buckingham Palace in the morning, as the last security precautions were put in place. Despite have wrought iron fencing and an expansive red gravel courtyard between the edifice and the inevitable crowds, they still thought it prudent to add a three metre cordon. Security weren't taking any chances, especially after the (admittedly limited) evidence MI6 had provided.
By eleven o'clock, an impressive crowd had already formed. A BBC broadcasting van had already been set up, as well as a few fast-food vans hoping to cash in. The crowd itself was in a buoyant mood, with a myriad of miniature union jacks waving in the air. Though the flags were only red, blue and white, the crowd itself was much more diverse. There were people of all ethnicities and extractions who had come to call England, particularly London, their home.
In the infinite cover of the crowd, which by now was stretching down the leafy avenue of The Mall, Quick contacted all of his active agents in turn, briefly running through the plan and checking their locations. They expected Protect to strike at the front of the building – that was where the Balcony from which the Queen would address her subjects was found – so the largest contingent were mingled near the front of the masses, ready to rush forward at a moment's notice. Aldous was itching for something to go wrong. To cover other possible routes of attack, Lloyd and a smaller group of agents were situated around the back of Buckingham Palace, in Green Park. There were more agents still to the north and south of the mansion, as well as some helicopter support – though Aldous was told these were primarily for intelligence.
It was five minutes to twelve and the crowd was practically buzzing – there were even people climbing over the fountain in front of the palace. Aldous pushed his way through until he was standing next to Quick. The MI6 Boss was attired in his old naval parade dress; a black tunic with polished buttons and gold epaulettes. The shirt was long and covered the belt-holster he had strapped to his waist. His trousers were white, with a flawless crease down the side.
“Assuming nothing goes wrong,” Aldous leant close and whispered in his superior's ear, “What's supposed to happen?”
“We start with a royal salute – sounding off forty-one guns in Green Park.” Quick explained quietly. It was a vain assumption. Something was most definitely going to happen. He had never been more sure in his life. “Then Her Majesty will come out on that balcony and greet her subjects. She'll probably have a speech as well. And then she'll receive the presents her family and a few heads of state bought her.”
Aldous nodded, turning to look at the balcony Quick had pointed out. Above the metal doors of Buckingham Palace, the façade rose up on six stone columns. Recessed between the middle four was the balcony. It was surprisingly defensible, Aldous realised, only vulnerable to a frontal assault. Directly above, on the rooftop flagpole, the Union Jack billowed gallantly in the breeze.
Suddenly, the air split with thunder and Aldous automatically reached for his weapon. Quick stayed his hand however. Aldous glanced around; the crowds were still cheering. The great rumbling came again seconds later – and again after that. He looked up and could see white smoke rising behind the palace. Ah, the royal salute.
“They're not using live ammunition, right?”
Quick shook his head as the reports continued. Slightly relieved, Aldous counted the explosions. When another cannon was fired, the crowd roared to match it, adding to the clamour. Somehow, he tried to focus, tried to relax. If there were plotters among the cannons, that was Lloyd's problem. He took a breath, forty...forty-one.
No sooner than the salute had finished, a new sound filled the air. The pompous tooting of brass trumpets and circumstantial beating of marching drums, weak and attenuated compared the commanding boom of the guns. The crowd watched as a military band, in red tunics and ridiculous bearskin hats, marched around the corner of the palace, in front of a troop of the palace guard.
“Aldous, tell me you see that.” Quick's voice lost all emotion as he stared at the courtyard procession, on the other side of the fencing. This was the changing of the guard – that old tourist magnet. This was something else – something altogether worse.
“I see it.” Aldous replied, slipping his hand into his jacket for his weapon. This time, Quick didn't stop him. He surreptitiously dropped his pistol to his side as the crowds whooped and cheered on the marching band. What the majority of people missed was the arms the guard were carrying. In place of the standard Heckler and Koch assault rifle, two guards were carrying rocket launchers – that wasn't standard issue.
Compounding matters, as the troop began to mark time in front of the palace, the Queen appeared on the balcony. The applause was deafening. There was clapping, shouting and someone was swinging a rattle. The band struggled to be heard over the sound of the crowds yet they played on. It was hard to say, given the distance, but it looked like even Her Majesty wasn't expecting the band below her.
Finally, the troop, marking time behind the band, began a small drill with their weapons, moving them automatically from position to position. Sensing that something was about to happen, the crowd started to quiesce in anticipation. The trumpets faded away, followed by the rattling of the drums. All that remained was the sound the guards made as they shifted their weapons. The Mall was the quietest it had been in hours.
“Guard, Atten-tion!” the captain of the guards barked and all the men ceased their weaponry display and stood stock still. For a moment, nothing moved.
Then it started.
The two guards armed with rocket launchers broke rank and turned to face Buckingham Palace. After a cursory aim, they both fired at the metal doors of the palace. There was an explosion unlike the cannons earlier. Smoke and fire filled the air and the crowd gasped in fear. The doors were rent asunder and the guards stormed through the gap. On the balcony above, the Queen was hurriedly ushered out of sight.
“All agents, go, go, go!” Quick roared as he and Aldous leapt over the steel barriers. A day-glow jacketed police officer tried to stop them but they brushed past him in the name of MI6. Aldous raised his handgun and tried to take aim but all the Protect members had already rushed inside.
As Quick yelled at the nearby police to open the gates, Aldous stepped back to size them up. There was a royal crest mounted to each one about halfway up – a vital foothold. Nodding to himself, he ran at the gates and jumped at them. He caught hold of the bars with his hands and dragged his feet up onto the metal seal. Standing up, he clambered over the top of the gates, tearing his coat on the spikes on top. Once he had leapt down, he turned round to Quick.
“Go on without me, Asquith.” he ordered from the other side of the gate, “I'll find a way in.” Heeding the instruction, Aldous darted across the courtyard and through the wreckage of the front doors.
In Aldous' mind, Buckingham Palace had always been a synonym with opulence. What he failed to realise was that it was the definition of the term. Red carpet was laid throughout and all the bannisters on the stairs were overlaid with gold. The walls were painted in a subdued cream and straw, with alcoves for classical sculptures every so often. When they weren't recessed to hold marble busts, the walls were richly decorated with royal portraits in ornate frames. Every room was a feast for the senses.
