The people of the Western World remained in mourning, no more than the citizens of the United Kingdom.
Finally, the ever popular Prince Harry had met a young woman - a long-legged blonde to no-one’s surprise - with whom he desired to spend more than a week without cheating upon, and under pressure from his Father, had proposed Marriage. Evelyn Dimarco had accepted, and the wedding had been set for the twenty-second day of March, the first day of a glorious English Spring. As befitted his status as the common man’s Prince, instead of the usual pomp and ceremony associated with such an occasion, Harry had elected to follow one of the traditions of his favourite Colony, Australia, and throw an informal barbeque in the grounds of Buckingham Palace in place of a gilt-edged reception. That had been a fatal mistake.
With the amount of people to be catered for, and sausages, hamburger patties and pheasants to cook, the number of gas lines required to be installed had been massive. All it had taken was a minuscule leak in a single pipe to create an explosion large enough to wipe out every known member of the British Royal Family in one fell swoop, as well as a number of well-known celebrities, Elton John and Justin Beiber amongst them. Which was no big loss.
The Government had declared a three month period of mourning after the devastating accident, and stated that the throne would remain vacant for a year out of respect for the now late Queen Elizabeth, and her reign as the Britain’s longest-serving Monarch. Of course, talk had immediately turned as to who would be next to sit upon the throne, and imagine the public’s shock when, after an extensive lineage search, it was revealed to be Vladimir Ovnokov, a British born citizen, and suspected Russian Mafia overlord, with a number of high-profile British Parliamentarians in his pocket. His entitlement dated back to an illicit affair between Princess Victoria Adelaide Mary Louisa and the Tsar of Russia in the Nineteenth century.
The citizens had revolted, but what could be done? Laws were laws, history was history, the Monarchy was the Monarchy, and in the multitude’s opinion, Great Britain wouldn’t be Great without it. The war-mongering criminal mastermind, politician bribing, philandering, woman-beating pimp would be anointed in nine months time unless another solution could be found - even the man himself had been smart enough not to push for immediate ascendancy – and that’s where MI6 Special Agent Ben Roberts entered the equation.
Barely minutes after the exposition of Vladmir Ovnokov's right to sit upon the throne, his superiors; those who weren’t on the Russian’s payroll; had begun to scour all available records in search of a resolution to the dilemma, and finally, one had been uncovered. Buried deep in the British Library archives was a document that contained an unsubstantiated, and previously discounted, rumour that the ‘Virgin Queen’, Elizabeth I had been wildly misnamed, and borne a child at seventeen years of age, in the year fifteen-seventy. If true, and descendants could be located, they’d take precedence in the secession.
The exhumation and forensic examination of the first Elizabeth’s remains had swiftly followed, which had confirmed that she was indeed about as much a virgin as the fabled Mary Magdalene, and had birthed at least one child. A month of twenty-four hour a day investigations and research had then narrowed down her possible living descendants to two. An American Mother and Daughter, both with British heritage and residency status due to the Husband and Father having been born in England.
All the thirty-three year old operative, who’d arrived in the USA earlier that morning, had to do was to convince them to return to England, and undergo DNA comparisons to confirm their legitimacy before they were revealed to the Public. A simple task. Unless news of the discovery had also been leaked to the Russian Mafia, and those in the British Intelligence Services and Parliament loyal to Ovnokov’s never-ending stream of cash and beautiful young Eastern European prostitutes.
The six-foot two, dark haired, brown eyed male, with slim athletic build, ruddy and pale complexion, and oh-so-British accent, appraised the surroundings with a careful eye as he approached the American’s residence. With no danger in sight, and no neighbours present, he felt confident that they’d be on a plane before the day was out, and on English soil by the next morning. That was before he arrived at the boundary fence, and gazed upon the front door. The open front door.
BANG
Ben Roberts reacted with the speed of a cobra, as he reached into his overcoat to withdrawing a Rutger thirty-eight calibre pistol, and dropped to a crouch behind the fence. He peeked around, then realised that he couldn’t delay for surveillance, as otherwise both woman would be dead before he arrived to help. So, he moved to his feet, and swung the gun side to side as he ran.
“Shit.”
The agent swore when he almost tripped over the dead woman with a hole in her head who lay on the floor, the exclamation caused more by the knowledge that there now remained only one living descendant than the sight itself, then sprinted after the running figure being chased by a man in black. As he reached the kitchen, Ben dropped to his knees, raised the barrel of the Rutger and took aim at the back of the man’s head. And that’s the way he remained, with a smile on his face, as the feisty Schuyler trumped the man’s verbal taunts then stuck a knife in his throat, and both fell to the floor in a bloody heap. The sound of the assailants gun firing as he dropped had made Ben jump, and regret his decision not to intervene, however a swift expert appraisal told him that it was only a graze, and he holstered his weapon to approach the bodies, one dead, one alive.
His foot first touched the man, and rolled him over to get a proper look at his face, “Russian, I believe, the British prefer pin-stripe,” before he focused on the woman, and offered a hand to help her up. “Bravo, though I shouldn’t be surprised, it’s not the first time a member of the Royal Family has solved a problem with violence. In fact, I believe it’s how they initially ascended the throne. Sorry about your Mother; and I wish we could stay and allow you the chance to say your goodbyes, but there’s no time to dally. We need to get out of here, and have that wound tended. This one was just the advance party. I’m Ben.”
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I don't know why that makes me laugh. And it's a great song by the Pretty Reckless. 
