#

Stonebridge, North West London

The flash grenades had sent waves of thunder again and again through the five floors of the block. Abu Mujahid, stood in the kitchen of a ground-floor flat, could hear doors slamming and voices raised. Saleem would be dead by now, he thought. Abu Mujahid had no way of knowing if he had been able to detonate the drone before he died.

He listened intently to the noises in the hallway outside, feeling for the remote-control relay box for the drone’s explosive payload in his jacket pocket and studying the video feed on the phone, held firmly in place in the cradle of the remote-control unit in his hand.

He had been right not to go out into the street after he left Saleem. It was obvious now the flat was being watched. Instead, he had knocked on the ground-floor flat and charmed his way past that hard-nosed old bitch. The woman was now slumped on the sofa, her pastel-blue cardigan stained with a puddle of blood from her neck, her eyes rolled back in their sockets, her hair strewn over her face. And the smell. Why did they always shit themselves when they died?

He had been worried whether the radio signal from the remote control would get through to the drone from down here on the ground floor, but he had been able to launch it as planned, seconds after hearing Saleem’s taking off. And while the signal to his own drone – now a mile away and hovering over waste ground – wasn’t as strong as he would have liked, it was good enough.

He glanced down at his phone again, ready to send it on its final leg of the journey to Wembley. Shit. The radio signal to the drone had dropped out and the video feed was black. He moved around the flat, holding the remote control up against different windows, but still no signal.

Without a signal, he had no way to control the drone. He knew what would happen – and he had perhaps a minute to act. Net curtains hung over the open kitchen window. He reckoned his chances of getting out through the doors were zero, but the kitchen window overlooked a storage area for bins. The yard was fenced off, but he could clamber over easily enough and drop down to the road on the other side. He just needed to pick his time.

#

Special Operations Room, Lambeth, London

Tennant watched and listened as reports came in to Gold Command. The spectators were trying to get out of the stadium and there was still a missing drone. It was galling to have lost one in broad daylight. Two more helicopters had been scrambled to search for it, but so far, no sign.

Tennant’s phone buzzed. The number indicated the Downing Street switchboard. ‘The Home Secretary for you,’ said the voice. There was a pause.

‘I need a scale of the injuries,’ called Tennant to the team.