But he wasn't here on a cultural visit: he was here to kill people. Minutes earlier, the Queen had been on the balcony. If he could make his way to the room leading onto the balcony, he could start his search from there. There was a staircase in front of him, dividing into two recurring branches on the landing. A good a place as any, he danced up the steps and was off.
“Hold it!” a guard barked at him, springing out of apparently nowhere. Aldous paused, his foot on the final stair. The guard was carrying an assault rifle and was dressed in the red tunic – like those on parade earlier. A traitor most likely.
“Don't shoot!” Aldous exclaimed, feigning terror, “I'm with Protect.” He raised his hands above his head peacefully. The adrenaline in his blood made them shake.
“Really?” the guard raised an eyebrow and lowered his weapon slightly. His answer came in the form of a bullet in the head.
“No,” Aldous laughed. As the body tumbled down the stairs, he stepped up onto the first floor corridor. There were a number of doors leading off it. The Queen could be behind anyone of them – so could Protect. He smirked, “One way to find out.”
Silently he approached the nearest door. Placing an ear to the panelling, he couldn't hear anything. Not that that told him much anyway. Taking a deep breath, he stepped away from the door and kicked it wide open with the sole of his shoe. Seeing no one in front of him, he dove forward into a roll and sprang upwards sideways. He saw three people. He shot three people. None of them looked even vaguely regal.
Working with brutal methodicalness, Aldous made his way along the corridor. He broke open each door and shot the inmates. Fortunately, none of them had been Her Majesty. Unfortunately, he reached the end of the corridor without finding anything. Glancing out of the window nearby, he calculated that he was too far over left – the room behind the balcony was further over. Right.
Swapping his ammunition for a new clip, he ran back down the corridor, down the stairs and up those on the other side. He was about to burst onto the next corridor when he heard the sound of a door closing and two Protect agents talking. In a split second, he threw himself to the floor.
“No luck there either.”
“She has to be in this one then.”
Aha!
Silently, he sprang to his feet and padded after the two operatives. They too had been part of the false guard. At least, Aldous hoped that guard had been false. He was good but he didn't want to have to contend with the entirety of the British armed forces. Pushing that worry aside for later, he quietly put a bullet in each of the Protect agents as they reached the last door on the corridor. One even had his hand on the doorknob – not for long though. He caught up with the guards and, stepping over their fresh bodies, pushed the door open.
If he had thought that the corridors were grand, he didn't know what the adjective for the room was. It was lengthy, twenty metres perhaps. The carpet was plush and red, with lavish amounts of detail in gold thread. Columns of red marble rose up past the most prodigious portraits of the most prodigious rulers England had ever seen. Even the ceiling wasn't safe from the gaudy displays of art. Detailed concentric patterns had been worked in plaster and gilt to go largely unnoticed by those that walked below. The only time they received any attention was that shared with the four colossal chandeliers that hung from the ceiling. Lavish and illuminating, they held a light up to all the other fineries in the room. Presently, they were unneeded as sunlight poured in through the windows that took up most of the east wall.
“Hello, Aldous.”
There was someone at the other end of the room. Someone who apparently knew him. Aldous stepped forward cautiously, his gun in front of him at all times, for a better look. At the far end of the room, there was a magnificent oaken desk, coated in lacquer. Despite its obvious antiquity, the person who had called him had no qualms about sitting on it, one leg crossed primly over the other.
“Hello, Verity.” he smiled coldly.
“For a dead man, you've been quite busy,” she remarked, fixing her gaze on him. She was dressed in full body-armour, pads and plates everywhere. Her flaxen hair was tucked away beneath a Kevlar helmet and there was an assault rifle resting in the crook of her lap.
“Well, I always an active retirement.” Aldous shrugged. Looking past Verity, sitting rigidly in a high-backed chair, he saw the Queen. For all the power invested in her, for all the plots that revolved around her, she looked surprisingly feeble. Dressed in a modest green dress and a snowy perm. She stared back at him with bleary eyes behind cumbersome spectacles. Despite all the titles and all the honours and all the riches, she looked like what she was – a frail, little lady. He inclined his head in her direction, “You know I've come for her?”
“I do,” she nodded once, “And that's why I'm here.” She fixed him with her most imperial of glares, resolute in the face of adversity. However, it fell, and she sighed, “Why do it, Aldous?”
“I do a variety of things. You'll have to specify.” Aldous answered blankly, openly checking his remaining ammunition in front of her. He slid the clip back into the weapon with a resounding click.
“Why did you turn on me?” Verity asked. He was genuinely surprised at the look of hurt on her face. Defection and double-cross were all part of the game in their business and she was taking it personally.
“You didn't offer me any proof that I could trust you.” he shrugged, glancing out the window and down The Mall. The crowd was beginning to disperse, under police insistence. The main gates had been opened.
“For God's sake, Aldous! I gave you my body!” Verity exclaimed, her voice breaking with the emotion she felt. There were actually tears in her eyes. She balled her hand into a fist and thumped it against her chest, “I was more intimate with you than anyone else alive. If you couldn't trust me after all that, what could I do?”
“In truth,” Aldous answered, after an awkwardly long pause, “There was nothing more you could have done.” He almost sounded apologetic. Almost but not quite. What they had shared was fantastic but it wasn't anything special. Sex was just part of life; it happened all the time. He shrugged again, “I just can't trust people. They cheat. They lie. They betray you. And in my profession, that'll just get me killed.”
“That's really sad.” Verity remarked evenly, gaining control of herself again. She wiped away the tears with the base of her palm. It was a compromise everyone had to make; to survive alone or live and die in company. In the end, it wasn't even a choice.
“Mm, or something like that.” Aldous snorted flippantly. He raised his Five-SeveN and took perfect aim, at the point right between Verity's eyes. “Anyway, I'm not going to let you kill Her Royal Highness. If that means killing you,” he shrugged, “C'est le guerre.”
“I'm not trying to kill the Queen, Aldous.” Verity stated matter-of-factly, because it was fact. She stood up and faced him but didn't make a move with her weapon. “Neither am I the head of Protect. I was telling the truth the whole time. You were deceived – just not by me.”
Suddenly, Verity was thrown backwards against the table as a spring of blood blossomed up out of her chest. The Queen visibly flinched and shivered at the sight. Verity didn't move but blood began to spread outwards across the desk beneath her. Aldous whipped around, to see who had fired the shot.
