Джеймс Паттерсон - Private Princess

“Change of plan on that one.” Flex shrugged his massive shoulders. “Knight can go, but you’re coming with me.”

Morgan held his tongue. He’d expected the gambit, and now ignored it, instead taking in his options, and his chances. Flex and Rider were both armed, pistols holstered on their hips. As seasoned pros, neither man was impinging on what would be the other’s aim — Rider stood aside and staggered from Flex. Morgan was a quick draw, but he couldn’t expect to take down both men before he was hit himself. Was he willing to die to kill Flex? Was he willing to give Knight’s life, too?

“Let’s talk money,” Morgan said. “You said no to twenty million. Let’s make it thirty.”

“Thirty million to walk away?” Flex sneered.

“To walk away from this bridge,” Morgan corrected him. “We both know that this doesn’t end until one of us is dead, Flex. I’ll give you thirty million to give me Knight, and leave this bridge.”

Flex scoffed, and Morgan looked to Rider. “You may not want the money, but maybe your men do.”

“They want what I want,” Flex growled, taking a pace forward. “Honor. Respect.”

But the look on Rider’s face told Morgan different. “Thirty-five million.”

“Let him speak, Flex,” Rider said from behind his boss. “That’s a lot of money.”

“He’s trying to confuse you, you soft bastard,” Flex snarled, turning back to Rider.

“I’m trying to save my friend’s life, and to get us off this bridge.” Morgan now spoke to Rider directly. “Thirty-five million, or a lifetime as a wanted murderer. Your choice.”

The look on the former Foreign Legion man’s face said it was a simple one. “Let’s get back in the car, Flex. Let’s get out of here, and at least talk about this.”

“We’re not going anywhere.”

“It’s a lot of money.”

As the two men scowled at one another, Morgan chanced to look at the police car’s driver — the man was pale with nerves, his hands gripping the wheel hard.

“You can’t stay on this bridge forever,” Morgan said to Flex and Rider. “The real police are going to smell something, and when they get here, there’s no getting off this bridge.”

“The real police?” Flex snorted. “How often do you want to underestimate me, Jack? Insult me? Why dress up as coppers when I can just buy dirty ones? This is a Met Police car, and it works this beat. If I say we have all day, we have all day. All. Fucking. Day.”

Morgan shook his head, and flicked his eyes to the east — the sun was rising higher in the sky, and with it would come more pedestrians. More scrutiny. They could not stay on this bridge all day.

“Into the car!” Flex ordered Morgan and Herbert.

“Thirty-five million,” Morgan replied.

“Get in!”

“Flex, think about the money!” Rider pressed from behind him.

But Flex would not. He could only think about reputation, and how Morgan had stolen his. And so he reached into the car’s back seat and pulled Peter Knight out by his hair. Morgan watched tense as his battered friend was shoved toward the side of the bridge.

“I’m sick of your shit,” Flex spat at Morgan, confirming the American’s fears. “Either you get in the car, or he goes in the river.”

Morgan could see the handcuffs on Knight’s wrists, and knew that a fall from this height into the water with hands bound was a death sentence.

“If he dies,” he said evenly, “there will be no money, Flex. Only death.”

“Get. In. The. Car.”

For a moment all was silent. Then Morgan turned his hate-filled eyes from Flex’s face to Knight’s, the man he had been so angry with for putting them in this position, and for coming between Flex and Morgan’s justice. But the true spirit of Morgan’s soul broke through, and he knew that, no matter what, he could never put his own desires before the safety of his agents, and friends.

“I’ll get in the car,” he told Flex, stepping forward. “But Knight goes free.”

Flex smiled, moments from victory.

“Don’t!” Rider called out as Morgan stepped forward. “Stay there. Flex, we’re taking the money!”

“Enough!” Flex snarled.

Everything happened instantly, at once, and at speed.

Morgan watched on horrified as Flex used his massive arms to bundle the handcuffed Knight up and over the bridge’s side. In the same motion, Flex was already dropping to one knee and pulling his pistol.

But Rider had been faster — No honor amongst thieves, scumbags or killers — and his first 9mm round chipped stone from just above Flex’s head, the second striking Flex in his armored chest plate.

Rider didn’t get the chance to fire another. His eye was drawn to the figure of Morgan, who was pulling his own pistol free, and that split second of indecision cost Rider his life. Flex fired a double tap from his kneeling position, one round hitting the man in the neck, and the second clipping the side of his head. Rider went down, but his finger remained depressed on the semi-automatic trigger, 9mm rounds blasting and smashing into the police car’s windows and metalwork. Morgan saw in his peripheral vision a spray of blood on the windshield as the driver took one in the back of his head.

Two deaths had occurred before the large splash below announced that Knight had hit the chopping river, where now, handcuffed, he would have only moments to live.

And it looked as though Morgan had those moments — Flex was still twisted away from him, facing Rider, and now Morgan had a half second to sight in on the man and fire.

It was all he’d need. He would have justice and revenge.

His finger touched the trigger.

As Morgan took aim at Flex, Herbert launched himself into Morgan’s back and landed on top of him. The pistol fired but the shot was spoiled, the bullet smashing into one of the ammunition pouches on Flex’s hip.

“Run, Flex!” Herbert shouted at his leader. The man then bit down onto Morgan’s neck like a feral dog.

Herbert felt Morgan writhe in agony beneath him, and he used his legs as he had been taught in jiu-jitsu classes, hooking them over and under Morgan’s. With his hands still tied behind him, and his arm wounded, Herbert wormed and snapped like a lamprey, blood running into his mouth as he sought to save Flex, who he knew would never truly abandon him. They had been through too much together. They were mates. They were comrades, with an unspoken bond. Herbert had known Flex’s words about killing him for what they were — a ruse to get Herbert back by his side, no man left behind.

Herbert had never liked Rider. He had never understood why Flex employed him in the first place — so he hadn’t been surprised to see the man put money before honor and draw on Flex. Now, like a dog trained for blood sport, Herbert was eager to serve his master. His friend. He was eager to serve the man who had told him that he would never abandon him, and that he would be there for him always.

Time, location and reality had melted for Flex. He was oblivious to the fact that he was in the center of a gunfight on London Bridge, pedestrians running screaming and cars crashing into one another as they sought to escape the carnage. Flex had been overtaken by the red mist, his anger and rage all-consuming. His endgame was a distant memory now. All he wanted to do was kill. Kill. Kill.

Throwing Knight over the bridge had been a good start. He hoped that the weasel suffered a long death. It was a shame he couldn’t have given the same end to Rider, that greedy shitheaded bastard, but blowing out his throat would have to be enough. Turning through his arc to draw aim against Morgan, Flex briefly noticed the slumped body of his dirty cop behind the steering wheel, what little there had been inside the man’s head now gray jelly against the windshield.