Джеймс Паттерсон - Private Princess

“Alarm,” Morgan hissed. “Turn it off. Now.”

Gripping the man by his trachea, he lifted him to his feet. The man saw that his situation was hopeless, and he used his wide white eyes to guide Morgan to the alarm box, jabbing his finger awkwardly at the digits. Within ten seconds of the door opening, all had returned to silence but for the man’s gasped breaths. Morgan shoved him to the floor and trained the pistol onto the back of his head. Only then did he notice the man’s left arm and shoulder were bandaged.

“You got shot in the forest,” he guessed.

The man said nothing, but when Morgan delivered a blow onto the recent gunshot wound, he groaned like an animal.

“I’ll open up another one in the back of your head if you don’t start talking,” Morgan promised. “You know who I am, and you know I’m working outside the law, so talk. Are you Rider?”

“I’m not,” the man spat through clenched teeth.

“Then who the hell are you?” Morgan demanded, pressing the gun into the back of the man’s skull.

“Herbert. Chris Herbert.”

“You work for Flex?”

“I work for myself.”

A finger into the recently sutured gunshot wound convinced the man to change his answer. “Yes! Flex! Yes!”

“You’re a mercenary? Well, I have a proposition for you. You help me get Flex, and I pay you back by not blowing your brains out over the carpet.”

“Ram it, you Yank tart.”

Morgan pressed his thumb into torn flesh and broken bone. Then he let Herbert tell him everything.

The thought of his children, and the implications of a life without them, weighed heavily on Peter Knight as he watched the row of offices in Tottenham. He rubbed at his eyes, certain that the long hours and excitement had got to him, but he was not wrong in what he was seeing.

Flex.

There was no mistaking the size and shape of the muscle-bound man as he slinked quickly inside of his building. Fingers almost fumbling, Knight tried Morgan’s phone. It went straight to voicemail.

“Dammit, Jack,” he cursed. He then tried Hooligan’s number, and it connected. “Jez? Flex has shown up at his office. Keep trying Jack from your end. I’m going to call Elaine and see if she can move some units closer, without us having to spill all the beans on why.”

“All right. But stay safe. Don’t do anything stupid, Peter.”

“I’ll watch from the car,” Knight promised, hanging up. A moment after he did so, he heard a metallic object tapping on the glass of his driver’s window.

In that split second Peter Knight knew the game was over.

And he was the loser.

Herbert had spilled some good information as to who Flex was working with. There was always the chance he was lying, but Herbert swore blind that the former Foreign Legion man Nathan Rider was the only other man Flex trusted to stand by him during outright murder. Rider had been waiting in London during the shootings in Wales, should opportunity arise there. Once Herbert had gone down to Lewis’s gunshots — treated by Flex, a deft medic from long experience — Rider and Flex had ridden together, and Herbert’s part in the actions had been reduced to watching the news channels, and reporting to Flex anything of interest.

“He thinks it was you that caused the Knightsbridge shooting,” Herbert told him. “Thinks you went in there looking to get yourself a piece.”

“And what do you think?” Morgan asked, pressing the steel of the stolen pistol against the man’s head.

“You know you shot someone? You’re in as much shit as me.”

The only shots Morgan had fired were to take down the lighting fixtures. It must have been the girl’s wild shots that had found flesh, and left the dark blood trail on the dance floor.

“Who was it?”

“Some bellend TV presenter. It clipped off a few fingers, apparently.”

Morgan didn’t feel too bad about that. He was relieved that it wasn’t Natalie or the security men who’d been hit.

“Look, mate,” Herbert tried, “I’ve been in enough bad situations to recognize a really bad one, and the only way I see of getting out of this is by working with you.”

No honor amongst thieves , Morgan thought to himself. Same goes for scumbags.

“Talk.”

“I’ll testify. I’ll tell them everything they need to know about Flex. I just need looking after, because he’ll kill me if we end up in the same prison.”

But Morgan shook his head. “I don’t need testimony. I need him brought out in the open. I need him in front of me, so I can deal with him myself.”

“But—”

“Look, you’ve seen this guy’s capacity for revenge. You think being in a different prison is what’s gonna save you from him? No. If you’re going to live past tonight, you need to help me. And if you’re going to live after that, then you need Flex in the dirt.”

“Shit,” Herbert hissed, knowing that it was the truth. “Shit. What is it you need me to do?”

Morgan bundled Herbert into the back of the Focus. Already wounded, and with his wrists bound in tape, there was little Herbert could do to escape. A final piece of tape across his mouth had been enough to stifle the groans of pain — Morgan had not been gentle on the man.

The American scowled as he looked at the captive on the back seat behind him. In truth, he still had no concrete plan of how he would use Herbert to get to Flex.

Though it pained him to do so, Morgan knew he must take his foot off the gas, and allow thought to take over from action. He realized that the best place for him to do that would be in Private London’s headquarters, where he could draw on the minds of his agents.

As if his thoughts were being read, he saw a familiar name flash up on his phone’s caller ID. He took it on the second ring, his eyes in the car’s mirrors as he pulled out of the Wandsworth estate and headed toward London’s city center.

“Peter. I’m coming back to HQ. I’ll meet you there in ten.”

“No,” Flex’s voice answered him. “You won’t.”

“Don’t do it,” a strange voice had said from outside of Peter Knight’s car, seeing his finger moving to redial. “I’ll put one in your head before your call goes through.”

Slowly, Knight had turned his head. He had not been surprised by what he’d seen, and had found himself looking into the barrel of a pistol. It was held by an ugly man in a dark hoody.

“You fuckin’ amateur,” the man had sneered. “Maybe you want to turn down the brightness of your phone next time you call in a sighting. Get out the car.”

Knight had obliged, furious with himself. The man was right — Knight had acted like an amateur. Thoughts of his children had clouded his mind, and on seeing Flex he had acted quickly, without thinking. Now that impulse would probably mean he would never see Luke or Isabel again.

“Flex is the only one who’s killed someone. You can get out of this if you turn him in.”

The ugly man had half smiled, as if he’d felt sorry for the Private agent in front of him. “You really should have stayed in the amateur leagues.”

Knight had heard a sound behind him. Then had come darkness.

He regained consciousness in the back of a van. His head covered, he had no concept of where he was or for how long he’d been unconscious. All he knew for certain was that he’d been abducted, and that he was in serious trouble.

The van stopped, and he felt the suspension move as a significant weight departed, opened the door and climbed into the rear. A second later, what must have been a meaty hand swiped Knight’s hooded head, sending it bouncing off the wooden floorboard.