Yes, shouted Gabriel, but only in her head. Stay professional, she thought.

For the last few minutes, Gabriel had been setting the strategic parameters for the raid. The armed team were under instructions to detain anyone in the flat on suspicion of preparing acts of terrorism. She’d ensured they were briefed on the likelihood that Abu Mujahid and his associates were armed.

She didn’t like being this unprepared. Normally, they’d have had time to get hold of the plans of a flat they were raiding. But there was nothing on the rental website to help, other than some photos of the rooms, and today there simply wasn’t time.

‘Ma’am,’ Bose was almost shouting. ‘Report from air support – two drones have just launched from the balcony. Heading north towards Wembley Stadium.’

‘Shit,’ said Gabriel. ‘How far away are the firearms team?’

‘Just arriving, ma’am. Ready to go on your order in one minute.’

‘Give them my authority to enter the flat as soon as they are in position.’

#

Stonebridge, North West London

Outside the closed front door of flat seventeen on the fourth floor, six CTSFOs clad in Kevlar body armour, with visors down over their helmets and assault rifles in their hands, waited silently for the signal. Three more officers were in the hallway, including the unit’s medic.

The lead officer waved her hand – the signal to begin. The team had been doing this long enough not to feel nerves. Drill after drill, exercise after exercise, scenario after scenario – the most intensive training of any armed police in the UK – had taught them how to keep calm under this extraordinary pressure.

Two more officers emerged from the stairwell, carrying the hydraulic door opener. They stood back and activated it with the press of a button. The unit hissed and pushed the door open and downwards. Before the door had hit the floor, a third officer threw a flash grenade through the opening. A fraction of a second later, an overpowering explosion boomed through the flat, shaking the floor and his stomach.

No one in the hallway, no signs of explosive devices.

‘Clear,’ shouted the team leader and, one by one, the team shuffled into the hallway, their rifles raised.

‘Hallway clear.’ There were three doors off the hallway to the right – and one straight ahead. The first door was slightly ajar.

The team leader kicked it open and threw in another grenade. The flat lit up and the room shook with the bang. Empty. She put her hand to the second door, twisted the knob slowly and then kicked hard. It was a bedroom, recently used with a mess of dishevelled sheets on the two single beds. She entered the room. It looked clear, but could someone be under the bed? She ran in, a colleague behind, and checked under the beds and in the wardrobe. ‘Clear,’ she called, then returned to the hallway.

The team’s nostrils were filling with grenade smoke. The third door looked like a cupboard. The team leader pulled the door open towards her, releasing the smell of excrement and rot.