Home Secretary Jacob Ryan stepped from his black Jaguar XJ Sentinel, barely acknowledging the security guard opening the door. He was already running late and as he swiftly made his way across the drive towards the visitors’ entrance of the Palace of Westminster, his mobile began to ring. Clutching his red formal brief binder in one hand he pulled the Samsung from his pocket and placed it to his ear, never slowing up his pace. “Ryan,” he answered gruffly, almost dropping his binder in the process.
“Secretary… we have a… Westminster… communication dow… return to… we’re on our…”
The line was crackling heavily and Ryan came to a stop and pressed the mobile closer to his ear. “McCitrick? You’re cutting out, I can hardly hear you.”
The line continued to fade in and out. “… urgent you… we have a… imminent.”
It was the words ‘urgent’ and ‘imminent’ that had Ryan look over his shoulder, and he began to walk back towards the Jaguar before raising the mobile into the air and staring at the signal bar before returning it to his ear.
“Imminent what, John?” he replied, and the closer he got to his car the more the interference faded until, within feet of the vehicle, the line fully restored.
“Sir, can you hear me?”
“Loud and clear. This better be important, I’m already late,” Ryan replied, rolling his eyes comically at his driver, who had exited the car upon his return and was standing dutifully waiting for any instructions to come his way.
“Sir, there’s been a bomb threat. The hard-line communications have been cut and mobile coverage is down. Local uniforms are on the way to you now.”
“On their way to me?” Ryan replied, puzzled but beginning to realise what was going on.
“Yes, sir. It’s the Houses of Parliament.”
Home Secretary Ryan allowed the phone to drop from his ear and gazed up towards the iconic, turreted tower of the Parliamentary Archives looming over the far end of the House of Commons as a feeling of panic washed over him.
“Peter, with me,” he yelled to his driver before pulling open the driver’s side door, hurling in his red brief bunder and then taking off like a maniac towards the visitors’ entrance. “Bomb threat.”
“Then we have to get you out of here, sir.”
“Bollocks to that, no one’s been told.”
Peter continued voicing his concerns but Ryan ignored them and ran into Westminster Hall, barking orders at the posted security guard as he ran past. “Evacuate everyone, there’s been a bomb threat.”
The guard barely blinked before springing into action as Ryan sped onwards, sternly ordering the stunned groups of tourists making their own way inside as he ran: “Everyone out, now. There’s been a bomb threat.”
There was almost no reaction as people froze, and as Ryan hurried down the long, stone-slabbed hallway it was only Peter and the security guard now yelling behind him that caused the mass of people to start rumbling towards the exit.
Ryan slid around the corner to the left and he picked up his pace as he sprinted along the red and tan encaustic tiles of St Stephen’s Hall, lined by stone statues of kings and politicians past, infused with light from the stained-glass windows and shiny brass chandeliers overhead. He leapt over the five broad stone steps at its end in one bound and finally came crashing through the entrance and into the central lobby, slipping on the shiny tiles underneath him and bringing himself to full stop against the central reception desk.
“Bomb, everyone out, now!” As he caught his breath the crowds of visitors remained still, stunned at the outburst, with the exception of a single man with his young son who immediately took off running back in the direction of where Ryan had arrived from. “Didn’t you hear me?” he puffed. “There’s a bomb in Parliament, get out, now!”
Within seconds the people nearest to the exits began to move forward and then, like a herd, everyone else followed, a slow walk turning into a mad dash.
All the parliamentary security guards took off in opposite directions, some towards the House of Lords and others towards the House of Commons chamber, where there was a full house.
From behind, Peter came piling in after him, skidding to a halt and grabbing the Home Secretary’s shoulder, shouting something about protocol, but Ryan pushed him off and began running down the long hallway towards the chamber beyond. Peter was still yelling at him to stop but Ryan was now in full flight. To citizens of the UK these people were just politicians, but to him they were trusted colleagues and welcomed adversaries and he would do all he could to help.
He approached the first set of open double doors. The security officer ahead was just heaving open the inner set when the shockwave hit. Ryan was lifted off his feet and sent hurtling backwards to the floor as the explosion punched through the inner doors in a balloon of smoke, crushing the security officer behind them and sending wood and debris peppering the hallway.
The sounds of muffled cries for help were the first thing Ryan heard and he opened his eyes to see the blurred, faded sight of the crafted wooden ceiling timbers high above him. At first he thought his vision was damaged, but as he turned his head to one side he realised it was due to the air being filled with thick dust and smoke. His ears felt like someone had stuffed them with cotton wool and for the first few moments he had no idea how he got there, until he caught sight of Peter just off to his left, splayed out on the floor like the statue of David.
“Peter,” he managed in a whisper before he propped himself up using his elbows, and it was now that he saw the devastation the explosion had caused. Both of the inner doors were missing, and the Commons chamber beyond was full of a thick fog as a dim flame, subdued by the smoke, flickered forebodingly.
With his head still swimming, Ryan slowly dragged himself up onto his feet and instinctively staggered over to Peter, where he knelt down with a shaky wobble and pressed his finger against the security guard’s carotid artery. There was a pulse.
“I need help.” His throat was dry and it came out in little more than a croak.
He swallowed a few times and then tried again. “I need some help here.” This time his voice gained some traction and from somewhere in the lobby there now came other cries for help.
Ryan turned his head towards the Commons chamber and found himself gazing up the bronze statue of Winston Churchill next to the hollowed-out doorway, staring down at him with his usual expression of stern defiance. On sheer impulse the Home Secretary got to his feet. He stared into the dark abyss that had been the chamber moments earlier, and among the swirls and intermittent sparks of electricity igniting in the air there could be seen the outlines of people congregating near the demolished doorway. Ryan moved towards the opening as the first shadowy figure emerged and he raised out his hand supportively as the sounds of pained groans began to fill the hallway. He held it there, outstretched, as the first stumbling figure reached him and through the smoke a quivering bloody hand with two missing fingers clamped around his open palm.
