The Oval Office ✓ (Book One)

Chapter Fifty Six

  We're about a mile away from the palace; a couple hundred British soldiers, a few ground teams, and American military. The military is here just in case the palace guards refuse to cooperate, at which point they are fully prepared to shoot every one of them if necessary.

  The ground teams are here to confirm what we already know: the royal family of our closest ally was involved in one of the most well though out terrorist attacks in modern history. As we near it, getting as close as we can under the cover of the trees- those who are the backup plan for a worst case scenario hang back.

  As the senior-most officials here, two British military generals and the four ground team captains emerge from the tree line- including me. "General, how nice to see you." A royal guard says.

  "Cut the shit." The general replies, holding out a cell phone.

  "Mr. whatever the fuck your name is, I am ordering you, as is my authority under section 629, to stand down." The prime minister says from the other end of the line.

  Section 629 is coming in handy at the moment. Summarized- it gives the British government, in this  case the prime minister- the authority to investigate the royal family in the event that international law is violated. What's happening here in unprecedented, but so was kidnapping the first fucking lady.

  "I won't be doing that." The royal guard says. General Brown does some hand motion, and a hundred or so soldiers emerge, quickly taking their positions behind him.

  "Oh, yes you will." General brown threatens, ninety something guns concentrated on palace guards, others waiting on the go ahead. The royal guard gulps. "Unless you'd like to go to federal prison for ten years, but that's up to you."

  I shove the guard out of my way, nodding at the members of my team. The American soldiers follow behind us, watching the guards in the tiny side-hallway like hawks. It eventually leads to the main, and from the testimonies, there  should be a steep staircase leading down about three stories to a basement. As expected, there are four guards at the door. "Move." I say.

  "Make me." An uncooperative one says. I put a bullet straight through his face, splattering blood everywhere.

  "Christ you didn't have to kill him-" the general starts.

  "And they didn't have to kidnap the First Lady. Your point?" I raise an eyebrow. "That's what I thought. Now are one of you going to unlock the door for us or do we have to shoot every single fucking one of you?"

  A royal guard nervously, hesitantly swipes a keycard through the reader. The first thing that I notice- that anybody notices is the smell. It's almost identical to rotting flesh, but not quite as severe. Rotting flesh could cause even the most experienced, well trained people to vomit and gag. This smells like hundreds of people have died in here, but their bodies have since been removed.

  It's as described in the testimonies: a literal dungeon. I walk through to the end, raising an eyebrow at the palace guards. While they're loyal, they're not suicidal, and have learned their lesson from the idiot laying dead just fifty feet away in front of the open doors. They move aside, letting us enter.

"Holy shit." The general mumbles under his breath.

Holy shit is right. This room looks like a giant control panel for different tortures methods. We have what we came her for.

——Kyle's P.O.V, five hours later—-

The queen was found at her second residence in a different part of the country. The paparazzi saw British police, along with American and British military officials, take her out of her home in handcuffs. That was a fun one to explain. Just a couple of minutes later, Princess Ariyah's brother was contacted by government officials and given the choice: re-accept the throne, or walk away from it forever- which would effectively end a thirteen hundred year monarchy with him.

He chose the first option. In his situation, I don't think I would've done the same. I would've let it crumble so the billion or so dollars spent on them each year could go towards something that actually matters, but whatever. I retire to the residence for the night, quietly shutting the door so I don't wake Lauren up, but almost slam into Taylor just seconds late.

"Hey- what are you still doing up?"

"I'm thirteen not three." She plops down on one of the couches. Even looking at her, I'm hit with an overwhelming sense of guilt. "And I wanted ice cream but there's none in the snack fridge."

"Okay- I'll have somebody make some for you." I turn around, hanging my jacket up as one thought sticks in my mind:

Her mother would still be alive if I'd just dropped out of the fucking race.