Author: James Patterson
Category: Literature
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“Where are you?” Hooligan asked hurriedly into his phone. “They won’t let me in the pub!”
“Stay next to it,” Knight replied. “Jack is coming for you. Jez, listen. Who is following you?”
Hooligan opened his mouth to reply, but the words died in his throat.
The “officer” was on the opposite side of the crowded street. A gray hoody was now pulled up over his head, but there was no forgetting the man’s grim, ominous face.
“He’s here,” whispered Hooligan as the man spotted him and began to cross the pedestrian traffic, a sick smile creeping across his ugly face. “I need to run!” Hooligan hissed into the phone.
“Stay where you are,” Knight insisted.
“But he’s coming!”
“Hooligan, if you run, we may not be able to find you again.”
“Peter! He’s getting close! Where’s Jack?”
“Stay where you are!”
“Peter! Peter!”
His pursuer was now halfway through the crowd. Halfway, and gesturing toward Hooligan’s position—the assailant was not alone.
“Help!” shouted Hooligan to everyone and no one. But the revelers ignored him, seeing either a smackhead or a drunk. “Help me!” Hooligan begged, but they did not. They shook their heads or smiled as they walked by.
It was only when another man began to shout in the crowd that the smiles began to slip, and were replaced with panic, and something more powerful than fear.
Terror.
Chapter 73
“BOMB!” JACK MORGAN shouted as he sprinted toward the White Swan pub. “Bomb!” he roared, hoping to sow confusion and chaos.
He got it. London was a city where terror attacks were a question of when, not if, and now dozens of panicked fans began to run, some screaming, others echoing Morgan’s frantic calls.
“Bomb!” they yelled, scrambling to get clear.
The stampede began moments later.
It took only seconds for word to pass from one mouth to another, twenty meters at a time. In under thirty seconds, it had reached the tail end of the crowd, who now surged forward, sideways and backward. What had been a steady flow of fans became a torrent, and no amount of cajoling by police or stewards could stop the flood.
“Out of my way!” a man screamed at Morgan, shoving him aside.
Others battered their way past him, many carrying children. The White Swan was only a dozen meters from Morgan, but the wave of fleeing spectators turned his approach into that of crossing a raging Rocky Mountain river.
“Hooligan!” he shouted. “Jeremy!”
Between the flashes of hustling claret-and-sky-blue shirts, Morgan caught sight of Hooligan sheltering by the pub’s wall as if from a storm, but it was a tidal wave of people that rushed by him.
“Over here!” Morgan shouted. “Over here!” His words were getting lost in the din of the crowd, but he kept calling. “Look! Jeremy! Here!”
And finally Hooligan did look, his eyes caught by Morgan’s motion, which was counter to the direction all others were moving. “Jack!” he called, his voice cracking. “Jack!”
Morgan saw Hooligan waving and pushed forward with more force, his sole focus on reaching Hooligan’s side. When he burst from the crowd, it was almost as a newborn, tossed from the frantic motion of fleeing fans into a tranquil haven.
“Where is he?” asked Morgan.
“I haven’t seen him since the stampede started.” Hooligan hugged Morgan as if he were a long-lost father. “That was you who started the bomb scare?”
Hooligan was not the only one to have figured that out, and now the alert mounted police, who’d been drawn to Morgan by his rushing through the crowd, pointed fingers in his direction and turned their horses into the press. The steady flow of fleeing fans broke around the beasts like river rapids.
“They’re coming for us, Jack! Thank God!”
Morgan felt no such elation. Flex was owed retribution, and Morgan could not deliver that from a Metropolitan Police cell. The mess could be cleared up, but it would take time. Time where Flex could be hunting more of Morgan’s people, or disappearing.
“Up and over the fence,” Morgan ordered, his eyes on the wooden fencing that stood between them and the back of the pub. “Go! Put your boot in my hand, and I’ll push you up!”
Hooligan knew better than to argue with Jack Morgan. In seconds he was over the fence. Morgan chanced one look over his shoulder before he followed.
