Chapters (45)
- Title Page
- Copyright Page
- Contents
- Prologue
- 2046
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Twenty-Five
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- Twenty-Nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Thirty-Three
- Thirty-Four
- Thirty-Five
- Thirty-Six
- Thirty-Seven
- Thirty-Eight
- Thirty-Nine
- About the Author
It is timed perfectly and the unmarked white vans nearby are parked in the darkness while the men within clutch their assault rifles to their chests. It has been two years in the planning and is the most sophisticated attack ever to strike at the heart of British politics.
What the report will not reveal is that at the time of the attack, the Prime Minister was in his private study of his private apartment drunk on whisky while sexually assaulting the armed female police officer assigned to protect his life. His right hand pumping and his left hand squeezing while his eyes dropped down to the belt on her waist.
The pilot gains visual sight. The laser system activates. The order is given for her trousers to be pulled down. The men in the vans tense. The pilot locks on. Her hands move to her belt as the realisation of the situation worsens. The laser holds steady. The thumb presses on the fire button, releasing the lock, which fires the ignition on the missile, which blasts away from the jet to roar across the sky. Every alarm in Downing Street screams out as the attack is finally realised. Drunk on lust, the Prime Minister’s eyes stay fixed on her hands gripping the clasp of her utility belt.
The piercing whine reaches her ears. Every second of training kicks in as she lunges forward, taking him to the floor to cover him with her own body as the missile strikes the wall just above the front door. Eviscerating the guard standing outside. The night-turn press pack are blasted apart and reduced to molecular form.
She holds him down amidst the rumble of the house. A booming explosion rips the air apart. Everything shaking and vibrating and the Prime Minister screaming in fear as Safa glares round at the pictures falling from the walls and the tables juddering across the floor. Her earpiece fills with voices that go unheard from the noise of the screams and the fireball ripping through the ground floor. On her feet, she grabs his arm, heaving him up and forcing him bodily across to the front door of the apartment. Pistol out. She leans into the corridor, checking the view before forcing the cowering politician down the corridor to the stairwell door.
A hole in the front wall. The door is gone. The windows obliterated with smoke billowing out and flames licking high. The plane has already gone, screaming away into the night as two RAF jets thunder overhead giving chase and already locking on to the aircraft and the pilot giving prayer inside.