The Last Man Standing

5. Westminster

Neither Danny nor Diane spoke as the lift ascended, the soft hum of the machinery filling the silence. They had left Maria with security on the ground floor, adhering strictly to Griffin's orders. Danny wasn't surprised; Griffin treated OPSEC like an addict clinging to their fix. Yet unease gnawed at him. Was he truly ready to step back into this world after years of hiding? The lift's mirrored walls reflected his restless pacing, his brow furrowed in thought.

Diane's eyes were fixed on him, perhaps checking if he was real and not some lingering ghost. It felt surreal to be back where it all began two long years ago. Death had been liberating. He'd drifted from country to country, working just enough to survive, living a simple life without the burden of his past. Now, with each floor they climbed, he felt the weight of his old life pressing in on him.

The lift jolted to a stop, and the doors slid open with a soft chime. Diane stepped out first, her heels clicking on the polished floor as she swiped her ID card at a wall-mounted scanner. A reinforced steel door hissed open to their right. Danny raised an eyebrow at the theatrics. "A bit much, don't you think?"

Diane grinned, a spark of amusement breaking through the tension. "You'd be surprised how much has changed."

They stepped through the threshold, and the room fell silent. The air was thick with anticipation, and Danny felt a dozen pairs of eyes on him, as if they too had seen a ghost. The stark white walls and the long table surrounded by serious faces made his pulse quicken.

"Well, this is awkward," he whispered, but Diane's reassured hand on his shoulder steadied him.

Ahead was a small conference room, just big enough for six people. The walls were lined with shelves filled with binders and files, and a large screen dominated one wall. Three people sat around the table—two he recognised, one unfamiliar.

"Ready?" Diane asked, her hand hovering over the door handle. Danny nodded, steeling himself as she opened the door. He entered with a slight bow of his head, meeting the unreadable gazes of James Griffin and Sam Adams.

"Mr. Patterson," Griffin said, his voice formal, void of any emotion. "Welcome back. Please, sit."

Danny complied, placing his left hand on the table, the light catching a jagged scar below his forefinger. He scanned each face in the room, the silence heavy and expectant.

"Mr. Patterson, this is—" Griffin began, but Danny cut him off, needing to set the stage.

"Before we get into it, let's cut to the chase. Dominic Carter survived Operation Greenstone. He came for me. He took my wife." Danny's voice trembled, a mixture of rage and despair surfacing as he struggled to maintain his composure. Danny blinked, and he was no longer in Thames House.

It was 2018. The day it had all fallen apart.

Westminster.

Danny slid along the crowded platform like a ghost, the throngs of commuters oblivious to the storm brewing inside him. The place felt charged, a perfect target for a terrorist attack. Just one pipe bomb in the right spot or a handful of gunmen interspersed among the crowd would yield catastrophic results. The service wasn't infallible; he knew that all too well. They had missed things, had let tragedies slip through the cracks.

About sixty meters ahead, a stocky, well-built man, designated CROMWELL, fought against the tide of people, inching his way toward the far end of the platform.

A bead of sweat trickled down Danny's brow as he wiped it away. The underground was suffocating. Even in the winter, the heat felt like a weight pressing down on him. It was a lose-lose situation. Despite the stifling temperature, a tingle crept down his spine, a chill that didn't match the oppressive warmth surrounding him. Something was off.