Quick was there, standing behind him with a rifle.
“Sorry to interrupt your little reunion,” Quick apologised aloofly, lowering his weapon, “But I don't have time for chat.”
“What did you do that for?” Aldous exclaimed, surprised at how angry he was. It had all happened so fast he hadn't even had time to be shocked at Verity's last words. His chest rose and fell heavily as he tried to control himself.
“Excuse me, soldier!” Quick snapped, stamping the butt of his rifle down on the floor, “But these are terrorists we're dealing with. She was a traitor and guilty of high treason. She was going to assassinate Her Majesty.”
“But she said she wasn't. She said she wasn't part of Protect either.” Aldous countered, regaining a veneer of composure. Brow furrowed in consternation, he glanced over his shoulder at the body on the table and back to Quick.
“That was a lie. She would have said anything if she thought you were going to kill her.” dismissed Quick. Frankly, he would have expected more from Asquith. It was practically the oldest trick in the book. He was supposed to be better than this.
“No, she wouldn't.” Aldous argued, holding up a sharp finger. Slowly, he stepped towards Quick, explaining his thesis, “Verity knew me, she knew I would have killed her regardless, so it wouldn't matter what she said.” He stopped just in front of his superior, dealing him a crystal sharp stare, “So why did she say it?”
“I don't know!” Quick shrugged irritably, his voice rising again. He didn't know where Asquith was going with this line of inquiry. It was pointless.
“Maybe,” Aldous whispered dangerously, “Because it's the truth?” Quick didn't reply this time. Wordlessly, he looked back at Aldous sullenly. Slowly, Aldous nodded, “It is, isn't it.”
Now Quick laughed.
And drove his knee into Aldous' gut. The agent folded up double as the wind was driven from him. Before he could recover, Quick brought his weapon up over his head and brought the stock down on his exposed head. The blow dropped Aldous immediately. He fell to the floor and watched his consciousness dance around him.
Ignoring him, Quick walked forward towards Her Majesty. The diminutive royal tried to meet him with a steely determination but there was no denying the quiver in her jaw. Calmly, Quick leant the rifle against the desk. He wasn't going to waste the moment he had been working up to for so many long years.
“Do you know what the real irony of this is?” he asked the Queen as he drew his handgun from its holster. She resolutely refused to answer but it didn't matter; it was rhetorical. “Tomorrow, of all the obituaries, yours will be the only one on the front page.”
And then he shot her, right between the eyes.
The Queen jerked back in her chair as if she had been stunned. Indeed, the surprised look on her face told much the same story, minus the entry wound. After a moment, the body slipped off the chair and hit the floor, with a dull thud.
“Hm,” Quick noted with a touch of sadness, “That was disappointedly easy.” Shrugging to himself, the real head of Protect returned his weapon and walked out of the room. He should make his escape before any more of the real MI6 showed up.
It was a few moments later when Aldous had enough sense and energy to stand up. The back of his neck and his abdomen vied for his sympathies and he still saw spots. But he could see more than that. He dashed around the desk to where the Queen lay lifeless. He didn't even bother with a pulse – it was quick and clean. Execution style.
Aldous didn't know how to feel. He had thought that his mission in the past year had been to protect the monarchy, to preserve the Queen's life. But that had just been a front for the real terrorists. Did that mean his goal had really been regicide? Personally, he was no fan of a constitutional monarchy but he would never had attempted something like this. Shaking his head, he stood up and turned to Verity.
She too was in a state. She lay on the table, still and pale. The bullet had struck her left chest, just above her second rib. It had missed her heart but there was still a lot of blood. If she wasn't dead, she certainly looked it. Like a macabre paramedic, he reached down and palpated for her carotid. A formality more than anything...
“Honestly,” Verity breathed, opening her eyes slowly. Aldous started momentarily but quickly regained himself. She had a habit of clinging on to life, he noted, just like Siberia, a few years back. He found her pulse; it was fast but weak. Not a good sign. She made a weak gesture of clearing her throat and continued. “How did you not see this coming?”
“Don't talk.” Aldous answered, partly out of concern for her survival, mostly because he didn't have an adequate answer. As they spoke, Quick was probably making good his escape – and that bothered him. He had been deceived, one of the few things that truly irritated him. He pressed his hand hard down on Verity's wound, in an attempt to staunch the bleeding. He didn't know why – up until a few minutes ago, she had been his enemy.
“Much as I appreciate the groping, Aldous,” Verity spluttered, “I think you should get after Richard Quick.”
“Is that an order? Because I'm retired.” Aldous remarked, as the blood oozed up between his fingers, “Besides, it doesn't matter what I do. The Queen's already dead.”
“Not exactly.” an incredibly refined voice behind him corrected. He glanced over his shoulder, keeping a hand on Verity, and couldn't believe his eyes.
The Queen was standing there, alive and well. He blinked. It wasn't the same Queen he had examined moments before. That one had been wearing a pea-green excuse for a dress; this one was bedecked in a royal blue ensemble. But it was more than that. Aldous could feel the authority emanating from the diminutive person in front of him. In the body of a elderly lady, there was a leader of men, strong of will and impassioned. Gregory stood behind her, his handgun drawn and ready for action.
“After being informed of the danger One was in, One thought it prudent, if a little underhanded, to deceive her subjects.” the living Queen explained. She turned her head to the double on the floor and her countenance was overcast with sadness. “It is a providence that there are still loyal subjects in the realm.” She returned her gaze to Aldous and it hardened over, “And are you a loyal subject, a soldier for my cause?”
“I'm an assassin.” Aldous retorted darkly, with a grin, “My name is no one and my country is nowhere.”
“An assassin? And so young,” The Queen appeared momentarily surprised but then her eyes narrowed and she was all business. “Then I have a job for you. To track down that nefarious traitor and bring him to justice – with extreme prejudice, if possible.”
Aldous stood there. Go after Quick. In his heart, it was what he wanted. After the tricks he had played on him, it was sweet revenge. But Quick wasn't a faceless target – they had shared drinks just the other night. Then that made it personal. But he was retired, as he kept telling people. Wait, why was he trying coming with so many excuses? The answer was obvious. Aldous grinned wickedly,
“It's gonna cost you.”