The horse troopers were surging forward, eyes narrowed in pursuit as they talked into their radios.
Morgan was a wanted man.
Chapter 74
MORGAN DROPPED DOWN into the backyard of the pub.
“Gate over there!” He pointed the direction to Hooligan, and the two men began to twist and turn their way between empty beer kegs that gleamed silver in the evening’s sunlight.
“What’s happening, Jack? Who’s that bloke chasing me?” Hooligan asked over his shoulder.
“Just run! I’ll explain later,” Morgan told him. “Run, and don’t stop!”
But Hooligan did stop—the gate was locked. Morgan was about to boost the tech up and over when both men’s phones rang simultaneously. The anomaly was enough to stop Morgan, and have him answer. “Peter,” he said into the phone.
“Don’t worry about the police,” Knight’s voice bounced back. “Get out of the front of the pub, Jack. I’m waiting here.”
“We can’t,” Morgan protested. “The police saw me start the stampede. We can’t—”
“Don’t worry about the police!” Knight urged. “Just get out front. Hurry!”
Morgan felt Hooligan’s eyes on him, expecting orders from his leader. Every instinct told him that they should run, but…
“Inside,” the American told Hooligan, putting his faith in Knight and leading his tech man toward the back door.
As they stepped inside they saw the pub had pretty much cleared out except for a few stubborn patrons.
“You’ve gotta love the British.” Hooligan couldn’t help but smile with pride as he caught sight of one pensioner who was still sipping bitter at the bar, damned if he would move from his usual spot for a bomb threat.
Morgan’s eyes were on the doorways and windows. Through the glass he caught sight of Knight behind the Audi’s wheel, and pushed Hooligan through the nearest exit toward it.
Emptying out onto the street, Morgan half expected to be instantly assailed by police. Instead, he saw the two mounted officers moving away at speed in the opposite direction.
“Get in!” he yelled at Hooligan, opening the rear door and bundling him inside. He was about to follow when a roaring voice stopped him like a sledgehammer to the chest.
“Jack!” the voice bellowed. “Jack!” The sound of the familiar voice he so hated ignited every inch of his body in furious fire as he turned to face the owner.
Flex.
The muscle-bound man stood in the street as the final panicked remnants of the stampede hurried by him. By his side was a tall brute in a gray hoody.
Morgan wanted to kill them both.
Flex knew it, and smiled.
Then he simply walked away.
“Flex!” Morgan roared at the man’s back, his mind too full of anger to formulate threat or insult. “Flex!” he shouted, his call cutting away as he realized he was immobile, something holding him back from charging at the man who had killed Jane Cook.
“Help me hold him!” Knight shouted at Hooligan, who stretched from the back seat to reach out the door, taking hold of Morgan’s belt. “Hold him!” Knight demanded, struggling with his own grip as he twisted from the driver’s seat.
“Get off of me!” Morgan ordered.
“It’s a trap!” Knight shouted back.
“I don’t care!” the American argued.
Knight lifted his foot from the brake and hit the accelerator. He let the car leap forward a few feet before he stopped it. It was enough of a distance to yank Morgan off balance and give Knig
ht and Hooligan a chance to pull him backward. Morgan’s head hit hard against the door frame as he was bundled awkwardly into the passenger seat, side on.
“What the hell are you doing?” he roared.
But Knight was not about to answer. With his friend and leader safely in the car, he drove up onto the pavement and hit the accelerator.
They were clear.
Chapter 75
JACK MORGAN WAS still furious as Knight eased off the gas and drove them back onto the roads.
“Have you gone crazy?” the American shouted. “Flex was there, Peter! I had him!”
“He had you.” Knight spoke calmly. “He was pulling you into a trap, Jack. They could have had Hooligan if they wanted to. Think about it. This was a trap for you.”
“It felt like they wanted me,” Hooligan protested as adrenaline and shock shook his body. “Who the hell are they?”
