The door shattered inwards, sending smoke and wreckage hurtling across the room, just catching Munroe’s back leg as he flung himself down by the side of the bed for cover. From underneath he had a direct line of sight to what had been a door moments earlier, and he watched as two pairs of boots swiftly filed inside. At the sound of Kessler yelling one of them turned and disappeared into the bathroom as the other slowly approached the far side of the bed. One of the terrace windows had been taken out due to the blast, blown onto the street outside, and as the boots got closer Munroe lay on his back and aimed his gun upwards, but low enough not to be seen over the top of the bed.
He wasn’t taking any chances. He readied himself as the tip of a the M4 carbine passed into view, aiming at the window, followed by a man wearing the exact same outfit as the hit squad back at Kessler’s chateau. The moment his balaclava-covered face became visible Munroe pulled the trigger, sending a single 19mm Parabellum bullet slicing through the man’s chin and into his brain cavity, dropping him to floor. Munroe then turned his aim to the bathroom and from underneath the bed clipped the other armed goon in the ankle as he appeared to investigate. As the man fell to the floor in agony, Munroe saw the Kessler’s shoes skip past him and outside into the corridor beyond. With the attacker’s head now clearly in sight, Munroe sent a single bullet straight through the gunman’s forehead.
Munroe leapt up and seized the nearest assault rifle lying on the ground, whilst in the background he could hear Kessler barking orders to what must have been the rest of the team. His position in the small hotel bedroom was no place to make a last stand, so he turned to the wrecked window and unloaded a barrage of shots towards the hallway before leaping from the terrace and downwards to the street below.
Moments before the jump he had visualised the outlay he’d noted earlier when gazing out into the street and it proved accurate as he landed directly on top of the parked white 6 Series BMW below, crumpling the roof and sending him rolling off, down onto the tarmac street. If that wasn’t enough to piss off the BMW’s owner then what came next certainly would as the metallic thudding sound of bullets striking the hood and roof forced Munroe to hug the side of the driver’s door. One of the bullets connected with the nearest wing mirror, sending shattered glass to the ground, and Munroe seized the largest, closest piece and positioned it to get a good glance at the person unloading his magazine. The man above was dressed identically to the others, as expected, but it was obvious to Munroe he wasn’t committed to a simple spray and pray of the car below. He was delivering timed single shots to the BMW’s roof so as to keep Munroe pinned down until his brethren made it downstairs to greet him.
This was no time for a waiting game and Munroe eased the carbine upwards as far as he could without offering an easy shot of himself and began firing indiscriminately towards the terrace. None of the shots connected, but they weren’t meant to, and moments later he received the reply he had wanted. A barrage of bullets rained down on the car until they suddenly ceased. Munroe threw himself backwards onto the road and found himself staring up, as expected, to see his attacker changing his clip. A short volley of shots to the man’s chest sent him careening back into the hotel room, and although not a kill shot due to the body armour it gave Munroe the window he needed. Leaping to his feet he dashed for the nearest side road opposite. Upon turning the corner the deafening sound of gunfire erupted again, sending pieces of the brick wall exploding behind him.
Munroe dashed up the side street, rubbing the rifle’s frame with his shirt to rid any fingerprints, and then he clipped out the magazine and dumped the carbine in a green wheelie bin further up before turning onto the main street at the end. He hurried along it until the next road and took the first left whereupon he dropped the magazine over the wall of someone’s residence and began scanning the parked cars. He made it about halfway down the road before coming to an abrupt stop next to a dark silver 1986 Porsche 911.
“Perfect.” He slid off his coat and retrieved his handgun from his pocket. He then flopped the garment over the window with one hand and, holding the gun barrel, brought the butt of the gun down hard against the glass.
It only took one attempt to shatter the window and he opened the driver’s door and threw his coat inside before kicking at the plate underneath the steering wheel until it broke off. Modern cars with security safety chips were a near impossibility to hotwire without the right equipment, but with an old model like this it was as easy as depressing a millennial. A few crossed wires and the sleek hum of the 911’s engine purred into life, and Munroe pulled out and began steadily heading down the road towards a set of traffic lights. Dawn was already breaking, with most of the street lamps beginning to turn off, and by the time he reached the lights and came to a stop he was already jabbing the redial button on his mobile. This time the call clicked through and a single word was spoken.
“McCitrick.”
Munroe began to open his mouth when in front of him a tan Humvee screeched to a halt and he found himself staring directly into the eyes of Tobias Kessler, as behind him a man wearing a balaclava was already raising his carbine through the passenger side window.
Munro dropped the phone, slammed the 911 in reverse, ducked down and hit the accelerator as bullets tore into the windshield. Using only his side mirror he sailed back down the street, clipping a white van and leaving a silver stripe down its side before he reached the crossroads. He bobbed back up and flung the steering wheel to one side, sending the 911 into a half pirouette before slamming the car into gear and accelerating off at high speed.
As Munroe sped down the one-way street, just missing an early morning delivery van, more bullets began hitting the boot. One hit the back window and, although remaining intact, the whole piece of glass shattered, making it impossible for him to see behind.
