Джеймс Паттерсон - Private Princess

“Thank God,” De Villiers sighed. As head of royal security, Lewis fell under his command, and there was no doubt in the Private agents’ minds that De Villiers truly cared for Lewis’s well-being.

“And Cook?” the man asked hopefully.

Morgan said nothing. Knight shook his head.

“Morgan, I’m so sorry.”

Morgan’s mind was miles from sympathies. A million miles from them. It was only concerned with retribution.

Perhaps De Villiers saw as much.

“Get into the car, Morgan,” he ordered as if to a soldier. “Not you,” he said to Knight as he tried to follow. “I need to speak with Morgan alone.”

As the Range Rover’s door closed behind them, Morgan was about to ask De Villiers what he wanted to speak about. Instead, he watched with surprise as the Colonel slammed his fist into the headrest of the empty passenger seat.

“Bastards!” he snarled. “Spineless, gutless bastards!” He punched again, breathing heavily. “They’ll pay for this — Lewis is one of mine.” The head of royal security inhaled deeply. “An attack on her is... It’s an attack on the Crown , Morgan.” De Villiers shook his head. “And Cook? She was awarded an OBE for what she did in Afghanistan. She’s done as much for her country as any other person.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Morgan asked, his manners blunted by emotion.

“Why?” De Villiers choked, as if it were obvious. “Because I want to help you.”

“You can’t help in this. Our work for the Princess is over. We found Sophie. We found her killer.”

“It’s over, is it?” De Villiers shook his head. “Not when Lewis is in the hospital it isn’t. Not when...” He left Jane Cook’s name and fate unspoken. “Look, Morgan, you may not have the highest opinion of me, that’s clear enough, but I am a soldier — a British soldier — and we believe in honor and justice. Someone out there has murdered a former army officer, and badly beaten one of my police officers. I want whoever did it found .”

“Then look for them.”

“I don’t need to, because you already know who it is, don’t you? You’re like a bulldog straining at the leash, Morgan. You’re not sniffing for clues — you’re ready to tear out a throat.”

“I don’t know who it was,” Morgan lied.

“Bullshit! Total bullshit!”

“And what if it is bullshit? Do you think I’d tell you, so that you can get in my way?”

De Villiers laughed. “Get in your way ?” He shook his head. “Morgan, Lewis is family to me. I want to help you. I want you to find these people before anyone else does. Do I have to spell out why?”

Morgan looked into the officer’s eyes, and believed him — De Villiers wanted justice. The kind that couldn’t be delivered in a British courtroom.

“No,” Morgan answered.

“Good.” De Villiers nodded with finality. “Now. I expect you’ve been wondering where to find a gun?”

Peter Knight watched as Morgan emerged from the back seat of the Range Rover. No sooner had the door closed than the vehicle pulled away quickly up the street.

“Our own car’s here.” Knight gestured to a black Audi dispatched from Private London. “Where to?”

“Headquarters.” Knight recognized from his boss’s tone that it was not a good idea to dig for further information right now.

As they crossed to the waiting car, Morgan threw one more forlorn look toward the building that housed Jane Cook’s body. It would be some time before the pathologists and crime scene investigators were ready to take her away, and it pained Morgan to know that Cook was alone and cold on a kitchen floor. He knew from experience that there was no dignity in death, but Cook’s fate seemed exceedingly cruel. The fact that his own life was in danger did not even enter into his mind. Instead, Jack Morgan’s emotions swung from crushing sadness to red-hot rage.

“I’m going to rip his throat out,” he promised as they climbed into the car, repeating the image that De Villiers had put in front of him.

“We’ll get him,” Knight promised.

“We’ll finish him,” Morgan corrected. “This doesn’t end in an arrest, Peter. I understand if you don’t want in on that, but those are the rules.”

“I’m with you,” Knight said, meeting the hard stare of his friend and leader. “I’m with you, Jack,” he vowed again, his mind then catching on the crux of what Morgan was saying — this was not an ordinary case. The rules had changed. No , Knight caught himself thinking, not just the rules. The entire game.

“We have to think like Flex,” said Knight. “The man’s clearly got no limits. No boundaries. What else is he capable of?”

“Anything. He’s sick. You should get hold of your family, Peter. Have them brought into Private HQ.”

“My God, you’re right.” The icy fingers of fear reached up from Knight’s stomach and into his throat. It was with a near shaking hand that he made the call to his children’s sitter, and asked for them to be brought to his place of work. “We should bring in all of our staff,” Knight then urged. “No guessing who else he could target.”

“Do it. He targeted Jane because of what she and I did to him in the gym, but I don’t put anything past him.”

Knight made the call, ordering Private London’s watch manager to bring in all members of staff, emphasizing the need for vigilance.

“What now, Jack?” he asked, his phone calls made.

But there was no reply from the American. None in words, at least, but Morgan’s eyes told Knight all he needed to know.

Now would be payback.

Morgan watched almost in a daze as their car slid through the rain-slicked streets of London. Traffic became a blur. Faces were meaningless. It was a procession of life — hundreds, maybe thousands of people — but all Morgan could think about was death.

Jane.

Gone.

He blinked hard to try to clear the image from his eyes. It was the picture of Jane, her face pleading and terrified as Flex held the gun to her head. Then Morgan had seen that most beautiful face turn to ruin as Flex had pulled the trigger.

“Pull over,” he instructed the driver. “Pull over!”

The man did so, drivers honking angrily as Morgan pushed opened the door and threw up onto the curb.

“Are you all right?” Knight asked as Morgan stepped back inside the car.

Morgan ignored him. Instead he closed the door and waved for the driver to go on.

“Jack, are you all right?” Knight insisted.

Of course he wasn’t all right. He had fallen for Cook, hard, and then he had watched helplessly as her brains were blown out onto the floor. Who could be all right after that? But he was Jack Morgan, after all. He almost laughed to himself, thinking of how Private’s agents saw him as both the unstoppable force and the immovable object.

Hadn’t he seen enough death? He could still remember the helicopter crash in the Afghan mountains. He could still remember the screams and the smell of burning flesh. He could still remember the nightmares and bed sheets soaked in sweat. He could still feel the guilt that hung from his shoulders like the heaviest rucksack he had ever carried as a Marine. And now this? Now Jane’s death, too?

“Why are we doing this?” Morgan asked himself, but the words came out loud enough for Knight to hear. The Englishman frowned in confusion, as if the answer were so simple.

“For justice.”

“For justice.” Morgan smiled. What justice could there be for Jane Cook? Her life was worth a million Flex Gibbons. How could her soul and presence ever be replaced? How could there be real justice when the world was an emptier place without her?