Quick calmly walked out of the doors that his agents had so usefully blown apart earlier. He stopped in the middle of the yard and checked his watch. The second hand ticked by precisely. He glanced around. Apart from the bumbling plods around the perimeter, it was quiet.
To his relief, it didn't stay quiet for long. A bass thrumming, rising in frequency, filled the air as a cloud of dust skidded around the corner of the yard. It came to a halt in front of Quick and the smokescreen cleared. In the midst of it, Lloyd was resting on a motorbike, the engine ticking over quietly. A side-car had been attached.
“You're late.” Quick commented with a note of annoyance, as he clambered into the side-car. He was a big man and it was tight fit but it was necessary. It didn't help matters that there was a sub-machine gun tucked under the seat.
“You've obviously never tried parking in Westminster, have you?” Lloyd quipped back, from behind his helmet. Compared to the nightmares of yellow lines and congestion charges and traffic wardens, regicide was a doddle.
“Let's just get out of here.” Quick answered dismissively. Nodding once, Lloyd revved up the engine and put the bike into gear. It picked up speed fast and they roared out of the palace gates, past stunned policemen and down The Mall.
Minutes later, Aldous sped out of Buckingham Palace. He had seen the motorbike leave but he didn't have any transportation of his own. Who in London, and their right mind, did? He looked around desperately; a car, a motorcycle, a bike even. Nothing. All he wanted was an engine, some wheels and possibly a CD player but there was nothing fitting the bill in the immediate area.
There were horses though.
He ran out of the gates towards the nearest mounted police officer. He paused and thought about what he should say. He was covered in blood, his clothes were torn, and he was brandishing an illegal weapon. In fairness, there was nothing he could say that could excuse him in the circumstances. So instead, he picked up a rock and threw it at the policeman. It caught them on the side of their riding helmet and tipped off the horse. Before they could recover, or before the horse could bolt, Aldous sprang up and mounted the beast.
Now, the strike-back could begin.
The horse didn't move. It obviously didn't share his enthusiasm. Aldous had never ridden a horse before – not properly. Idly, he wondered where the throttle was. Holstering his weapon, he picked up the reins in front of him. Experimentally, he tugged at them. The horse moved forward a few steps but it was hardly the explosive gallop he had hoped for. Aldous cringed; vainly, he tried to remember what John Wayne or Lee Marvin had done in those old western movies. He also tried to remember if he had even seen any of those old western movies.
“Hey, that's my horse!” the displaced police officer shouted at him, which didn't help matters, “What do you think you're doing?!”
Suddenly an idea came to Aldous. He twisted in the saddle and gave the horse a hard slap on the flank. Surely that would do something. It did. Neighing in shock, the horse reared, sending the nearby police running. Aldous almost lost his grip and only saved by the surprisingly strong reins. The horse fell back down on four feet and took off.
After the initial confusion, Aldous set his mind to the job. The horse cantered around the fountain in front of the palace and broke into a gallop in The Mall. Aldous grinned and started to rock back and forwards in time with the gait. This was actually quite exciting.
The Mall was the tree-lined avenue that led from Buckingham Palace in the east to Trafalgar Square in the west. Roughly a kilometre in length, it exists as a ceremonial route. When crowds have to cheer as a monarch or celebrated head of state goes by, The Mall is the place to do that. Normally, it would jammed with cars but the road had been closed due to Her Majesty's birthday. Union Jacks had also been hung from the procession of poles lining both sides of the street. Aldous had free rein down the Queen's Driveway.
Ahead of him, in the distance, he could see Lloyd' motorcycle at the other end of The Mall, heading through Admiralty Arch. His prey in his sights, he urged the horse onwards. The beast whinnied and pounded onwards, sweat and slobber flying backwards. But, even in the high thrill of the chase, Aldous knew it wasn't going to work. Flat out, a motorcycle could do upwards of two hundred miles an hour. A cheetah could only manage a tepid seventy-five – and he wasn't even riding a cheetah.
Unsure of how to stop the horse, Aldous (somehow) steered the creature towards the greener, softer surface of St James' Park. When he thought it was slowing down, he jumped off the animal and rolled across the lawn. The horse came to a halt and looked back him, slightly confused.
No, the horse had been a good start but he needed something faster if he were going to catch up with the traitor Quick. He glanced around, searching for something, anything, with an engine. His eyes fell upon something a short distance away, in the confines of Wellington Barracks. This time, it at least had an engine. That would do nicely. Aldous broke into an uncontrollable grin.
It was an exceptional day to be alive.
To that end, the traffic trundling along the Victoria Embankment was pretty standard. BMW drivers that believed they owned the road. Lambourghinis next to Vauxhalls. Taxis executing manoeuvres that were against not only the laws of the road, but also the laws of physics.
Amongst all this was a red motorcycle that was obviously in a hurry. The biker forced his vehicle through the narrowest of gaps and slowed for nothing, despite having a side-car attached. And a passenger in the side-car! Quick and Lloyd were making good progress. In another ten minutes, they would be at the Tower of London. By evening, France. Tomorrow, anywhere.
“Is there anyone following us?” Lloyd shouted over the wind whipping past them.
“Police? I don't think so!” Quick laughed, throwing a cursory glance backwards anyway. Even though they had committed an act which roughly half the country would by now approve of, it was still best not to be around to witness the public reaction. “They're so backwards they probably don't even realise that the Queen's dead.”
“What about Aldous?” Lloyd asked with a nervous quaver. Police he could handle. He could dance rings around the Met. Aldous was a different matter entirely. Lloyd didn't know if he would still be alive if Aldous hadn't joined their side.
“Last time I checked, he was trying to find the second gear on a horse.” Quick quipped, relaxing back as much as he could in the cramped space of the side-car. Pursuing them on horseback – oh, it was heroic, certainly, but it was as antiquated as the monarchy. By now, he had probably wrapped it around a lamp-post.
Suddenly, the road in front of them exploded!
The ground shook as dust, tarmac and bits of Volvo were sent flying. Lloyd braked sharply and the bike skidded sideways to a halt. Where just a moment ago road had been, there was now just a crater in the ground, exposing the water pipes below. As Quick coughed up the central reservation, Lloyd looked around sharply, his visor shielding him from the dust.
“What the hell was that?!”
