Джеймс Паттерсон - Private Princess

Jack Morgan, drenched in Herbert’s blood, launched into his run like a sprinter at some ghastly Olympics. Unlike Flex, he made no effort to weave between the stalled traffic for cover, instead running along the bridge’s pedestrianized side.

As he ran, he passed some of the city’s early risers who had pressed themselves against the bridge’s scant cover, paralyzed by fear, or too old to run. They looked at him with terror-filled stares, but his eyes were locked on a figure a hundred yards ahead, the bulk of Flex pushing conspicuous even from a distance.

Flex had a head start, but Morgan had seen Rider’s bullet strike the man in his armored chest plate. Even the greatest athlete would be winded after such a hit, and Flex was made of sixty pounds more muscle than his heart and lungs had been built to carry — in effect, he was running with a rucksack. In his SAS days, that was exactly what Flex did as his bread and butter, but he was older now, and Morgan could bet that Flex’s gym time was spent pumping up his muscles in the mirror, rather than on the cardio machines.

The result of all this was that Morgan was catching up.

The American was at the end of the wide bridge now, and saw Flex fleeing eastward with the tail end of the bridge’s terrified fugitives.

“Out of my way!” Morgan heard the man bellow. “Police! Get out of my way!”

The wide-eyed pedestrians moved aside for the human bowling ball, who knocked to the ground any who were too slow to clear a path. As Flex reached a set of elevators that carried passengers down to the ground level of London Bridge station, a young woman was sent tumbling forward by the muscleman’s barging shoulder. People screamed, and Morgan used those shouts as beacons whenever he lost sight of the man. The foot of the open bridge was now twisting into steps and staircases that entangled into the concrete jungle of buildings, roads and train track. Morgan had closed the distance, but as the urbanity built up ahead of him, he knew he could lose his quarry from as close as twenty yards away.

“Flex!” Morgan called, willing to set himself up as a target if that’s what it took to halt his prey. “Flex!”

The second shout reached the man’s ears. The fugitive turned, scowled, and snapped off a double tap from his pistol. The bullets zipped by Morgan’s head as he continued to run forward in a crouch, ducking behind a low wall. The sound of panicked civilians was everywhere, but no more shots, and so Morgan risked a look around the end of the wall. There was no sign of Flex.

Morgan rushed onward, preparing for the final showdown. He reached behind his back and pulled free the revolver — he had six shots.

Six shots to kill, or be killed.

Flex used a backhand to clear a fear-stricken young man from his way, the youth falling backward with a whimper as Flex barged through the narrow alleyway.

Bastard , he growled to himself. Bastard. He could not believe Morgan had survived the fusillade of bullets that he had pumped into Herbert’s torso. Now the American was clinging to him like the parasite he was, the chances of Flex’s escape diminishing with each yard of ground that the man gained.

The bastard was harder to kill than a cockroach, he railed. Flex needed him dead. He needed him dead more than he needed almost anything else in the world.

The only thing more important than Morgan’s death was Flex’s own survival. Caught up in moments of red mist and rage, he had lost sight of that. Rider’s greedy treachery had pushed him to the edge and over it, but now Flex was calming, and becoming more calculating — escape and evade, he told himself. Come on, you old bastard , he goaded. You were trained for this. Escape, evade, and then track the Yank down and cut his throat. It doesn’t have to be today, it doesn’t have to be tomorrow. Let him suffer a bit. Let him remember how you blew that bitch’s brains out on screen. Let him remember how you chucked his mate into the Thames like he was an empty tracksuit. Let him suffer for a bit, and then kill him.

Yes , Flex told himself. That’s what I’ll do.

But first he had to escape.

To that end, he took a wide berth around the train station, knowing there would be coppers there. Instead he circled it two streets over, running eastward, the roads all but empty of onlookers now. Those that Flex did pass stood still in wide-eyed bewilderment — they saw a running cop, they heard a siren, but they had no idea why. In the Big Smoke it could mean a house fire or a terrorist massacre.

“What’s going on, officer?” an elderly man asked plaintively as Flex thundered past.

But Flex had no time to play cops, because he was looking at two real ones coming down the street toward him. They pulled their BMW motorbikes to a stop and dismounted.

Flex saw his opportunity.

“Thank God!” he shouted, cursing inwardly as he saw that the men were armed, and cautious. “I got attacked! He’s armed and on a rampage, and he’s right behind me, covered in blood!”

“Just stop there, mate!” one of the cops called, hand on his pistol. “What’s your name and police number?”

Flex said nothing. Instead he cursed his own stupidity. He should never have used the police gambit again after their trap at the London Stadium. Word must have gone out to the police about imposters in uniform, and Flex was not the kind of person people forgot in a hurry — his huge bulk and disheveled appearance taking these police to the logical assumption that this man might not be what he seemed.

“Move your hand away from your weapon,” the second cop told him, moving his own hand to his holster.

Flex didn’t give him the chance, and drew. A double tap cracked the officer in the chest. Flex turned to draw down on his companion, but that officer had already dropped into cover, positioning his bike between himself and the shooter.

Flex snarled. He didn’t have time for this. So he turned and ran. He ran for the only building he could see with an open entrance. He ran for a building he knew was a dead end, but would at least give him a place where he could take hostages, and negotiate, for with a professional’s eye, he saw that its top reaches would be almost impossible for his former SAS comrades to assault.

And so Flex ran for the Shard.

Jack Morgan heard the gunshots but did not break stride. They were away to his right, echoing from the street where he had seen Flex disappear. He flinched at the thought of Flex taking more innocent life, and braced himself for what scene he would come across in his pursuit. Morgan prepared for a decision he might have to make between saving that person’s life, or catching the murdering monster.

But then he heard a second set of gunshots crash through the streets, closely overlapped by others, and that overlap could mean only one thing: Flex was in a gunfight.

Morgan waited then — a patient hunter behind the low wall of a staircase, steadying himself, and waiting for his shot.

It came seconds later. Flex barreled out of the street with a quick look over his shoulder, closely followed by a gunshot. Any people in the locale who were not already running and screaming took off like a burst of frightened partridges, obscuring Morgan’s view as he brought up his pistol and tracked Flex’s progress — he was coming closer, running at an oblique angle to the American, who remained undetected, ready and waiting.

Morgan pulled the trigger.

The first round went wide, impossible to tell how far, but the sound was enough to draw Flex’s attention. The fugitive fired back a trio of shots without breaking stride. One of the bullets struck close, sending chips of brick into Morgan’s face and eyes, scratching him and forcing him down into cover. He cursed and wiped his eyes with his fingers to clear his vision.