Джеймс Паттерсон - Private Princess

Knight held back as Eliza neared the top of an escalator. He was not surprised at all to see that she went straight to the left, and shuffled down the moving stairway quickly. Knight loitered at the top and watched until she was almost at the bottom — he would make up the gap soon enough.

Eliza cleared the escalator, and broke left. Knight followed, offering hushed apologies as he squeezed by commuters and tourists. He checked his speed at the bottom, moving the opposite way to the route of most tourists — he knew from his training exercises that the only route left then turned right onto a platform. He could bypass the left turn by going right, along that platform, and then use an adjoining foot tunnel that connected the two platforms at their heads. Then he could work his way closer to Eliza. Close enough to keep his eye on her, at least.

Of course, all this had to be done before Eliza had a chance to board a train. Knight remembered the average time between them at this station to be about three minutes. Watching on the escalator, he had not seen the hurried sprints and shuffles of passengers as they rushed to catch the closing doors, so he figured that at least a minute had gone by since the last, giving him two minutes at best to find Eliza. He ran the length of the platform on his right, sidestepping a wide-eyed old man who was also taking the least busy route — Knight wasn’t the only one who had spent time on the Underground and knew its shortcuts.

Exiting the short connecting foot tunnel onto Eliza’s platform, Knight saw that it was busy but not crowded. Looking up, he also saw from the information board that the next train was now due in.

He had less than one minute to find her, but the moment for rushing and recklessness had gone. Instead, like dozens of others on the platform, Knight pulled his phone from his pocket. With his head down, but eyes up, he began to work his way along the back wall.

Eliza’s red umbrella was the first thing to catch his eye, its color picking it out amongst the black trousers and boots of other passengers as she held it down by her side. Knight chanced a look at her face and saw that she was staring across the empty tracks with a fixed look of single-minded purpose. As the train came in, she was the first to enter a carriage. He noticed that she took no seat, instead standing by the open door. Knight stepped onto the train in the next carriage along, his height allowing him to make out the top of Eliza’s head through the windows. He prepared himself to clear the closing doors quickly should it all be a ruse to send him off her path, but Eliza’s head was motionless as the doors slid into place and the train heaved its way from the station.

It was at the third stop that Eliza disembarked. Knight followed, happy to see that there were other passengers emerging who could cloak him.

He needn’t have worried. Eliza’s focus was on moving forward, and in no time they were out of the station and onto the streets of Kensington. The rain had weakened, but was still heavy enough to justify Knight pulling the hood of his jacket back over his head. From beneath the brim of his cap, he saw Eliza walk inside a Tesco supermarket. He watched the entrance, waiting for her to reappear. He made use of the opportunity to call in to Private HQ and update them on his intention and location.

When Eliza emerged onto the pavement, Knight hung back as she paced along Kensington’s long streets, confident that he could hold his tail from a distance. It was only when she turned and walked up the steps of a beautiful brick town house that he pressed closer, using the parked luxury cars that lined the road as cover.

From thirty meters away, he watched as the small woman rapped her left fist against the cream-painted wood of the door, her umbrella clutched unopened in her right hand. She knocked on the door again, and again, and again.

An Indian man opened the door, and his handsome face twisted in bewilderment.

Eliza had let go of the umbrella and was left clutching something else in her right hand.

It was a knife.

“Where is she?” she screamed at the top of her lungs. “Where is she?”

The man at the door was shocked into stillness at first, but then his survival instincts kicked into life and offered him the choice of fight or flight.

He chose flight and ran back into the house.

“Where is she?” Eliza screamed again, running in after him.

Knight was already across the road and nearing the steps to the house at a sprint. He ran up the steps and into the shouts, screams and crashes coming from inside the beautiful Kensington home.

He followed the noises to a living room, where the terrified man had taken refuge behind a sofa and was trying to keep Eliza at bay by hurling at her books, vases, ornaments and anything else within reach. One heavy leather-bound tome connected with her face and blood poured from her nose.

“Where is she, Mayoor?” Eliza screamed at the man again, oblivious to Knight behind her. “Where is that bitch? Where is she?”

Knight knew he could take no chances. For the sake of all three lives, he had to act swiftly and decisively.

“Help me!” Mayoor called, catching sight of Knight in the doorway. “Please!”

Eliza turned to see where Sophie’s boyfriend’s panicked eyes were looking. Her own barely registered the look of remorse on Knight’s face as he threw the punch and knocked Eliza Lightwood into unconsciousness.

Jack Morgan looked out of the helicopter’s windows and over the gray landscape of a rain-sodden east London, his destination clearly marked by the second helicopter that was landed on a school’s football field. It was Princess Caroline’s helicopter, and Morgan had come alone to tell her that Sophie Edwards was dead.

The chopper’s skids touched down on the grass, and Morgan thanked the pilot before handing him his next orders — to head back to Wales and bring Cook to London as soon as Private’s legal representatives arrived to deal with the fallout of the case. With that, he opened the door and stepped onto the field’s wet grass.

A man was waiting to meet him. The face was familiar but the clothes were not — Colonel Marcus De Villiers was wearing civilian clothing, a green Barbour jacket over corduroy trousers. Even out of uniform, the man stood out as a military officer.

The Englishman put out his hand to greet him. “Morgan, I’ve spoken to PC Lewis. She said that you saved her life.”

“She saved mine,” Morgan replied, accepting the handshake.

“Regardless, you have my thanks. Lewis is a good woman, and fiercely loyal. She’s one of my favorites on the protection teams,” the Colonel admitted, and for the first time, Morgan saw a second side to De Villiers. One which was, perhaps, just as fiercely loyal to his team as Lewis was to her superiors.

“I’ll be putting her forward for an award,” De Villiers told Morgan as they walked across the sports field and toward the school. “Because of the reasons why she was in that situation in the first place, it will never pass, but at least she’ll know that I recognize her bravery.”

The pair paced in silence for a few seconds before De Villiers addressed the reason behind Morgan’s arrival. “She’s going to be upset about Sophie.” There was no trace of sadness in his words.

Morgan pulled up, and the Guards officer stopped and turned to him. “What is it?” De Villiers asked.

“Did the Princess hire Private to find Sophie, or bury a secret?”

“I’m not sure which particular secret of Sophie’s you’re talking about. She had many—”

“I’m not talking about Sophie’s secrets. I’m talking about the Princess’s secret, Colonel. The secret that she and Sophie Edwards were lovers.”