He found the answer a quarter of a mile to the west, further up the Embankment. There was a tank on the road. Its large bore barrel was pointing in their direction and, even from here, he could see tendrils of smoke twirling upwards from the mouth of it. He couldn't see the driver but he had a fairly good guess.
Who else would be crazy enough to drive a tank along the Thames?
Time to get it in gear.
It had been surprisingly easy acquiring the tank (A lightweight little thing, perfect for city-driving). When he told the regiment on guard at the barracks that the Queen had been assassinated, they rushed into action – to head to the palace. In the confusion, no one seemed to notice its disappearance. And it was infinitely easier to drive than that horse!
As he powered up Embankment at a steady thirty miles an hour, he turned his mind to the missions he had undertaken in the previous year. In front of him, cars in both lanes wisely swerved onto the pavement. He had been led to believe that they were for the good of the State, for Queen and Country. How had he been deceived?
Hm, the first real mission had been Bristol. That pathetic internet reporter or something. Quick had told him that he was disseminating republican propaganda on the internet. Aldous had just assumed that was true but looking back, Quick could have said anything. And that was the same day that Prince Harry was assassinated.
Then there was Christmas at Television Centre. Quick had said that Protect were going to sabotage the Queen's Speech. By blowing up the main antenna, he had thought he had prevented the sabotage. On reflection, it seemed much more likely that he had actuated it.
After the new year, there had been the train job, on the way to Switzerland. He and Lloyd had intercepted a Protect agent and confiscated his files. But there was no way of proving that man was Protect. He could have been any kind of operative, with any kind of information. He could have just as easily have been MI6.
Then, Westminster, only a month ago. But they had been actively protecting the monarchy that time. There had been exploding hymn-books and snipers in the wings. Wait, explosive devices and snipers? Surely that was excessive. As if Protect wanted to be caught, wanted to be stopped. Ah, they had been keeping him busy! That had been the day when Prince Phillip had died.
The times when royals had actually been assassinated, he was always somewhere at the time. If he had been present, he would have tried to save them, as per his remit. But Quick didn't want that, so he had to keep him busy elsewhere.
He had been played. Pure and simple.
Quick had taken a big gamble. If he had just stopped once in the preceding months and considered the evidence, just one shred of doubt could have tipped the scales of his allegiance. But he hadn't. The bare truth was he had been having far too much fun. His retirement, since he had escaped from that mental institute, had been relaxing, but it paled in comparison to the blood-lust, the thrill of the chase, the report of un-silenced weapons. This was far more interesting.
But he had been deceived. He had been deceived and he would make sure those responsible would pay. He wouldn't have minded if they had just asked him to defect, if they had honestly admitted that they were terrorists. He may have joined them anyway, depending on his inclination. But Quick thought he could control him, like a pawn, like a puppet.
It was an unforgivable sin.
Lloyd jerked the motorcycle off the Embankment road, across the pavement and up the path leading to the fortress, kicking up gravel in his wake. Contrary to previous thought, you could move through rush-hour traffic faster in a tank than in a bike. Aldous was snapping at their exhaust with several tons of royalist metal.
As soon as he had sped through the gateway, Protect agents just inside pushed the ancient doors closed. Quick leapt out and Lloyd began to throttle off. The few, scattered tourists inside the grounds glanced in their direction but quickly returned to their tour-guides' narrative of the Princes in the Tower.
“Report, soldier,” Quick barked at one of the operatives who had closed the gates. The other was busy slotting a cross-beam into place. Quick had breathing fast, relieved to have several metres of stone wall between him and Asquith. He hadn't been certain that they would make it in time. As a sailor, he was surprised at the speed of the tank.
“The Tower is in lock-down, sir, and the helicopter is ready for take-off.” the agent answered punctually, offering a sub-conscious salute at the same time. “All entrances and exits have been secured. Nothing short of the army can get in here now.”
“That's unfortunate.” Quick sniffed. He paused, running a short mental calculation. That should just about do. “Where is the chopper?”
“In the inner courtyard, sir,” the guard replied, “Next to the White tower.”
“Thank you.” Quick nodded. He turned and began to jog down the length of the inner wall. When he was a few metres away, he turned around and, jogging backwards, shouted after him, “Your sacrifice won't be in vain.”
The guard blinked, confused by his superior's parting words. He watched as Quick stopped next to Lloyd and exchange a few words. Then he was off again, and so was Lloyd, heading inside the inner wall. It was only then that he noticed the rumbling that had been growing around him. It almost sounded like an oncoming storm but the funny thing was that he could feel it in the ground as well. It was like...
The guard would never complete that simile. Behind him, the gates were vaporised into infinitesimal splinters, some of which embedded in his back. Not that he noticed because what destroyed the gates soon destroyed him. In seconds, he and his partner were crushed under the treads on Aldous' tank.
It stopped inside the Tower after just squeezing through the gate. Aldous rotated the lock, pushed open the hatch on top and raised a curious head. The air was filled with the screams of tourists, desperate for an exit, and smelt of pulped wood. Lloyd's motorcycle stood a short way in front of him but Lloyd and Quick were nowhere to be seen.
He stood at the corner of a cobbled walkway. It led off to the right and straight ahead. On either side, the walls of the Tower rose up around him. Narrows slits in the brickwork had been designed with archers in mind, centuries ago, but he was quite sure a sniper would have no trouble adapting to them. The tank had just squeezed through the gate but it was far too cumbersome to drive through the passages.
Aldous was aware that every second he spent deliberating, Quick might be closer to escaping. Personally and professionally, he couldn't let that happen. He would just have to chance it. He drew his handgun, loaded a fresh round and pulled back the barrel. It rebounded with a satisfying click.
Once more, into the breach.
The assassin stepped forward cautiously, counting the narrow windows on either side of him. There were considerably more on his right, in the outer wall. He swiftly stepped to the side until his back was up against the wall. At least he wouldn't die from probability now.
Weapon raised, he edged along slowly, watching for any sign of movement around him. There was none. The tourists, terrified at his surprise entrance, were throwing themselves against the exits and the Beefeaters were doing their best to unlock them. The distant clamour penetrated the silence and harmonised with the beating of his heart.
Above him, secreted away in the inner wall, Lloyd was lying prone in front of one of the windows Aldous had busied himself with counting. A lesser agent had procured a sniper rifle for him and he was just adjusting the sights. It was a little unnecessary, with the target less than twenty metres away, but he didn't want to miss. If Aldous got wind of his position, that would...complicate things.
