Джеймс Паттерсон - Private Princess

“You got jealous?”

Patel had, and had begun to trail Sophie, eventually leading him to Sir Tony Lightwood and the Mistral hotel.

“Soph told me that it was strictly business. The truth is, the fact that she was an escort hurt me a lot less than if she was in love with someone else.”

“But you needed to make sure?” Morgan pushed. “You needed to know she was loyal only to you.”

“The blackmail was my idea,” Patel admitted, his head hanging on his chest. “I didn’t need the money, I just needed to know she would do it for me. That she was mine where it mattered,” he said, touching his heart, “and no one else’s.”

“But she wasn’t, was she?”

For a moment there was only the sound of crying. Then Patel looked into Morgan’s face, tears thick in his red eyes.

“A fucking princess, yeah?” He shook his head. “At first I thought Soph was a genius. How much would they pay to cover that up? But then she... she...”

“She wouldn’t blackmail her,” Morgan finished for him.

“She was in love!” Patel screamed out. “With a fucking woman! Not me!”

“So you killed her,” Morgan said gently. “You got angry because she loved someone else, and you killed her.”

“I did.” Patel sobbed. “I didn’t mean too, believe me! I think her neck broke.”

“Is that why you tried to stage the hanging?”

“Yes,” the man admitted, wiping tears from his face. “I knew that she always loved that place. I didn’t want to kill her, please believe me. I just wanted her to be mine. I wanted her to love me like she loved her .”

Morgan had heard enough. He looked back over his shoulder to the officer in the corner of the room. The man nodded.

“Where’s he going?” Patel asked as the officer left the room. “Where’s he going?”

“This conversation is just for us.” Morgan sat unmoved in his chair. “You’re going to tell me who you hired to kill me and my team.”

Morgan watched as confusion replaced the fear and guilt that had been etched into Patel’s face. “What are you talking about?” he managed.

“You hired shooters to take out my team and stop us finding Sophie. Who are they?”

“I have no idea!” Patel cried.

With disappointment Morgan realized that he believed him. “You didn’t hire anyone to come after us?”

“No!” Patel begged. “I’m a hedge fund manager, not a gangster! I wouldn’t even know where to find those people!”

Morgan swore under his breath. Then who would?

And why?

Police constable Sharon Lewis looked at the sticky pool of blood on the kitchen floor.

“It’s Knight’s,” Cook told her, pointing out the broken pieces of porcelain that lay close by. “Can you imagine getting hit with that?”

“I took a frying pan to the head once.”

Cook looked at her with surprise.

“My dad,” Lewis explained.

“Is that why you became an officer?” Cook guessed.

“You should have been a shrink,” Lewis smirked sarcastically. “If you play the punchbag enough times, it’s a nice feeling to be the fist. I don’t tell people that, though. Most of the blokes already assume that any woman in uniform has daddy issues.”

Having been an army officer, Jane Cook knew something about that. “I was lucky — I didn’t have any issues with my dad.”

“Then what made you join?”

“I grew up on a farm and my dad taught me to love the outdoors. As I got older I wanted to see more of the world. My family didn’t have the money to fund that kind of thing ourselves, so I joined the army.”

“And you liked it?”

“Loved it. You?”

“It’s my life,” Lewis admitted. “I don’t know what I’ll do when I leave.”

“I thought the same,” Cook confided. “But now I have new teammates and new challenges. It’s all I want.”

“And the boss, too,” Lewis needled.

“It’s not like that.”

“I know. I’m only teasing you. To be honest, when I first met you, I didn’t like you. I thought you were another pretty girl shagging her way up the ranks.”

“I’m not,” Cook said stiffly.

“I know that now.” Lewis smirked. “I was wrong. I didn’t realize it was love.”

“I didn’t say it was that either.” Cook smiled, thinking of Jack Morgan, and how they would soon be free to find out exactly what it was.

“You didn’t have to.” Lewis smiled back. “I’m sorry we didn’t get off to a good start, Cook. You and me have both come up in organizations dominated by men. At first I thought you were the kind that held women back, but now I see why you’ve got to where you are, and I hope we can stay in touch after this.”

“We will,” Cook promised. “There aren’t many people I can say have saved my life. The least I owe you is a spot on the Christmas card list.”

“Bloody hell, what an honor!” The police officer laughed. “You want a brew or what?”

But before Cook could reply, she heard a sound in the doorway.

She was about to greet the expected police officers. Instead, the words died in her throat.

Jane Cook was staring down the barrel of a gun.

“Move and I blow her brains out,” the masked gunman barked at Lewis.

“I’m a police officer,” she replied evenly.

“I know who you are.”

“Then you know you’re fucked if you hurt us.”

“Keep your mouth shut, pig,” the man replied. “And put your phone down on the floor. One wrong move and your mate’s brains go on the wall.”

“Don’t do anything stupid,” Lewis urged, wishing she had her pistol, now handed in as part of the investigation into the forest shooting. “I’ll do as you say.”

“Bollocks to that,” Cook hissed through gritted teeth. “Run, Lewis.”

“You shut up,” the gunman growled.

“Run,” Cook urged.

But Lewis would not. Instead she placed her phone onto the floor.

“Kick it away,” the gunman demanded.

Lewis did as she was bid.

“Now take out hers,” the man ordered, a slight twitch of his gun gesturing to Cook.

“Just run, Lewis,” Cook tried again, but the officer would not abandon her, and Cook’s phone joined Lewis’s on the floor.

“Now both on your knees.” The man spoke through the fabric of his mask. “Hands on your head. Interlocked fingers.”

The women complied, the pistol’s muzzle tracking Cook’s forehead through every inch.

“Who are you?” Cook asked.

“I think you can guess.” The unexpected reply came from behind the gunman as a second man entered the room. Though the newcomer’s face was also hidden behind the black mesh of a balaclava, Cook instantly recognized the voice and her skin crawled at the terrifying revelation.

Because she knew she was a dead woman.

Peter Knight was helping himself to coffee in the station’s cafeteria when Jack Morgan approached.

“You got the confession?” Knight asked.

“I did,” Morgan confirmed.

“Then what’s up?” Knight could read his friend’s expression.

“Something isn’t right.” Before Morgan could elaborate further, his phone began to buzz urgently in his pocket.

“FaceTime from Cook,” he told Knight, his pulse quickening at the prospect of seeing her, even just on a screen. “I’ll tell her and Lewis to stand down as soon as the police arrive.”

“OK. I’ll pour you a coffee.”

“Thanks,” Morgan replied, moving outside in the corridor and hitting answer. “Hi, Jane...” he began.

But the smile died on his lips as the picture’s quality cleared, and he found himself looking not at the face of the woman he loved, but at the figure of a masked gunman who held a pistol to her head.