Nine Lives by Tom Barber

Slowly, they were making their way down the pitch.
    Towards the man in the coat.
    The Arsenal fans around him had started raising the volume of their cheering and chanting, as the attack started to show promise.
    60,360 sets of eyes watching one ball.
    At that moment, the man in the coat started to mutter something.
    Something memorised.
    A creed.
    A prayer.
    He pulled one of his hands free from his pocket.
    He was holding a switch.
    It was connected to a black wire that ran into his coat.
    On the pitch, one of the midfield players hit a perfect through-ball. Arsenal’s striker ran onto the pass. All alone, he bore down on the Tottenham goal-mouth with only the keeper to beat. Feinting a shot, he dodged past him. The open goal was to his left. All he needed to do was tuck it into the net.
    He kicked the ball, as the crowd gasped, holding their breath like the split-second before a crescendo.
    The man in the coat did the same.
    He closed his eyes.
    He pressed the button.
     

ELEVEN
    Inside his office at 10 Downing Street, the Prime Minister was also standing still, staring straight ahead. He was in front of his desk, leaning back against the polished wood, deep in thought.
    This whole thing with the suicide bombing cell was a nightmare situation and the circumstances leading up to the current police operation were consuming his every thought. Although three of the suspects had been located during the day, there were still six of them out there, and now the sun had gone down.
    One thing was for sure; it was going to be one hell of a long night.
    He glanced at the clock hanging on the wall to his right, an expensive Swiss model, Roman numerals mounted on an ivory white backing all surrounded by highly-polished gold plated metal.
    The slender black dials were pointing at 5:47pm .
    Just over six hours till midnight and the New Year.
    The Prime Minister shook his head. What a way to close this one out .
    It had been a rough twelve months for him and his cabinet. Elections were due to start in April, with opposition leaders already campaigning around the country for the right to take over the helm. The proud man leaning against the desk sighed. He was desperate to continue, to make a difference. In his head, he thought he might have a chance of being re-elected for another four years, but in his heart he knew it was unlikely to happen. And if anything went wrong tonight, it would be the final nail in the coffin of his tenure.
    He closed his eyes, trying to think. The room was silent, save for one constant, quiet relentless noise, the Swiss clock on the wall.
    It ticked away mercilessly like a metronome.
    Or a bomb.
    The PM had seen the breaking news reporting a raid in North London earlier in the day, just around lunchtime. He’d spoken to Director Cobb, who’d confirmed that two of the nine suspects had been arrested and one of them killed. Thankfully however, none of the police officers were hurt; that was the most important thing, and the good news. The bad news was that the house hadn’t been on any list, or even on anyone’s radar. If it hadn’t been for sheer blind luck and an inquisitive, public-spirited old lady, they never would have known the three suspects were there.
    Every other raid conducted across the city by the other counter-terrorist and police teams had been unsuccessful. Every single one. Which meant six other members of the cell were still out there. And no one seemed to have any idea where any of them were.
    There was a knock at the door. He opened his eyes.
    ‘Come in.’
    The door opened, and a woman in her mid-thirties stepped inside. She was cradling a stack of folders in the crook of her arm, a warm smile on her face as she saw her husband. For a brief moment, the Prime Minister felt his mood lift. It was his wife, Jennifer . She closed the door behind her and moved towards him.
    ‘Pete gave me these to pass on to you,’ she said, placing the stack of folders on the desk beside the PM. ‘Reports