Princess: A Private Novel(45)

“Where?”

De Villiers ignored the question.

Morgan turned to face the Thames. On the opposite bank stood the huge wheel of the London Eye—how many happy couples on there? Morgan wondered. How many couples for whom death would be something to be confronted in their eighties, and at a bedside?

“Have you brought me what I wanted?” he asked.

“I haven’t,” the Colonel replied.

Morgan turned his head sharply toward the other man. “Then why are you here? I don’t have time to waste.”

“And it won’t be wasted,” the Colonel promised. “But this isn’t Texas, Morgan. One doesn’t simply walk into Walmart and leave with a trolley full of guns.”

“You wouldn’t need to go to Walmart, Colonel. You’re the head of royal security, and a solider. You have access to armories.”

“Well-secured and -monitored armories,” De Villiers added.

Morgan’s burning glare prompted the Colonel to explain himself, and in a hurry. “Do you want the police and the army’s special branch breathing down our necks from the moment I walk out of the armory? You’ll get your weapon, but you’ll do things my way.”

De Villiers pushed a folded piece of paper into Morgan’s pocket.

“What’s this?”

“The address of a place where you can find what you want.” Morgan raised an eyebrow in question.

“It’s an illegal-club-slash-drug-den,” the Colonel explained. “High end. I’ve had to pull a few of our wards out of there over the years.”

“How do you know I’ll find weapons?”

“Because I’ve had the bloody things pointed in my face when I came in the back door unannounced. Believe me, Morgan, you’ll find what you need there. Their security will be holding them.”

Morgan considered it for a moment. “What about police?” he asked.

“I told you, it’s high end. The people there are people that matter. The police give it a wide berth.”

“You’re sure?”

“I once saw the retired head of Scotland Yard in there, Morgan. I’m sure.”

Morgan shook his head and snorted. The hypocrisy of the world and the establishment never ceased to amaze him. And yet, he had to remind himself, there were many good men and women in such archaic institutions, doing good work in a corrupt system. Despite first appearances, Marcus De Villiers was showing himself to be one of them.

“Thank you for doing this for me,” Morgan told the man.

“No offence, Morgan, but this isn’t for you. This is for Lewis and Perkins, and for Cook.”

Morgan felt as though the Colonel was holding something back. “Go ahead,” he pressed.

“Lewis told me what happened,” De Villiers admitted. “She remembered names, Morgan. She told me about Flex.”

“You know him,” Morgan muttered.

“Of course I know him. He’s from the regiment, and he runs one of the biggest private security firms in London. At least, he did.”

Morgan looked at the man, and let his eyes ask the question.

“His business has taken a dive over the past couple of years. Word got out that he was beaten down and had his knee blown out by a couple of civilians, one of them a woman, the other an American.”

Morgan said nothing.

“He’s had the first part of his revenge, Morgan, but he won’t be satisfied until you’re dead.”

“The feeling is mutual.”

“Good. Flex is not only a murderer, but by virtue of who he was, he is a national disgrace. Better he be dealt with quietly, rather than dragged through the courts.”

“You’re helping me because you want this kept quiet?”

“I’m helping you because it’s the right thing to do. There are two pieces of paper in your pocket, Morgan. One is the address, and the other is a copy of my letter of resignation. Lewis and Perkins were hurt under my command. As I can’t take their place in the hospital—which I wish I could—I can only give up my command. I’m staying in my post only to be useful until this bastard is dealt with, Morgan. Then I will resign my commission.”

“We have to deal with Flex first,” Morgan replied.

“We do,” De Villiers agreed. “So you’d better go get your gun.”





Chapter 80


COLONEL DE VILLIERS walked eastward along the Thames’ northern bank, his eyes on the pavement as the wind began to whip off the water, finding every opening in his clothing.

“It’s supposed to be bloody summer,” the man grumbled to himself as he reached inside his Barbour jacket for his phone.

“Yes?” the voice asked as De Villiers’ call connected.

“I met with Morgan,” the Colonel replied after a look over both shoulders. “I gave him the address.”

“Will he go?” the voice asked.

“He will. He’s on a rampage. You could see it in his eyes.”

For a moment there was silence, all quiet in De Villiers’ ears except the slap of his brogues against the Embankment’s damp paving stones.

“Did he buy your resignation?” the voice finally asked.

“He did,” De Villiers replied.