Finally satisfied with the scope, he closed one eye and took aim with the other. There was no wind inside the castle and he only had to lead the sights by a small amount. One bullet, straight through the forehead. Even Aldous Asquith couldn't survive that. Lloyd licked his lips, and gently squeezed the trigger.
And missed...
Something had nudged him at the last second, distorting his aim. Not by much, though. The bullet missed Aldous' head and grazed his shoulder instead, tearing through his shirt and jacket, before embedding in the masonry behind. Shocked into action, Aldous dived forward and came up in a crouch, the barrel of his weapon darting wildly along all possible trajectories.
“You idiot!” Lloyd seethed, spitting the words out through gritted teeth, “Do you know what you've done?”
“Yes, and I enjoyed it.” the person behind him answered defiantly. Lloyd heard the unmistakable sound of a gun barrel being pulled back. He cringed; he recognised the voice. “But not half as much as I'm going to enjoy what I'm about to do.”
“Gregory.” Lloyd seethed, his grip tightening around the sniper rifle.
“You've been quite a pain, Mr Lawrence.” Gregory continued aloofly. After ensuring Dominus and the Queen's safety, he had caught up with Asquith shortly before he put the tank in gear. For some reason, he hadn't seemed pleased to see him but had agreed to take him along. “It's time to be put down.”
“We'll see about that!” Lloyd growled and rammed the butt of his rifle sharply upwards into Gregory's gut. The MI6 agent was winded and his grip on his weapon slackened. Lloyd sprang onto all fours and swung one leg around, knocking Gregory's legs out from under him. One agent fell to the floor as one agent got to his feet.
Lloyd seized the opportunity and ran. Temporarily, he had the advantage but the quarters were a little too close for his liking. With a partial retreat, he could take stock, draw up a plan, and cement his advantage. He dashed down the hallway as fast as he could. Though not fast enough. On the floor, Gregory narrowed his eyes and fired. The bullet caught Lloyd in the calf, not deep enough to impair his gait, but enough to hurt like Hell.
Groaning, Gregory dragged himself to his feet. He shouldn't have said anything. He should have just shot him the back and have done with it. But that just wasn't British! He took a few deep breaths, feeling the dull ache in his middle, and set off in the direction Lloyd had gone. His handgun led the way.
Lloyd could run but he couldn't hide, Gregory realised with some smug satisfaction. Near the end of the corridor, he found a spill of blood dribbling through the cracks between the stones. But this wasn't some relic of war and treason from centuries gone by. It was fresh, from treason happening today. Beyond it, crimson drips and drops periodically marked the floor. He might as well be bleeding breadcrumbs.
Gregory walked briskly but he was in no great hurry. Lloyd wasn't going anywhere; it was only a matter of time before he caught up with him. All he had to do was follow the blood. As he strode on, he slid the clip from his Sig Sauer P226 and checked his ammunition. Satisfied, he clicked it back into place.
The trail led to part of the castle undergoing restoration work. A steel mesh had been fixed across the passageway, with a door set into it. Various signs, warning visitors and advising hard hats, were posted about. The door had been locked with a loop of chain through the mesh but when Gregory inspected it, the chain fell apart easily. Lloyd was hardly being cautious.
Gregory pushed open the door and stepped forward. The hallway opened up, ballooning out to the sides, with wrought iron chains running up and down. He heard the sound of rushing water. In front of him, there was a gap in the floor, spanned by a single beam of wood. He glanced over the edge and saw a dark mass of water flowing sedately underneath him. He was near the Traitor Gate – a passage between the Tower and the Thames. Presumably, this chamber housed the mechanism for raising the portcullis – or it would if it wasn't being repaired.
Ahead of him, past the gap, there was another mesh across the corridor. The trail of blood dripped across the makeshift bridge and led towards it. Uncharacteristically for him, Gregory mused, Lloyd was making this far too easy.
Eager to continue the hunt, Gregory stepped onto the beam and began to walk across the drop. He had also reached the other side when he felt something cold drip onto the back of his neck. Gregory's eyes widened. It might have been just water but somehow, he doubted...
Suddenly, Lloyd dropped down from a recess in the ceiling and knocked him off the plank. Gregory called out and tumbled downwards, catching the edge of the gap with one hand at the last moment. Calmly, Lloyd stepped onto the stonework and, with his good leg, nudged the beam into the water. After a conspicuous pause, it made a tremendous splash, wetting Gregory's calves.
“Oh, hello, Gregory.” Lloyd beamed, squatting down next to the MI6 agent, “So sorry about that. I didn't see you there.” Gregory was sweating with the effort to hold on and his arm was on fire. It was academic; they both knew he couldn't hold on forever. Lloyd proffered him a hand, just out of his reach, “Would you like a hand up?”
“No thanks,” Gregory spat, through gritted teeth. He glanced up at the Protect operative leering over him. All the pain he had been through, all the anguish Dominus had suffered, all the betrayal and deceit. It was all his fault. There was no way he would going give him the satisfaction of drowning too. He smiled, a sick grimace, “But I'll take a foot instead!”
Swinging his weight to the side, Gregory reached up with his free hand and latched onto Lloyd's ankle. Suddenly, Lloyd didn't have time for jokes as his breath caught in his throat. Gregory pulled, Lloyd slipped and fell over the edge. Fighting gravity, he flailed desperately and caught hold of the brickwork next to Gregory.
“Well done!” Lloyd snarled, glancing to the agent on his left, “Really well done, idiot!”
“There's a lot of equivalency in this job,” Gregory smiled. He had nullified the advantage. But that didn't change the fact that he was hanging over the Thames next to an enemy operative. There wasn't much either of them could do, either to save themselves or to damn the other.
Looking around for anything he could use to regain the high ground, or ground in general, he spied his pistol. He had dropped it when Lloyd jumped him and he had thought it lost, but it had caught on a loose brick that was sticking out of the wall. What's more, he thought he could reach it. That would soon put an end to this matter.
But it's hard to be sly and secretive when someone's hanging right next to you. As he stretched to the side to try and retrieve his firearm, Lloyd saw what he was up to and was doing his own plotting. If Gregory got the gun, that was it for him. He could let the MI6 man get it, then, obviously. With his free hand, Lloyd reached into the back pocket of his jeans withdrew a flick-knife.