Morgan was in a silent rage. Nostrils flaring, he turned his head to look out the window but all he could see was the image of Flex as he taunted him, within reach. Deep inside, Morgan knew that Knight was right—it had been a trap, with Hooligan the bait—but that didn’t make it any easier to swallow the fact that Flex still drew breath.
“Flex Gibbon’s behind it,” Knight answered Hooligan from behind the wheel, with a concerned look toward Morgan.
“Flex Gibbon?” Hooligan asked, fishing in his memory for the name. “He was the SAS guy that Jack and Jane beat up to find Abbie Winchester?”
“He was.”
“Where is Jane?” Hooligan then asked, cautiously, his intellect connecting the dots between Morgan’s behavior and Cook’s absence. “Guys? Where’s Jane?”
The silence told Hooligan all he needed to know.
“Oh God. Oh God, no,” he uttered, slipping down his seat. “Not Jane.” He trembled, his lip shaking violently.
“Flex killed her,” Morgan pushed out through clenched teeth, his eyes like lasers as he stared out the window. “And he’s still out there.”
“You’d be dead if you’d have followed Flex,” Knight ventured, as neutrally as possible. “What use is that to her, Jack? That’s not what she’d want. Think about it like this: when Flex goes down, do you want hundreds of witnesses?”
“No,” Morgan replied. No witnesses. Not unless he wanted to spend a lifetime in a British prison.
“Flex will get what’s coming to him,” Knight promised. “But when we decide. Not him.”
For a while the car was silent. In the back seat, Hooligan held his head between shaking hands.
“You’re a good man, Peter,” Morgan finally said. “You too, Hooligan.”
“I ran,” Hooligan stammered. “I left Perkins out there.”
“Perkins will be OK. The police will have got him to a hospital,” Knight reassured him. “They didn’t want Perkins, they wanted you. You did what you had to do.”
“You lived,” added Morgan. “And now you can help us finish this.”
Chapter 76
THE AUDI PULLED to a stop in Private London’s secured parking, and all men exited simultaneously.
“I’ve gotta go to the loo,” Hooligan told the others, and scuttled off.
Knight looked at Morgan over the top of the car.
“I’m sorry I went against your orders,” Knight offered. “I know you’re the boss, but I couldn’t let you go after him. It would have been suicide.”
“You’re my friend, Peter. And you probably saved my life.”
Knight managed a weak smile.
“I’m going to contact the Met,” he told his leader, having been debriefed by Hooligan on the journey. “Let them know that there’s someone masquerading in convincing police uniform.”
“Hooligan said he had all the gear,” Morgan agreed. “Hooligan couldn’t tell them apart. You think Flex has links in the police? Could he have called off the mounted officers to draw me in?”
Knight shook his head. “That was Denise. She was following it all on their system. She hacked in and gave orders for all officers to make their way to a bogus mass casualty event.”
“Good work. Better make sure she covers her tracks.”
As Knight stepped away from the car, his investigator’s instinct read Morgan’s body language. “You’re not coming inside, are you?”
Morgan shook his head. “I’m not. Keys, please.”
Knight tossed them over. “Will you tell me where you’re going?”
“I won’t.” Morgan walked around to the driver’s door and offered Knight his hand.
The Englishman shook it. “Be careful, Jack. I told you I’m ready to step up, but I don’t want to have to.”
Morgan patted his friend on the shoulder. Then, without a word, he climbed into the car. The sleek black machine glided from the garage and into the London night.
Where Jack Morgan would hunt.
Chapter 77
PETER KNIGHT SLOTTED his ID card into the garage’s door, and followed it with the biometric data of his thumb print and retinal scan. Only on the authentication of all three did the heavy deadbolts click open, Knight raising his hand to the cameras that monitored his every move. The security of his headquarters was more than a match for any building in the UK.
