In the heart of London – Surveillance at a glance…

Jake’s boots pounded the concrete as he sprinted through the west corridor, breath steady, eyes scanning every shadow. The duffel bag. The broadcast suite. If they reached it, the entire stadium could become a stage for terror. “Emma, status?” he whispered into his mic.
“They’re moving fast. Just passed the mezzanine. One’s got a limp — right leg. The other is carrying the bag. They’re heading for the service lift.” Jake skidded around a corner, nearly colliding with a janitor’s cart. He ducked behind a pillar, checked his sidearm, and tapped into the stadium’s internal schematics on his wrist display. The service lift had two exits — one near the broadcast suite, the other by the executive boxes.
He made a call. “I’ll take the suite. Can you cover the executive level?”
“Already en route,” Emma replied. “Be careful. If they’re ex-military, they’ll be expecting company.”
Jake reached the stairwell and took it two steps at a time. As he neared the top, he slowed, crouching low. The door to the broadcast suite hallway was ajar. Voices echoed — low, urgent, foreign.
He edged forward, peering through the crack. Two men. One tall, lean, with a duffel slung over his shoulder. The other, stockier, was fiddling with a keycard at the suite’s security panel. Jake recognised the taller one — the limp, the profile. Farid Al-Masri. Alive and very much operational. Jake tapped his comms. “Visual confirmed. It’s him.” “Wait for backup,” Emma urged. “No time.” He burst through the door. “MI5! Drop the bag!” Farid spun, hand diving into his coat. The other man froze, eyes wide. Jake fired — a single shot, centre mass. The stocky man crumpled. Farid bolted, abandoning the duffel as he sprinted down the hall. Jake gave chase.
They tore through the upper levels, past darkened concession stands and shuttered entrances. Farid was fast, even with the limp, weaving through the maze of corridors as he knew them by heart. Then — a flash of movement ahead. Emma stepped from a side hallway, weapon raised. “Farid! Stop!” He didn’t. Two shots rang out. Farid collapsed, skidding across the floor. Jake reached him seconds later, gun still raised. Blood pooled beneath the man’s jacket, but he was conscious — barely. “You’re supposed to be dead,” Jake growled.
Farid coughed, a grim smile on his lips. “You think this was the only bag?” Jake’s stomach dropped.
Emma’s voice was ice. “Jake… we’ve been played.” Farid’s breathing was shallow, each inhale a wet rattle. Jake knelt beside him, trying to keep him conscious long enough to extract something — anything.
“Farid, listen to me,” Jake said, voice low but urgent. “Where are the other devices?”
Farid’s eyes flickered. “You… you think I know?” A faint, bitter smile. “I was just the decoy.”
Emma stiffened. “Decoy? For whom?” Farid’s gaze drifted upward, unfocused. “He calls himself The Architect… he—”His body went slack. Jake checked for a pulse. Nothing. Emma exhaled sharply. “We’re blind. And if Farid was the distraction, the real team could be anywhere.” Jake’s eyes snapped to the abandoned duffel. He unzipped it carefully. Inside: a single explosive cylinder — inert. A dummy. But tucked beneath the foam padding was something else. A phone. Encrypted. Military grade. And still warm. Jake held it up. “He was using this minutes ago.” Emma’s expression hardened. “Let’s get it to the van. Now.” Back in the surveillance van, rain hammering the roof, Emma connected the phone to MI5’s portable decryptor. The screen lit up with cascading code. “Whoever built this encryption wasn’t just good,” she muttered. “They were trained. This is SIS-level architecture.” Jake frowned. “You’re saying this could be internal?” “I’m saying someone with access to our systems helped build this.” The decryptor beeped. A single file appeared. A video. Emma opened it.
Static. Then a distorted voice, masked and metallic.

“Operation Red Line proceeds. Device One deployed. Device Two en route. Device Three is awaiting activation. London will witness a rebirth.”