He snapped the blade open and spun it around in his hand for a better grip. Gregory's attention was elsewhere, his fingertips just brushing against his weapon. Perfect chance. Lloyd raised the blade over his head and drove it into Gregory's arm, the one currently keeping him dry.
Gregory cried out and instinctively released his grip on the edge. Only then, did he realise his mistake. Gravity wrapped him in its embrace and he began to fall. As he did so, he reached out, not for a hand-hold, but his gun. He grasped the butt and rammed his fingers against the trigger, not even trying to aim.
Hearing the shots, Lloyd pressed himself close against the wall. The bullets flew wide and missed him. Then there was a splash, higher in pitch than the beam that had sunk earlier. Lloyd relaxed. What he didn't see was the bullets hit the ceiling above him and ricochet back towards him. The first two passed him by but the third hit him in the back of his hand. He took a sharp intake of breath and drew the injured limb towards him.
The pain, first from his calf, and now from his hand, dulled him somewhat to his surrounding. However, he was still aware of a vague sensation, like wind rushing past him. He turned around and the pit of his stomach dropped out of him. There was the Thames, deep and black, rushing up to meet him.
Gregory had been right. There was indeed a lot of equivalency.
A second splash.
Diving out of the way, he pressed himself up against the opposing wall, hoping that there was only person trying to kill him. Well, that was patently ridiculous. Hopefully, then, there was only one in the vicinity. His back to the wall, he headed down the walkway. Underneath the screaming and clamour he thought he could hear something...rotor blades?
He passed through into an inner courtyard, the inner courtyard. The square edifice of the White Tower stood defiantly in the middle, annoyingly obscuring half the view. Quick was nowhere to be seen but the sound of a helicopter (probably) grew louder. Following his gut, and his gun, Aldous went to the left.
A good choice, as it turned out.
The helicopter lay straight ahead of him, ready for take off. It was a military issue, borrowed in the same way he borrowed the tank, no doubt. It was a small thing, as craft go, but it still had room for two M2 Browning mini-guns mounted at the front. They would give even him a run for his money.
What's more, Quick was standing right beside it, talking with the pilot. More accurately, yelling; up close, the helicopter was making awful noise. The two of them were being heavily buffeted by the downdraft from the spinning rotors. Quick had his back to him, which suited Aldous.
Quite casually, he walked up to the men. If he ran, he might alert the pilot, who would alert Quick, who would shoot at him, which...would be bad. Only when he was within a few feet of Quick did he raise his gun. The pilot saw it but by then, it was too late. A second later, he was dead and his helmet was no good to anyone. Quick began to turn but Aldous smashed the butt of his weapon in his jaw, felling the Protect leader.
“Aldous,” Quick muttered obscenely loud, just to be heard, “What an unpleasant surprise.”
“Why did you lie to me?” Aldous roared, pointing the Five-SeveN down at Quick. Neither were under the false impression that he wasn't prepared to shoot.
“After all I've done, we've done,” Quick shouted, wiping blood from the corner of his mouth and pushing himself up onto one elbow, “Treason, murder, sabotage, and you only care about why I lied to you?”
“A job's a job.” Aldous replied, “I don't care who I do it to or for. But I do care when someone tries to deceive me”
“My god, you are that petty!” Quick laughed, despite the immediate threat of a gun in his face. “Alright. I'll tell you. Deposing Her Majesty would be a lot simpler without having to deal with you. And killing you is evidently as hard as I first thought. So I got you out of the picture by putting you behind the camera.”
Aldous relaxed his aim as he considered Quick's answer. It made sense. For all his posturing and republicanism, Quick couldn't operate on infinite resources. If he had continued working with Verity and the real MI6, Quick would never have got this far. And as the Irish Mafia, et al, had learned on numerous occasions, he was quite a difficult man to kill. Recruiting him was dishonest but definitely the easiest solution. With his answer finally, all there was left to do was to kill-
Aldous suddenly felt the ground slip out from under him as gravity rose up to take him. While he had been occupied, Quick had got on his hands and swept his legs under him. As he fell, his grip slackened and his gun slipped free. It landed with an inaudible clatter on the floor of the open helicopter.
Aldous landed on his back with a grunt. He barely had time to catch his breath before Quick was up and standing on his windpipe. His eyes bulged as he realised quite how much he enjoyed oxygen. Quick looked down at him and smiled,
“I won't make the mistake of trying to kill you. Not when freedom is a chopper ride away. Who knows? We may meet again one day.” Aldous frowned silently. Quick leaned forward, putting even more pressure on his throat. His chest felt like it was on fire. Quick shrugged, “But I sincerely hope not.”
Tired of being the quite literal doormat, Aldous took hold of Quick's boot with both hands and twisted. The Protect leader lost his balance and for the second time came crashing down next to him. The weight gone, Aldous took in deep gulping gasps of breath and climbed to his feet. He staggered forward towards the helicopter to grab his gun.
No such luck. Quick was on his feet in an annoyingly fast time and grabbed hold of one of Aldous' feet. He pulled and dragged the Agent away, as Aldous scrabbled for his weapon in vain. Changing tack, he relented to Quick's influence and swung around with a right hook. The blow was enough to break Quick's grip on his foot but Aldous had more in store.
He grabbed hold of Quick by the collar of his naval parade tunic with his left hand and began to pummel him mercilessly with his right. Aldous couldn't help but smile as his wrath and bloodlust were sated simultaneously. He fought through a mist of blood sprayed from a punished nose as Aldous continued the assault.
He only stopped when Quick raised his hand and caught the oncoming fist. The older man crushed his hand before head-butting him in the face. Aldous stepped backwards unsteadily in a daze. To finish matters, Quick slapped him with a heavy bear-claw of a back-hander. Stunned, Aldous fell backwards and landed on his backside, feeling very confused.
With the only man in London who could stop him on the ground, Quick decided that it was time to leave. They were woefully behind schedule as it was. Lloyd would just have to make his own way...if he was alive. He leapt into the helicopter and, slamming the door closed behind him, moved into the cockpit. He sat down in the pilot's seat and buckled up – safety first.