It was with a clouded mind and heavy feet that he walked Private’s hallways. He had known Jack Morgan for years, and he had never seen the American act this way. Morgan had always been a focused, driven individual, headstrong, even—how else could he have built the world’s biggest private investigation firm?—but his single-minded desire for revenge was worrying Knight. Knight knew that he and Hooligan had saved Morgan’s life by pulling him back into the car and keeping him from rushing after Flex and into an inevitable trap. Now Morgan was out again, who knew where, and without anyone to stop him from making any rash moves. Flex was ex-SAS and highly trained in tactical warfare. In order to beat him and achieve the justice Morgan so desperately wanted, they needed to be as cold and calculated as he was.
Justice, he thought. What did that mean to him? Peter Knight had worked for a long time as part of the British criminal justice system. He had seen innocent people go to prison, and evil ones go free. The system was flawed, he knew, but overall he believed in it. What kind of society would it be where people felt the need, and the right, to dispense their own justice? Knight had studied cases from Indonesia to Venezuela. He knew what happened when law broke down and vigilantism took over. Inevitably, those vigilante groups descended into becoming gangs and cartels and murderous groups just like the ones they had at first stood up to, and Knight had no wish to see that on London’s streets.
And yet.
And yet, he had done nothing to stop Jack Morgan taking the car and leaving on what could only be the pursuit of Flex Gibbon. A pursuit that, deep down, Knight knew would not end with Flex being handcuffed and put into the back of a police car. It would end with a casket, and spadefuls of dirt.
Knight strode toward the tech lab. “We need to track, Jack,” he told Hooligan.
“Already on it,” Hooligan replied intently.
“He didn’t disable the tracker?” Knight asked, frowning. As head of Private, Morgan was aware of all standard operating procedures. One of the most basic of which was to tag and track all of the Private fleet.
Hooligan shook his head. “He didn’t, surprisingly.”
Knight was confused—why would Morgan go it alone, unwilling to disclose his intent, but leave the electronic signature of his whereabouts?
“Where is he now?”
“Well, that’s odd.” Hooligan frowned, looking again at his screen, and then to Knight. “He’s at Horse Guards.”
Chapter 78
JACK MORGAN PULLED his car off Whitehall and into Great Scotland Yard, where he spied a parking space beside the Clarence pub. It was a private spot, but Morgan took care of that by giving the pub’s bouncer a handshake loaded with a couple of fifty-pound notes. Then, with the lightest of rains falling on his skin, he walked back
onto Whitehall, and in the direction of Horse Guards Parade.
The majesty of London had always impressed Morgan, and its effect was even more striking at night. The buildings that lined Whitehall had been part of the seat from which the British Empire had been ruled. It was now home to the Ministry of Defence, the road itself watched over by statues of men who had led British armies to great victories overseas. Morgan’s eyes glanced over the brass plaques as he walked, recognizing the names from lessons he had been taught as a young Marine Corps officer: Earl Haig, who had presided over the slaughter in the trenches; Viscount Montgomery, who had turned back Rommel’s Africa Korps, before serving beneath Eisenhower in Europe; the Viscount Slim, who had routed the Japanese in Asia. All leaders who had been blessed with remarkable men and women to serve under them, just as Morgan had. Looking at their faces, Morgan wondered if they suffered as he did when any one of the people under their command were hurt, or died in the line of duty.
Morgan looked away from the statues, his eyes drawn to a brilliantly lit up structure in the road’s center. It was the Cenotaph, Morgan remembered—the central point of remembrance for all British and Commonwealth fallen soldiers. Jane had told him that when they had walked these streets together, looking for vulnerabilities in security ahead of the Trooping the Color parade, where kidnappers had threatened to execute Abbie Winchester should a ransom for her release not be paid. It was during those hours alone with her that Morgan had begun to develop an attraction for Jane Cook that was more than physical, and her memory had drawn him here. Their time together had been as short as it had been electric, and Morgan wanted to feel her presence as he sought out the road ahead. He wanted to recall memories of her that were exciting and promising, rather than the grotesque images of her death.
His feet crunching on the stone of Horse Guards Parade, Morgan closed his eyes and tried to imagine her own set of footsteps beside his. Then in the center of the square he halted and raised his face to the sky.
“I’m sorry, Jane,” he whispered to the night. “I’m so sorry.”