Chapter Text
Rain slipped steadily down the windows of the van, distorting the colours outside into blurred streaks whenever headlights passed along the high street. Red brake lights dragged across the glass. The green glow of a halal butcher’s sign flickered against wet pavement. Somewhere nearby, water dripped steadily through a broken gutter onto metal.
Inside, the van was warm with damp fabric and trapped body heat. Wet sleeves brushed plate carriers whenever someone shifted position. The floor smelled faintly of mud, coffee, and rainwater tracked in from previous jobs.
Price sat nearest the side door with the folded floor plans resting against one knee beneath the dim red overhead light. Victorian terrace. Front sitting room. Rear kitchen. Central staircase. Two bedrooms upstairs and a loft conversion above. Narrow walls. Tight corridors. The sort of house where sound travelled through every floorboard and pipe.
Across from him, Gaz checked the pressure switch fixed to the side of his torch before settling the rifle back between his boots. One of the CTSFO operators farther down the bench wiped condensation from the corner of the window with a gloved thumb and looked out toward the road.
Camden climbed uphill beyond the rain-streaked glass in layers of old brick and painted shopfronts. Metal shutters had come down over most of the market stalls hours ago, though damp tarpaulins still hung loose beneath awnings and handwritten cardboard signs curled inward from the weather. A laundrette near the junction remained open, fluorescent light washing across rows of turning machines while a man sat inside scrolling on his phone beside a basket of clothes.
Near the crossing, two girls carrying tote bags hurried uphill toward the station with their heads tucked against the rain while a cyclist waited beside the traffic lights, takeaway bag strapped behind him beneath a Deliveroo jacket.
Price folded the plans shut. Earlier that evening, Laswell had appeared over secure video with the glow of office monitors reflecting dimly behind her.
“Signals intelligence tracked encrypted relay traffic through the address over the last six days,” she’d said. “We believe the property’s functioning as a communications site tied to an Al-Qatala facilitator operating between London and Rotterdam.”
“What changed tonight?” Price had asked.
“The transmissions stopped abruptly.”
Gaz had leaned back slightly in his chair. “Compromised?”
“Possibly.”
Laswell paused briefly after that. “I want the site secured before anything inside disappears.”
Now, listening to rain drum softly overhead, Price checked his watch.
“Time.”
The operators around him shifted immediately into motion. Gloves tightened. Rifles lifted. Final checks passed quietly through the compartment without conversation.
Price slid the side door open and cold rain swept into the van at once.
The team stepped out onto wet pavement beneath the streetlights. Water gathered darkly around the kerbs beside parked scooters and battered hatchbacks lined tightly along the road. Somewhere downhill, music drifted faintly from beneath the railway arches near the canal, softened by rain and distance until it barely sounded separate from the city itself.
The townhouse sat halfway along the terrace between a vape shop and a boarded-up off-licence whose faded posters had begun peeling inward from the damp. A weak yellow hallway light glowed behind frosted glass in the neighbouring house. Water spilled steadily from a blocked gutter overhead onto the front path below.
Price gave a short nod toward the door.
Gaz stepped forward with the ram.
The old lock gave on the first strike.
They entered immediately.
Torchlight moved quickly across cream-coloured walls and framed prints hanging beside the stairs. Wet footprints spread over old wooden floorboards while the team cleared through the ground floor.
“Contact”
The man on the sofa reacted a fraction too slowly, knocking over a can as he reached toward the pistol beside his thigh. One shot punched him backward into the cushions before he slid sideways onto the carpet between the coffee table and radiator.
Silence settled again almost immediately.
Football highlights continued flickering soundlessly across the television beneath rolling subtitles while condensation clouded the lower corners of the front windows. Empty cans sat crowded beside takeaway cartons and disposable phones across the coffee table. One trainer lay overturned near the sofa where the dead man’s foot had clipped it while falling.
“Front room clear.”
“Kitchen clear.”
A radiator hissed softly beneath the front window.
One of the operators bent beside dismantled radio equipment spread across the dining table.
“Relay hardware confirmed.”
Price nodded once and moved toward the staircase. The carpet runner softened their footsteps as they climbed. Upstairs, the landing narrowed beneath the low slope of the loft conversion ceiling. Weak yellow light washed over wallpaper faded unevenly by years of sunlight and cigarette smoke.
