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
The vans start with powerful engines roaring to life. The lead van goes first, building speed with the others. A reinforced chassis with oversized bull bars on the front. The driver grips the wheel behind the bulletproof glass that is peppered with shots from the single surviving officer at the main gate. Her colleague lies dead with his skull fractured from the house brick sent sailing through the air from the missile strike.
The van hits the gate. The second van hits the first and together they power forward while the men inside cling to the grab handles welded to the ceilings. The gates give way, screaming in agony from the twisted metal forced apart. The engines of the vans rising in pitch and the gates give enough for the driver of the first van to give an order. Both vans reverse and the doors slam open to black-clothed figures wearing respirators dropping down to run sprinting through the gap formed in the gates with weapons already up and aiming.
At the top of the stairwell, Safa holds position, listening intently to the orders on the radio squawking in her ear. The systems are failing. Officers are dead but more are on their way. She listens to Pilkington clambering through the debris of the main corridor on the ground floor telling everyone the front wall is breached and giving calm updates as he fires one-handed at the incoming figures, who slay him on the spot with the distinct clatter of assault rifles.
The Prime Minister whimpers, cowering on the ground behind her with his lust as forgotten as his now flaccid penis still hanging free of his trousers as Safa takes advantage of the wait for orders to do her shirt buttons up.
‘Safa . . . BASEMENT.’
‘On it,’ she replies, thumbing the press-to-talk button. ‘On your feet now.’ She grabs the politician by the arm, heaving him to his feet. ‘Down to the basement.’
He whimpers, crying like a child as she harries him down the flights of stairs, working to get ahead of him as they pass the doors to the middle floor. Smoke thick in the air, chemicals too. Fires burning. Gunshots. Heavy-calibre assault rifles and suddenly the nine-millimetre pistol in her hands feels very small. She gets him safely past the middle floor and heads down for the total security of the bunker, built to withstand a direct cruise missile strike.