Джеймс Паттерсон - Private Princess

Jane Cook.

He stopped as if shot when he saw the shape of the covered body on the metal table, the memory of his lover’s contours etched into his mind so that even the silhouette of her was enough to trick him into believing it had all been a nightmare, and that Jane would now rise, smiling, and kiss him.

She never would, Morgan knew. Jane Cook would never breathe again. She would never laugh again. She would never crease the corner of her lip when she was deep in thought, a memory that now pushed a choked laugh of love from Morgan’s dry throat.

He approached her.

De Villiers had warned Morgan not to pull the sheet away, and Morgan obeyed. He had seen her death. He knew what lay beneath the sheet, no matter how he wished he didn’t. Instead, he reached under the material, and felt out Jane’s hand. As he gripped her cold fingers, a quartet of tears trickled over the cuts and bruises of his cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I know that Flex’s death can never bring you back, but you were a warrior. I wanted you to know that justice was done.”

Morgan used his free hand to wipe at his red eyes. They were tired — so tired.

Behind him he heard the sound of the doors opening. “Give me five more minutes, Colonel.”

“It’s me, Jack,” came the voice of Princess Caroline in response.

Morgan turned. The royal was dressed in dark jeans and a hoody, and held a baseball cap in her hands.

“I came to pay my respects. To her, and to you.”

Morgan let go of Jane’s cold hand, and delicately placed the sheet back over her still flesh.

“You got what you wanted, Jack.”

Morgan shook his head. “I can never get back what I want.”

The royal looked to the shrouded body.

“The city’s going crazy,” she told him after a moment. “Another lone-wolf attack. A troubled individual hitting out at a society they feel has failed them.”

Morgan raised an eyebrow. “That’s how you’re writing this off?”

She nodded. “Flex is a dark stain on the British armed forces, and the country, and he’s one that’s best forgotten as quickly as possible. The story that we tell can make all the difference.”

“And how will that happen?” Morgan asked skeptically, thinking of the carnage left in Flex’s wake — the lives taken, or blighted forever.

“People see what they want to see, and believe what they want to believe,” Princess Caroline explained. “A tragedy, where a broken veteran went on a rampage before throwing himself to his death. The media will lap it up like milk.”

“Why not the truth?”

Caroline shrugged. “Because there’s nothing to gain from it. The SAS tarnished. The police tarnished.”

“Yourself tarnished,” Morgan added.

She met Morgan’s eyes, and nodded. “You found Sophie’s killer, Jack, and now you’ve avenged yourself on the man who killed the woman who was special to you. I think it would be best if you stayed away from the UK for a while. Flex may have more friends.”

“They know where to find me,” Morgan replied, causing Caroline to smile whimsically.

“How have you lived so long, Jack?”

Morgan smiled in return. “Thank you for coming to see me, Your Highness. I’ll take your advice and change the scenery, but first, I have things to do.”

“Colonel De Villiers will see you’re taken care of,” the Princess promised.

“Don’t let him resign over this,” Morgan told her.

Caroline gave an apologetic smile. “I’m afraid that was a lie, and my idea. We thought that you’d be more likely to believe his help was genuine if you saw him falling on his sword.”

Morgan shrugged it off. Then he turned to take one last look at the woman who had taken his heart.

“I’ll leave you to pay your respects to Jane,” he said to the Princess. “She was a hell of a woman and a soldier.”

“I know,” Caroline confirmed. “I’ll be sure that she’s remembered as such. Goodbye, Jack.”

“Goodbye, Caroline.”

With those words, Morgan walked from the room, knowing that though the body of Jane Cook would be left behind him, her memory would be carried forever in his heart.

Jack Morgan had been standing for a long time in the hospital’s corridor. He had been driven there by Marcus De Villiers, the men saying their farewells with some sadness, a mutual respect and admiration having grown between them. During the drive across London, De Villiers had informed Morgan that the media was indeed lapping up the story circulated that Flex had been a troubled veteran who had gone on a rampage, before taking his own life.

“It’s all very neat,” Morgan had remarked.

“You don’t leave much mess,” De Villiers had replied.

Jack Morgan knew that wasn’t true. Jane Cook was dead, as were a handful of innocent bystanders. So too were Flex and his crew. Morgan had not an ounce of pity for the dead killers, but even so, he wished he could have taken them down more cleanly, without so much blood being spilled.

He exhaled loudly.

And then there were Sharon Lewis and Peter Knight. They rested in the hospital toward the end of the corridor in which he was now standing, but Morgan could not bring himself to walk the short distance, and to face the two people who had almost died in a vendetta that had been targeted at Jack Morgan himself.

“You going to stand there all day?” Morgan heard from over his shoulder.

He turned quickly, and looked down. A man in a wheelchair had spoken the words, two young kids combining forces to push him.

“Luke. Isabel,” Peter Knight said to his children. “Go and see Sharon.”

“OK, Daddy!” They smiled, and raced each other to the end of the corridor.

“I thought you died,” Morgan said as the children disappeared from sight.

“I didn’t.” Knight smiled.

He gestured, sensing Morgan’s reluctance to talk in public.

“I thought you were gone, Peter,” Morgan told his friend after pushing him to privacy. “Thank God.”

“Thank my parents,” Knight grinned. “Swimming lessons.”

Morgan shook his head and looked at his hands. “I shouldn’t have left you.”

“De Villiers came in for me. That lanky bugger’s a strong swimmer. He helped me into the police boat.”

“Still...”

“You had to get Flex,” Knight insisted. “You had to, Jack, for all of us. We all loved her. She was one of us.”

“She was,” Morgan acknowledged with love and pride.

“I know she meant more to you than maybe anyone, Jack, but she was a friend and a sister to everyone in Private London. I still can’t believe it.”

Morgan put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. Knight turned his head upward. The look that passed between the men was enough to say all that words could, and more. That they shared love and grief. Purpose and brotherhood.

Eventually Knight spoke. “I’ve got to leave Private, Jack. The kids. I can’t...”

Morgan said nothing. He understood. A nod and a look told Knight as much.

“Let’s go back to the room,” Morgan suggested, forcing a smile. “I want to hang out with these kids that are stealing my best agent.”

The sound of animated chatter grew louder as Morgan wheeled Knight along the corridor. “I’m OK to walk,” Knight insisted.

“I’m sure you are, but there’s a lot of pretty nurses here, Peter. Make the most of it while you can.”

Knight snorted, and used his foot to push open the door.

The source of the raucous babble was revealed immediately: Hooligan, playing the fool for Knight’s laughing children.

“All right, boss!” he grinned, spotting the American.

“Hooligan.” Morgan smiled before turning his head to a bed in the room’s corner. “Lewis.”