The grainy footage plays out like a scene from a nightmare thriller: a man in a grey hooded top, clutching two gleaming kitchen knives and what appears to be a handgun, storms through the sterile corridors of a probation office, his eyes wild with fury. Staff members scatter in terror, their screams echoing off the walls as he pursues his victim, blades raised high. This isn’t Hollywood fiction—it’s the raw, unfiltered reality captured on security cameras at a probation service building in Preston, Lancashire, on a fateful day in July 2025. Ryan Gee, a 35-year-old with a history of criminal offenses and simmering resentment, unleashed a premeditated assault that left one woman fighting for her life and an entire office scarred forever. As the video evidence reveals, what began as a routine meeting spiraled into a heart-pounding chase, heroic interventions, and a dramatic police takedown. Now, with Gee behind bars for a minimum of 16 years, the story of that day serves as a chilling reminder of how quickly everyday encounters can turn deadly.

Ryan Gee was no stranger to the justice system. Born into a life marked by instability, Gee had racked up a criminal record that included a conviction in April 2023 for causing a child under 13 to watch a sexual act—a heinous offense that landed him under the watchful eye of the Probation Service. For two years, he navigated the labyrinth of court-mandated supervision, community orders, and rehabilitation efforts designed to steer him back onto a lawful path. But beneath the surface, resentment brewed like a storm. Gee blamed his probation officers for every setback: failed compliance leading to short prison stints, housing instability upon release, and the overall frustration of a life under scrutiny. “You’ve done f*** all for me for two years,” he snarled at the staff during that fateful meeting, words that would later echo in court as the spark that ignited his violent outburst.

The probation office in Preston, a nondescript building tucked away in the bustling Lancashire town, serves as a lifeline for offenders seeking redemption. It’s a place where social workers, housing support specialists, and probation officers work tirelessly to rebuild lives—offering guidance on employment, accommodation, and mental health. On that July morning, the office hummed with the usual rhythm: appointments scheduled, paperwork shuffled, and staff members like Natasha Thorpe, a 32-year-old housing support worker, preparing to assist clients in turning their lives around. Thorpe, known among colleagues for her compassion and dedication, had no inkling that her next meeting would become a fight for survival.

Security footage, later released by Lancashire Police and played in court, captures Gee’s arrival with eerie calm. Dressed casually in a grey hooded top, he carries an umbrella and a backpack—innocuous items that hid his deadly arsenal. He strides into the reception area, signs in, and takes a seat, waiting patiently for about ten minutes. To any observer, he appears composed, perhaps even ordinary. But inside that backpack lurked two large kitchen knives and an imitation firearm—a BB gun designed to mimic a real handgun, complete with the menace to instill fear.

The meeting room where the horror unfolded was a private space meant for confidential discussions. Gee sat across a table from two probation workers, including Thorpe. The conversation started routinely: updates on his progress, discussions about housing options, perhaps gentle reminders about compliance. But Gee’s demeanor shifted abruptly. Anger, pent up from what he perceived as years of neglect and failure by the system, boiled over. “You’ve done f*** all for me,” he spat, his voice rising. In a flash, he reached into his bag and pulled out the knives—long, sharp blades glinting under the fluorescent lights.

The room erupted in chaos. Gee lunged across the table, his movements fueled by rage. The staff members recoiled in shock, scrambling to escape as he brandished the imitation firearm, waving it menacingly to heighten their terror. Thorpe bore the brunt of his fury. Gee stabbed her under the arm, the blade piercing flesh and sending blood spilling onto the floor. She staggered away, clutching her side, but Gee wasn’t done. He pursued her relentlessly, storming out of the room and into the main office area, knives in hand and the fake gun tucked at his side.

What followed was a harrowing game of cat and mouse, captured in vivid detail by the office’s CCTV system. Gee charged through the corridors, his victims’ colleagues stepping in as unlikely heroes. One worker distracted him, pleading and reasoning in a desperate bid to buy time. “Please, stop—think about what you’re doing!” voices can be heard shouting in the footage, their tones a mix of fear and defiance. Thorpe, bleeding profusely from her wounds, was hurriedly ushered to a safer part of the building by brave coworkers who formed a human shield of sorts. Gee, undeterred, advanced on other staff members, blades raised, creating a scene of pandemonium that turned a place of rehabilitation into a battlefield.