Munroe glanced at his wing mirror to see the Humvee in hot pursuit, and as he unleashed the power of the 911 he was surprised to see it keeping up. The vehicle must have been kitted out and loaded to keep the pace, but as he jammed the gearstick into fourth he began to pull away at high speed.
Munroe stretched over and probed his hand down towards the passenger side between the seat and the door, that black hole space where everything from keys to phones ends up. He felt the edge of his iPhone, which he managed to pinch with his fingers and retrieve. Up ahead was a roundabout and the mobile now began ringing. It was McCitrick.
Munroe was within centimetres of tapping the accept button when a thunderous high-pitched roar erupted from his right side and he turned to see another Humvee careening across the roundabout within metres of him. Munroe yanked on the handbrake and turned into the skid, bringing him parallel with the oncoming jeep, but it wasn’t enough. The Humvee clipped his back fender and sent both spinning almost 360 degrees, locked together in a duet, the force of the impact sending his mobile flying. The crash smashed out the 911’s passenger window and even before the two vehicles came to a screeching halt in the centre of the roadway Munroe had already pulled his gun from between his thighs and unloaded two well-placed shots into the Humvee next to him. The driver was hit in the head, immediately followed by the front passenger, but as the 911 slipped back into first gear and tore away the men in the rear of the jeep began firing, sending a line of bullet holes down the side of the 911.
In his wing mirror Munroe watched the passengers leap out of the Humvee and drag out the dead driver and front passenger as the other jeep carrying Kessler ploughed past them, back on Munroe’s tail. Up ahead the road was already beginning to fill with the early morning commuters. Somewhere below him the mobile was ringing again but there was no time to search for it, and as he sped ahead his choices became limited. Either hit the sidewalk and slam through an old woman wearing a knitted crochet bobble hat, hunched over with a wheelie bag, or come to a screeching halt. Munroe took the third option and skidded left through the entrance of Bordeaux’s Jardin Public and onto the white gravel walkway, beeping his horn as he went. A few joggers dove off to the grass as he zoomed through the lush green park and past an old-style carousel across the waterway to his right. The operators of the carousel flicked their heads towards him in surprise and watched as he sped past, sending up plumes of white dust from his wheels. Ten diving joggers, a stunned group of Tai Chi enthusiasts and a scrambling black Labrador later and Munroe was out of the park and back on the streets of Bordeaux, heading up Rue de la Course and into the north of the city.
The Humvee behind had now gapped the distance, having fared well on the park’s gravel walkways, and again the sound of gunfire flared up, the focus now on the boot of Munroe’s car where the 911’s engine was being put through its paces. The road ahead was thankfully fairly empty, but Munroe swerved back and forth attempting to avoid taking a direct hit, and he only just missed a parked-up municipal police car which immediately took after him and was almost clipped by the chasing Humvee. Luckily for everyone involved it was a crappy Citroën Berlingo and, even if it could have kept up, its chase was cut short as one of the jeep’s passengers leant out of the window and delivered a few shots to the police car’s front wheels, bringing it to a tire-burning full stop.
Munroe was now accelerating ever faster and he glanced down to see his iPhone sliding around the passenger footwell. He lurched downwards and grabbed it before momentarily ducking down again as another round clipped his headrest, sending pieces of foam against the windshield like the feathers of an exploding chicken.
Kessler could have been lying about the Guy Fawkes remark, but it wasn’t a chance Munroe was about to take. Given the audacious rescue of Icarus on Waterloo Bridge and the equipment they had used, anything was possible. The incident would have prompted tighter security around the centre of British power, but if his own experiences in the special forces had taught him anything, it was that there were no coincidences, and nothing was impossible if you had the sheer will and equipment to carry it out. If there was going to be an attack on Parliament they needed to know. And know now. How long had Kessler said… within the hour? And this jaunt through the streets of Bordeaux was making his window of opportunity narrower and narrower.
Munroe glanced down at the mobile and tapped the missed call symbol before looking back at the road. A cold bolt of fear ran through his body as he saw a yellow school bus with the red sign sticking out of its side reading ‘Arrêt’ just metres ahead. Munroe flung the 911 to the right, missing it by inches, and in that moment his perception melted into slow motion as he caught sight of a small brown-haired boy staring at the near miss with a look of absolute exhilaration on his face.
At least someone was enjoying the show.
With both hands on the wheel and the iPhone once more on the floor, the gunfire opened up again. Kessler’s men were not only merciless, they were fucking reckless, and it only bolstered Munroe’s belief that what Kessler had told him about the attack on Parliament was true. They were going above and beyond to stop him from telling anyone. Using automatic weapons in a populated city during a high-speed pursuit was insane, as was taking out a police car. The French may have garnered an unfair stereotype of surrendering easily since World War Two, but nothing could be further from the truth. When it came to gun crime or perceived terrorist attacks, the authorities came down fast and hard. There was no attempted soft negotiation as in the UK and the disabled police car’s occupants, now a few miles back, would already have made the call. An armed squad would already be en route to intercept them.
