CHAPTER FIFTEEN: A MAN AND HIS PRIME MINISTER

"So, is there anything you want to explain to me?" Richard asked expectantly. He and Clark stood outside a souvenir shop by Waterloo Station. It sold vapes, cigarettes, and overpriced snow globes."I don't know, really. Where do you want me to start? The priest, Roland, what?""I don't know either, mate. How about the priest—why aren't you with Father Nick right now?""Oh, err, funny that, Richard. Very funny, actually. He got really scared when Roland set the church on fire," Clark said. This sounded like a minor inconvenience, not a tragedy."Why did he set the place ablaze?""I don't bloomin' know. Apparently, it was to scare the bandits in Hastings. Anyway, Father Nick got so scared he fainted. And didn't wake up." Richard blinked. Once, twice, three times."Are you telling me he's dead?""No, I'm telling you the old fart's likely dead, but he could be alive and kicking.""You're going to hell. Don't call him an old fart!"Clark rolled his eyes, with a tired grin. "Of course," he replied, with mock poshness. "But where are my manners? It seems the elderly, oh-so-righteous guide of souls has simply ceased to move. That's better, mate?"Richard nodded, fighting a smile. Damn the man, it was actually good. Too posh—sounded like Derwent. Derwent? Ugh."It is to my liking, good sir—anyway, did Roland just hitch you a ride in his sleigh or something?""No, he got a cabbie with him. Roger something. Roger Todger, maybe. No, no, Winston. Some kind of author, apparently.""I know the fella. Edwin, I think. I read one of his books a while back, just as soon as it hit the shelves. Book of the Stag, right?""That's what he said as well. So yeah—Roger drove us over here; now I'm chatting with you. What have you been up to, then?" Clark asked, much to his brother's dismay."Well, err—it's confusing. I've been camping out with a SAS man and the head of MI6.""Oh, Steve?""Yeah, Steve from the offi—wait, how do you know about Steve?" Richard asked, genuinely worried for a second."Long story. When you were elected, Steve went to my flat. He wanted to sort out some security things, just in case anyone wanted to assassinate me. Nice bloke, but the work's getting to him, I think. The fella could do with a vodka martini or two. Shaken, not stirred, you know?"---------Meanwhile, Agent Stephen Johns was in a bit of a sticky one right now. Xing had walked down the escalator to see if his boys were fighting the good fight. That left him and Collins alone with Roland and Piers. Collins, of course, decided to make conversation."Hey, aren't you that lunatic off the papers who fed someone into a hydraulic press?" He asked, gesturing in Piera's direction."I am indeed. Why'd you ask?" he replied, weighing his throwing knife in his hands. A lengthy silence ensued."Oh, I couldn't help but notice. How was Scrubs? I was there once, when I was a boy, y'know." At this, Johns looked up at him, flabbergasted. "No—relax, Steve, it was a school trip. One of those scared straight kind of things."Piers smiled, as if Collins would never ask. "Oh—once you get used to the showers, it's actually quite fine. Roland was in there with me, actually. What was it for again, mate?"Roland looked up, as if to recall. "I... reckon it must've been assault and driving under the influence. The lawyer might've added a vehicular manslaughter charge. But, I reckon that hopeless man jumped onto the road at the last second.""Yeah for me, twenty-three counts of first-degree murder. But then again, you two have probably killed more than I have. After all, you look like you set a village on fire in Iraq." A gesture at Collins, who shifted nervously just a fraction. "And you look like the type to slip carfentanil or strychnine into your best friend's dinner. Isn't that right, mate?"Johns looked like he was about to say something he'd have regretted, but stayed silent."Yes, don't think I didn't see you on the tunnel cameras. They've been online this whole time, now that we got our generators working again. I had one of my guys radio me the first second he saw one of your sorry faces." Piers grinned again, still playing hot-potato with his knife - one hand to the other, and back again. "You're so goddamned lucky you have Mr. Downing Street with you, or Xing wouldn't be so nice." A pause, as the rattle of assault rifle fire filled the hall. "So if I were you, I'd leave London. This city isn't yours anymore. We killed off all the competition, apart from you. Didn't you hear what Roland did to Langdon? Y'know, the country's biggest arms manufacturer? Tell 'em again, Roland.""Shot in the face, point-blank."Johns simply fixed his tie, adjusting his collar a little. He glanced at Collins before beginning to walk out."Right, mate—keep going where you're headed. And don't come back—"A pop, as John's pistol fired off a single round. Piers staggered back, the round missing his head, grazing his ear—taking a chunk of the thing with it. Collins fired a few shots from his Desert Eagle. There was a much louder bang, then a clang as something hit the ground.Roland was quick enough to dive when he saw the grenade. Piers wasn't so fast. The explosion knocked him into a wall. Shrapnel shredded his lower half. One of his shins wasn't a shin anymore—and his hip was bleeding profusely. Before Roland could even take aim with his Mossberg, the two men were out of sight. Johns and Collins sprinted to Richard and Clark. The former was barking an order to start running. And so they did—eventually kicking down the door to some shop after running till they couldn't.Two minutes later, the four men were making themselves at home in Hamleys. Clark was sitting on an especially large teddy bear. Richard sat on the floor, and Johns and the Sergeant shared a stuffed crocodile to sit on."So," Richard started. "Did they try anything?""They were talking big and neither of us liked it. They would have killed us if it weren't for you. If you took any longer talking to your little friend, they might have opened fire," Collins said.Richard could only shake his head, and so could Clark.Johns simply laid down, back on the crocodile, not caring that he was next to Collins of all people while doing so. He had missed that shot by an inch. An inch! From him, as well. That was poor, really poor, Johns scolded himself. Such was the size of his distress that it had manifested as a grimace on his face."Hey man, you can't beat yourself up about those kinds of things. Just gotta try again later on," Collins said, sitting back.Johns should have argued. By God, did he want to—but he knew it was of no use. He simply nodded. There were bigger fish to fry—or as Anthony put it, bigger atoms to split.