In a perfect world, the corpse on the green would have been piloting the helicopter. Even in a moderately perfect world, Lloyd had had enough practice to get one into the air and keep it there. In reality, which was far from perfect, it was down to Quick. Fortunately, this was a Westland Lynx, a naval helicopter. He flicked a few switches on the control panel in front of him and took hold of the steering bar.
As it began to rise off the ground, Aldous finally came to his senses. In a few seconds, Quick would be gone for good. That would leave both the Queen and his own vengeance quite displeased. He didn't know which one he should be more worried about. He pulled himself to his feet as the helicopter rose above his head. The skids were just in his reach but he doubted he could make it in time.
Eyes darting around swiftly, he spotted a coil of rope lying nearby, along with some other helicoptering paraphernalia. Acting quickly, he grabbed the rope, tied a loop in one end and threw it at the escaping helicopter. It slid over the front of the right skid – just. He tugged on it and it didn't give way immediately; good enough. As more of the rope slipped out of his grasp, he tied the other end around his waist. As an afterthought, he grabbed a fire axe and tucked it under his belt.
Almost instantly, he was pulled aloft with a sickening lurch. He had the terrible sensation that he left his stomach behind on the ground. Pushing the nausea and vertigo aside for the moment, he focussed on getting up to the helicopter. Gripping the rope tightly in each hand, he gradually pulled himself up the rope.
By the time he could clamber onto the skid for (relative) support, the helicopter was hovering over the Tower of London. On his right, the Thames glimmered in the sun, and across it, the glass bubble of City hall glistened also. Everything was dazzling. Ahead stood the pomp austerity of Tower Bridge.
As the helicopter dipped forward to head downstream, Aldous clamped his legs tight around the skid. Only then did he sit up and take the hatchet from his belt. Leaning against the body of the helicopter for support, he swung his arm back and began to attack the window of the cabin door.
After a few hits, it shattered inwards. With his free hand, Aldous stuck his hand through the broken glass and tentatively felt about for the door release handle. He cut his wrist quite badly in the process – the latest in the day's list of injuries. But he persevered and found it! The door sprang back on its mechanism and flew open to the side.
There! On the floor of the cabin, surrounded by broken glass, his gun, the Five-SeveN. He leaned inside and stretched out his arm to reach it. With his fibres stretched to snapping point and his muscles screaming, he grasped hold of it. Success.
“Persistent bastard, aren't you?” Quick shouted over the sound the wind whistling past them, as he stood over him. He raised his leg and stamped down hard on Aldous' hand. Aldous winced, no one could be sure if he screamed. With his other leg, Quick kicked him in the head. Aldous blacked out and slipped out of the helicopter. The nuisance dealt with, Quick returned to the cockpit – the autopilot really wasn't to be trusted.
He shook the stars from his eyes and spat out the blood he had been inadvertently choking on. He sat up, which is quite a difficult manoeuvre suspended in mid-air. He still had hold of the Five-SeveN. He stared up at the underside of the helicopter. All he needed now was a clear shot.
He looked at where they were flying. Tower Bridge was rapidly approaching, and he was at the same level as the upper walkway. He didn't know what it would be like to be forced through a Victorian wrought iron fence and he had no desire to find out. Although, the beginnings of a plan were curdling in his mind.
He tucked his gun into the front of his trousers and set to work. Wrapping the rope around one hand and clinging to that grim-death, he worked loose the knots around his waist. The end of the rope fell away below him. Now all that stood between him and a watery grave was the fact that his hand had cramped up.
As the helicopter passed over Tower Bridge, Aldous threw himself over the fence and landed on the upper walkway of the bridge. A few brave tourists looked at him strangely; he ignored them. Picking himself up, he ran forward to the far side of the bridge, to the other fence, and tied the rope to it with the strongest, fastest knots that he could think of.
Now came the real test. If the knots didn't hold or if the rope snapped or if the skid broke off or if a million other possibilities came to pass, his plan would fail and Quick would get away. Holding his breath, he stepped back as the slack rope snaked along the bridge, passed over the fencing, and was pulled taut.
-Now!
With a reassuring twang, the helicopter stopped where it was in the air. The rumble of the engines rose as it strained against its leash. The tourists without the self-preservation to flee were taking photos of the spectacle. Slowly, the helicopter wheeled around to face him.
“What? Did you think this would stop me?” Quick laughed over a loudspeaker. Aldous winced – after numerous blows to the skull, he had something of a head-ache. The helicopter strained backwards and he could hear the hundred-year-old metal straining. Time was short. “I have a mini-gun – you've got nothing.”
“Coming from a military man, that surprises me.” Aldous shouted. He wasn't sure if Quick could hear him but it didn't really matter. He withdrew his weapon from his trousers and pulled back the slide on the barrel. The next bullet slid into place. “You should know that the size of your army doesn't matter, it's what you do with it.” He smiled, “I only wanted a clear shot.”
He fired, again and again, until the clip was empty and even then he kept firing. Every shot found its mark. They each pierced the glass front of the helicopter, passed through Quick and found a snug new home in the seat behind him. Aldous was close enough to see the surprise on his face – and the blood. After a few seconds of gurgling, the Protect leader pitched forward onto the controls, well and truly dead.
Aldous breathed out calmly. The magazine dropped out of his handgun. It was over.
He looked up as the helicopter began to pitch forward dangerously. Dead men made terrible pilots. The tourists on either side of him had already fled, finally seeing sense. Aldous paused for only a moment before he did likewise.
He didn't have to run for very long. The helicopter ploughed into Tower Bridge and smashed up most of its body. The bridge came off little better. It seemed to hang against the brickwork for a second before gravity twirled it in its fingers and dragged it down. As it fell, kerosene leaked into the electrics (or perhaps, electricity arced into the fuel tank) and the whole thing caught light. Aldous' hearing had been assaulted by many things that day, but the resulting explosion topped all of them.
The hot blast of the shock wave knocked Aldous off his feet. He fell prone to the ground, just as an escaped rotor blade flew over him. Other burning, albeit less deadly, pieces of debris began to rain down on him, as the wreckage of the helicopter tumbled off Tower Bridge Road and into the Thames.
A burial at sea – how fitting.
Far below him, Aldous could make out the sound of screaming, and sirens in the distance. He was bleeding, bruised and battered. His suit was simply ruined. He was out of ammunition and wasn't sure if he could even move.
Aldous rolled over and laughed at it all.
