Джеймс Паттерсон - Private Princess

Morgan felt as though the Colonel was holding something back. “Go ahead,” he pressed.

“Lewis told me what happened,” De Villiers admitted. “She remembered names, Morgan. She told me about Flex.”

“You know him,” Morgan muttered.

“Of course I know him. He’s from the regiment, and he runs one of the biggest private security firms in London. At least, he did.”

Morgan looked at the man, and let his eyes ask the question.

“His business has taken a dive over the past couple of years. Word got out that he was beaten down and had his knee blown out by a couple of civilians, one of them a woman, the other an American.”

Morgan said nothing.

“He’s had the first part of his revenge, Morgan, but he won’t be satisfied until you’re dead.”

“The feeling is mutual.”

“Good. Flex is not only a murderer, but by virtue of who he was, he is a national disgrace. Better he be dealt with quietly, rather than dragged through the courts.”

“You’re helping me because you want this kept quiet?”

“I’m helping you because it’s the right thing to do. There are two pieces of paper in your pocket, Morgan. One is the address, and the other is a copy of my letter of resignation. Lewis and Perkins were hurt under my command. As I can’t take their place in the hospital — which I wish I could — I can only give up my command. I’m staying in my post only to be useful until this bastard is dealt with, Morgan. Then I will resign my commission.”

“We have to deal with Flex first,” Morgan replied.

“We do,” De Villiers agreed. “So you’d better go get your gun.”

Colonel De Villiers walked eastward along the Thames’ northern bank, his eyes on the pavement as the wind began to whip off the water, finding every opening in his clothing.

“It’s supposed to be bloody summer,” the man grumbled to himself as he reached inside his Barbour jacket for his phone.

“Yes?” the voice asked as De Villiers’ call connected.

“I met with Morgan,” the Colonel replied after a look over both shoulders. “I gave him the address.”

“Will he go?” the voice asked.

“He will. He’s on a rampage. You could see it in his eyes.”

For a moment there was silence, all quiet in De Villiers’ ears except the slap of his brogues against the Embankment’s damp paving stones.

“Did he buy your resignation?” the voice finally asked.

“He did,” De Villiers replied.

“Good. It’s important he trusts you.”

“I don’t know if he trusts me, but he believes me. With the state of mind he’s in, I think that will be enough.”

“Very good, Colonel. You’ll see this through for me, won’t you?”

“Anything for you, Your Highness.”

Jack Morgan stared intently through the Audi’s windshield, his fingers tight on the wheel. The car’s navigation system told him that he was one minute away from the destination given to him by De Villiers, and Morgan intended to make his first reconnaissance in the car.

The venue’s location was in Knightsbridge, which struck Morgan as no surprise. Given that the streets were dotted with Ferraris and Maseratis, where better to hold a private party for London’s mega-rich and ultra-connected?

It was the appearance of a tall woman that first gave away the location. She was every inch the Russian millionaire’s wife, with blonde hair piled on top of her head, and fur over her shoulders. Knightsbridge was home to rich clichés, and Morgan watched as she was followed out of the golden Lamborghini by a bearded man whose clothes were twenty years too young for him, and two chest sizes too small. Morgan slowed and watched the couple as they climbed the steps to a black door. The bearded man gave his woman a helpful grab on the ass as she slipped slightly in her heels, then knocked on the door. The couple waited patiently to be admitted. As there was no one else outside the building, one thing was clear to Morgan — the security, and the weapons he wanted, were behind that black door.

“Dammit,” Morgan swore softly, pulling his car into a side street a block away so that he was clear to think — how the hell could he get inside there without starting World War Three?

And then he had it.

“Hello,” Morgan said into his phone when it was finally answered. “I know, it’s been a long time,” he went on politely. “Listen, I’m calling because I need a favor.”

After Morgan hung up the phone, he drove to the nearest twenty-four-hour superstore to collect what he would need to turn that favor into weapons. By the time he had arrived back at the Knightsbridge location, the American had received a text that told him he was “all good.” Armed with that piece of information, he began the short walk to the party. With each step he prayed that the rain would hold off and he could ascend the steps dry, his freshly purchased clothes spotless. Despite knowing what was soon to come, Morgan fought back his adrenaline and took the steps slowly, trying hard to appear as cool and calm as possible. He needed to look as though he belonged at that party.

He knocked and counted to ten.

Nothing.

He knocked again.

Eight... nine... ten...

“Yes?” a female voice buzzed from the intercom beside the door.

“I’m here to see Albert,” Morgan announced, using the phrase he had been given in his phone call.

“There’s no Albert here,” the voice answered through the intercom.

“Yes there is,” Morgan insisted. “Abbie Winchester told me to come and say hello to him.”

The intercom went silent. Morgan pictured how the woman within would be looking on her phone for confirmation that the well-known socialite Abbie Winchester had indeed invited a guest.

“She’s not here,” the voice came back, and Morgan wondered what his chances were of knocking down the thick door — zero, he reckoned.

“I’m visiting from out of town,” he explained, smiling, certain that he was on camera. “Abbie recommended this place. I don’t really know London.” He shrugged, with another disarming smirk.

A second later the electronic bolts of the door clicked open, and Morgan found himself looking into an empty hallway, the dull thud of bass drifting down from above.

He stepped inside, and sense told him to wait. Moments later he was met from an adjoining room by the owner of the intercom’s voice, a petite young woman with tattoos teasing up her neck.

“You’re too clean-cut to be a friend of Abbie’s, mate,” she assessed, looking Morgan over.

“I’m American.” He smiled helplessly. “We’re not known for our fashion.”

“True.” The girl smiled. “You got a phone?”

Morgan shook his head. “Abbie told me to leave it in the car.”

“Good. No photos allowed here. Lifetime ban if you do.”

“Any other rules?” Morgan asked.

“Just don’t be a dickhead.” She shrugged. “Three hundred quid, please.” The girl put out her hand.

Morgan reached for his wallet and pulled out the notes.

“Next time bring a girl and you’ll get in easier. Or don’t.” She shrugged with a smile, playing the game.

“Here’s another two hundred for your trouble,” he told her, playing it himself.

The girl held his look before finally nodding her head. “Upstairs. You can’t miss it. Just follow the music.”

“I’ll see you later,” Morgan promised, and walked toward the staircase. As he moved, he looked through the open door that the girl had walked out of. He saw two muscular men on a sofa, their eyes on a bank of CCTV screens that showed what must be the party upstairs, and the building’s exterior. They were big men, Morgan thought to himself, dismissing the idea of rushing them immediately. Better to bide his time, he decided, and to think of a plan.