The navy blue BMW 7 Series raced down Victoria Embankment without slowing as John McCitrick stared out of the passenger-side window at the smoke rising above the building tops, hovering over Parliament like a bad omen. He’d heard the explosion upon leaving the Ministry of Defence less than a quarter of a mile away and the smoke only confirmed what had happened. “Move it,” he growled to the driver, who to his credit was traversing the busy embankment road like a professional slalom skier and even passing on the wrong side of the road to avoid the white bollards.
“Well at least Big Ben’s still standing.”
“Shut up, you tool,” McCitrick barked, already repositioning his gun holster on his hip as the BMW screeched around the corner and approached Parliament’s car parks. The fact that communication to Parliament security had been impossible due to the lines being dead showed that whatever had happened was highly organised. Even the localised mobile coverage had gone black, and that was no easy thing to pull off… not at all.
“Pull up here,” he said, pointing to the visitors’ entrance where dozens of people were sitting and lying as a number of police in hi-vis yellow jackets tried to get a handle on the chaos which was unfolding.
“Whereabouts, sir?”
“Where do you think, you twat?” he snapped, pointing to the smoke billowing from the visitors’ entrance.
As the driver endeavoured to manoeuvre through the onlookers, McCitrick could see people still staggering from entrance. Jesus he thought, it had gone off inside, possibly near the Commons itself.
“This’ll do.” As the car came to a halt he pushed open the passenger door and got out, turning briefly to his driver. “Get out and do some good,” was all he said before hurrying towards the smoke.
There were people everywhere covered in black and grey soot. Some sat nursing their wounds, others stood motionless staring back at the mayhem, wide-eyed and still in shock.
One woman was crouched down and gently shaking her baby, whose face was covered in the same grey soot, calling out for help. As a policeman approached McCitrick he pulled out a Home Office identification card and held it in front of him.
“That child needs help. First priority,” he said, pointing to the woman and her motionless baby.
The officer briefly inspected the ID and with a simple nod moved over to the distraught mother as McCitrick headed straight for the visitors’ entrance, barely taking note of the people taking photos on their mobile phones, a number even documenting their own tribulations, probably to be uploaded later to TikTok or Instagram. The scene was bloody and harrowing, but as McCitrick approached the still smoking entrance he saw something that stopped him in his tracks.
Home Secretary Jacob Ryan staggered from the doorway, his clothes singed black, a deep cut across his cheek dripping blood, holding the still body of a young girl, maybe ten years old, with blonde hair.
“Sir!” McCitrick rushed over to meet him as Ryan moved to a clear side of the gravel and placed the girl down on the ground. He then pulled off his suit jacket and began to administer CPR. McCitrick knelt down at his side and attempted to take over, but Ryan didn’t even register who he was and just pushed him away roughly. “Give her room!” he shouted and continued alternating between blowing air into her lungs while pinching her nose and then counting off the compressions to her chest.
Behind them a black-haired woman appeared from the crowd, her clothes and face covered in grey soot. “Lucy!” the woman cried out, dropping to her knees next to the girl, and although tears began to flow she stayed back while Ryan continued his CPR.
“C’mon, c’mon,” Ryan spat as he repeated the process like a man possessed and then, like that, the young girl’s body shuddered and she thrust upwards in a fit of coughing and clasped at her chest.
“That’s it, breathe slowly,” Ryan said, supporting her as she regained full consciousness. He leant back as the mother pushed in and held the girl in her arms.
Ryan stared at the two in relief, and then he rubbed the mother’s shoulder and stood back up to see a number of phones being pointed at him.
McCitrick tried to pull him away from the lenses, but Ryan jerked his arm away roughly.
The Home Secretary was still in shock.
“Sir, it’s me, McCitrick,” he said softly, and as he looked towards him there was a flicker of recognition in Ryan’s eyes.
“John. What happened?”
“You’ve been in a bomb attack, sir,” McCitrick answered, not sure how together, or untogether, Ryan was at that very moment.
“I know that,” he replied angrily, still getting his bearings. Then he gazed forward, suddenly becoming sombre. “They got all of them, John.”
“The cabinet? The bomb went off in the Commons itself?”
Ryan gave a weary nod. “I was metres from the door… and the carnage. Some are alive but… Jesus.”
It was impossible to tell who had been killed, that would come later, but as McCitrick turned to see firemen now rushing inside he focused on the moment and the way forward. Ryan was in no good state, but the man needed to know. “Ethan Munroe alerted us to the attack, but the timeframe was too small. We just didn’t have time to react fast enough.”
Ryan placed his hand on McCitrick’s shoulder to steady himself. “Last minute or not, he saved some lives today.”
“Yes, sir, he did. Just not enough. But there’s something else. He knows who carried it out.”
Ryan’s eyes instantly blazed with interest. “Who?”
McCitrick hesitated and then he said it, softly. “Daedalus, sir. It was Daedalus.”
Ryan looked dumbfounded. “What? They’d be committing suicide, sticking their head so far above the parapet.”
“You’d think so, but it was them. Or at the very least they were involved and knew about it.”
Ryan took a step backwards and glanced over at the scores of injured people littering the car park. His head swayed slowly from side to side and when he returned to face McCitrick he was seething.
“This game stops now, John. Do you understand me? No ifs, no buts, no quarter given. Bring everyone together. The whole of DS5.”
McCitrick knew what was being asked of him, but he felt duty bound to clarify the order.
“‘Everyone’, sir?”
Ryan’s chest heaved, his face reddening, and he didn’t so much growl his response as yell it. “EVERYONE!”