Gaz took position beside the first bedroom door.
Price counted silently. Then Gaz hit it hard with his shoulder. Inside, a man twisted toward the pistol lying beside the mattress.
Gaz shot him twice before he could lift it.
The gunfire cracked violently through the hallway before fading again into the rain-muted quiet of the house.
An operator crossed immediately into the adjoining bathroom.
“Clear.”
Price stepped into the bedroom briefly. Half-packed bags lay open across the floor beside propaganda leaflets and communication notes spread across the desk. A mug stained dark with old tea sat beside the bedframe. Still warm.
Price stepped back into the corridor.
“Next.”
The second bedroom door already stood slightly open. Gaz pushed inward carefully with the rifle barrel.
A second man sat slumped beside the bed with dried blood beneath one ear and staining down the collar of his hoodie. His chest rose weakly.
Alive. Barely.
Price crouched beside him.
“Who did this?”
The man’s eyes shifted toward him slowly without properly focusing. Then drifted past Price toward the landing.
“Don’t…” he whispered.
Price glanced back briefly.
“Don’t what?”
The man swallowed hard.
“Open…”
His face tightened with confusion. Then his body slackened against the mattress.
One operator checked for a pulse. “Dead.”
Gaz moved through the room gathering laptops and paper notes while another operator photographed the setup quickly.
Then Price stopped moving.
At the far end of the landing sat a white-painted door beneath the weak ceiling light.
Old brass handle. Hairline cracks in the gloss paint near the hinges. Slight damp staining along the skirting board. But the hallway should have ended there.
One of the operators near the stairs noticed it at the same moment.
“Sir.”
Nobody spoke immediately. The house settled quietly around them. Pipes knocking softly behind the walls. Rain tapping against the upstairs windows. Somewhere nearby, through the neighbouring terrace wall, somebody laughed briefly before a television volume dropped lower.
Price looked toward Gaz.
“Check it.”
The team adjusted positions automatically while Gaz moved carefully down the corridor. Up close, the door looked entirely ordinary. He rested one gloved hand against the handle and turned it slowly. The latch opened softly.
Beyond it stretched another corridor. Longer than the terrace should physically have allowed. The wallpaper inside changed immediately to older patterning beneath weak wall lamps casting yellow pools of light along faded carpet. Dust sat gathered near the skirting boards. Inside, the air was dry and stuffy.
Price moved forward beside Gaz while the others covered behind them. The corridor stretched ahead before bending gently left.
No doors. No windows. Only the soft compression of carpet beneath boots and the faint rustle of tactical gear shifting with movement.
“Rear team,” Price said quietly over comms. “Any extension visible externally?”
A pause.
Then: “Negative. House footprint unchanged.”
Gaz swept his torch slowly along the walls. Water marks near the ceiling. Old paint cracking naturally near the corners. Nothing looked newly built. Price continued forward.
The bend approached. Then they turned it.
The upstairs landing sat directly ahead again beneath the same weak yellow light.
Same carpet and same open bedroom doorway with the dead Al-Qatala operative slumped beside the bed.
The corridor behind them now stretched only a few metres back toward the white-painted door.
One operator stared for a moment before quietly swearing under his breath.
Price kept his voice level.
“Document it.”
Nobody entered the corridor again.
Instead, Price turned toward the narrow staircase leading upward into the loft conversion.
“On me.”
The stairs creaked sharply beneath their weight as they climbed. The loft space above had been converted badly years earlier, the ceiling low enough that even Gaz had to duck slightly beneath exposed beams near the far wall.
The room smelled of damp plaster and overheated electronics.
A mattress lay directly on the floor beside stacked crates of bottled water and folded blankets. More communication equipment sat spread across a long table beneath the skylight window, wires trailing toward extension leads overloaded beside the plug sockets.
One of the operators moved carefully through the room before lowering his rifle slightly.
“Clear.”
Rain rattled softly against the skylight overhead.
Price stepped toward the table while Gaz photographed the setup. Open notebooks, burner phones, batteries, memory cards. The team secured the remaining electronics, photographed the layout, and packed the recovered intelligence into evidence bags while rain continued falling steadily outside.
When they stepped back onto the street, buses still moved uphill through reflections beneath the market lights and water still spilled steadily from the broken gutter above the terrace door.