The 999 emergency call came swiftly, dialed by a quick-thinking employee amid the turmoil. “We have a man with knives and a gun—he’s stabbing people!” the caller gasped, their voice trembling. Within minutes, armed response units from Lancashire Police descended on the scene. Bodycam footage from the officers shows the high-stakes entry: tactical teams in bulletproof vests, assault rifles at the ready, storming the building with precision born from rigorous training. They found Gee pacing the reception area, still armed and agitated.

“Drop the weapons! Get on the ground!” the officers commanded, their voices authoritative yet measured. Gee, cornered and perhaps realizing the endgame, reportedly shouted back, “Shoot me, just shoot me!” In a split-second decision, one officer deployed a Taser, the prongs embedding in Gee’s body and sending him crumpling to the floor in convulsions. As he lay incapacitated, another officer swiftly cuffed him, ending the rampage that had lasted mere minutes but felt like an eternity to those inside.

In the aftermath, the focus shifted to saving lives. One of the arresting officers, trained in first aid, rushed to Thorpe’s side. She had sustained four stab wounds—to her chest, stomach, and underarm—life-threatening injuries that required immediate intervention. Paramedics arrived shortly after, stabilizing her on-site before rushing her to Royal Preston Hospital. There, surgeons worked tirelessly through multiple operations to repair the damage. Thorpe spent six grueling weeks in recovery, her body mending but her spirit forever altered.

The investigation unfolded rapidly. Police seized Gee’s backpack, confirming the firearm was a harmless BB gun—but one wielded with intent to terrify. More damning was a letter Gee left in the reception area, addressed to one of the probation workers. In it, he explicitly blamed the staff for his woes, declaring them “partly responsible” for his actions. This, combined with his history and the premeditated nature of the attack—he had armed himself specifically for the meeting—painted a picture of calculated revenge.

At Liverpool Crown Court, the full weight of Gee’s crimes came to light. Prosecutor Mark Rhind KC laid out the case with unflinching detail: “It is now clear that Ryan Gee unreasonably and wrongly came to blame the Probation Services for his failures to comply with sentences, the resulting sentences of imprisonment, and accommodation issues he faced upon his release from custody. He began to plan revenge upon Probation Service officers who he blamed for his situation.” Gee pleaded guilty to a litany of charges: premeditated assault, possession of an imitation firearm with intent to cause fear of violence, false imprisonment, threatening another with an offensive weapon, and two counts of possession of a bladed article. The judge, unmoved by any plea for leniency, sentenced him to a minimum of 16 years behind bars—a term that reflects the severity of his actions and the terror he inflicted.

Thorpe’s victim impact statement, read aloud in court, brought the human cost into sharp focus. “I play the events of that day continuously over and over in my head, on a constant loop that I cannot escape from,” she wrote. “It consumes me. I find myself catastrophising every situation, constantly scanning rooms for exits in case I need to escape. What was once ordinary now feels unsafe.” Her words resonated deeply, highlighting the invisible scars of trauma that outlast physical wounds. Colleagues, too, spoke of shattered confidence, sleepless nights, and a newfound wariness in their daily work—reminders that the attack targeted not just individuals but the very fabric of a system designed to help.

This incident has sparked broader conversations about safety in probation services. In the UK, where probation officers deal with high-risk offenders daily, calls for enhanced security measures have grown louder. Metal detectors, panic buttons, and increased police presence at offices are now under discussion. Critics point to systemic issues: underfunding leading to overburdened staff, inadequate risk assessments for volatile clients, and the inherent dangers of rehabilitation work. Gee’s case underscores a harsh truth—while the Probation Service aims to reform, it often places workers on the front lines without sufficient protection.

Yet, amid the darkness, stories of heroism shine through. The colleagues who distracted Gee, shielding Thorpe and reasoning with him despite mortal fear, embody quiet bravery. Police officers, arriving in under five minutes and executing a flawless takedown, prevented further bloodshed. Their quick thinking saved lives and restored order in a scene of utter disarray.

As Gee begins his long sentence, the probation office in Preston has begun to heal. Staff have returned to work, fortified by counseling and community support. Thorpe, though forever changed, has resumed her role in helping others—a testament to her resilience. The footage of that day, now etched in public memory, serves as a stark warning: resentment unchecked can explode into violence, and the line between routine and rampage is thinner than we imagine.

In the end, this is more than a crime story—it’s a human drama of betrayal, survival, and the unyielding pursuit of justice. Ryan Gee’s rampage may have shattered lives, but it couldn’t extinguish the spirit of those who endured. As the sun sets over Preston’s streets, the community reflects on the fragility of safety and the strength found in solidarity, vowing never to let such terror define them.