Somewhere beneath his seat the phone was ringing again and unable to take his hands off the wheel Munroe chose to ignore it and focus all his attention on making his escape, but with the ever-increasing traffic on the road and the build-up of commuters it was going to be tough to outrun his pursuers. If he had enough time then sure, the 911 could take them easily, but that was the point, he didn’t have the time. He needed to speak with McCitrick now.
Over the pounding grind of the Porsche’s engine a serene calm descended over Munroe and he already knew what he was going to do before he even decided to attempt it. The idea was so brazen, so irresponsible that it went against all his training, but he knew he could pull it off… probably.
Munroe retrieved the gun from between his thighs and weighed it in his hands. At a guess there were four, maybe five rounds left in the clip, and he turned his attention back to the straight road which stretched on for roughly three quarters of a mile. He could see further up there was a break in the traffic, and he dropped the gun back in his lap, slammed back the gearstick and gave it all the 911 had to offer. If he could just put enough distance between the Humvee and himself he had a chance.
As he pushed the car faster, winding between vehicles, he never once let up on the accelerator. Then when he reached an empty space in the road, void of traffic and about fifty metres from the next set of traffic lights, he veered off to the right, padded down hard on the brakes and with the handbrake yanked upwards as far as it could go brought the 911 to a sideways stop. The rubber of the tires was still screeching to a halt in a cloud of black smoke as Munroe flung open the driver’s side door and stepped out onto the street with his gun raised. He’d managed to put a good 200 metres between him and the Humvee. As it hurtled towards him, a carbine poked out of the back window and began firing.
The first barrage was well off target and hit the road beside him, but the second delivery was closer, one bullet grazing the back bumper of the 911. Despite the onslaught Munroe held firm, his aim unwavering, and as the Humvee closed in Munroe prepared to pull the trigger.
His first shot ricocheted off the bonnet but the second hit the windscreen. His perception now slowed and as he controlled the adrenalin spike already pumping through his veins, as experience had taught him to do, everything around him faded away; every sense in his body honed in on the target.
The next two shots were quick, tearing into the driver’s head and body, sending the Humvee out of control; it careered to one side and up the sidewalk before slamming bonnet first into a concrete pavement bollard. There was no give and the impact flipped the vehicle upside down onto the tarmac, sparks flying from the sides of its roof until it ground to a full stop just metres from where he was standing.
Munroe let out a short, relieved sigh. He was a bloody good shot, if he did say so himself, but he’d got lucky and he knew it.
At a glance all the passengers now hanging from their seatbelts were either dead or out cold. He took a step towards the upturned wreck with his gun still raised, but the sound of police sirens in the distance made him reconsider, and he turned around and got back into the 911. He was aware of a few bystanders nearby gawping at what had just happened but he made no eye contact and reached over to the passenger’s side for the umpteenth time and retrieved his iPhone. He was already returning McCitrick’s call as he turned off the main street in the opposite direction of the wailing sirens, and now began to trek a route out of the city. He’d have to find a quiet backroad and dump the car before making it on foot to the nearest bus station. That was unless he could find another older model car in the process.
The phone connected and McCitrick came on the line, his voice intense. “What the hell’s going on, Ethan?”
“I haven’t got time to explain. You need to clear out Parliament, now.”
There was a brief hesitation before the answer came. “Parliament! What are you talking about?”
“I’ve got information that an attack’s going to happen at Parliament within the next forty minutes, maybe less.”
“From who?”
“From the guy you sent me to check out. He’s with a group called Daedalus. You probably know more about that than I do.”
There was now a long pause and when McCitrick came back on he sounded monotone and cold.
“Are you sure about this?”
“Not a hundred per cent, but the armed men trying to kill me would suggest the information is solid.”
There was now another pause. “OK, Ethan, I’ll call it in as a potential bomb threat. The cabinet are arriving for an early morning emergency session as we speak. Most of them are already there.”
“Then you better get your arse in gear,” Munroe replied as he heard McCitrick barking orders to someone in the background before coming back on the line.
“How compromised are you?”
“Not sure. Still in the middle of it. I’ll find somewhere safe to hole up and make my way back to the mainland. But McCitrick, I want some answers when I do. DS5 and everything else.”
There was one final pause, followed by a cold reply. “Fine, but I’ll call you.”
The line went dead and Munroe dropped the phone into his lap. An attack on Parliament was something from the movies, and if it did occur it would be as outrageous as the time the IRA dropped a couple of mortar shells into Number Ten Downing Street’s garden a few decades earlier. He was hoping it would turn out to be a wish on Kessler’s part – the guy was a bullshit merchant, no doubt – but his gut told him the slip had been genuine. Either way, he wasn’t about to be dragged further into this shitshow until he’d found out exactly what McCitrick wasn’t telling him. He needed to know everything there was to know about DS5, Daedalus, the whole shebang – and all the dirt he suspected came with it.