Princess: A Private Novel(72)

Chapter 126


AS HE WATCHED Flex fall away into oblivion, the weight of Jack Morgan’s grief came crashing down—her killer had received justice, but Jane Cook was still dead. Nothing would ever bring her back.

He sank to his knees, and closed his eyes.

That’s how he was found by the armed men that burst onto the building’s rooftop. Without an ounce of resistance, Morgan let himself be pushed face first into the cold metal flooring. He heard the men shouting, but he paid them no heed. Hands cuffed behind his back, Morgan was dragged to his feet roughly and a hood was pulled over his head.

Shoved and pulled by his captors, Morgan was taken from the roof and inside the building. There he was lifted and put onto a gurney, where he felt a second cuff attach to his right ankle. Morgan’s world turned darker still as what felt like a blanket was laid over him.

Jack Morgan said nothing through all this. He felt the sensation of falling through air, and presumed it was the elevator. He heard distant sounds of sobbing, sirens and shouts of command. He felt himself pushed and wheeled, the sudden bump of the gurney’s legs tucking as he was slid into what he presumed was an ambulance. Seconds later, the siren blared and he felt the unmistakable movement of a vehicle travelling at speed.

He had no idea how long it was until the vehicle stopped, his gurney was unloaded, and Morgan was wheeled through quiet corridors. He had no idea how long it was until a man pulled away the blanket, and then the hood.

“Peter Knight?” Morgan asked, looking up at the man above him, desperate to know the fate of his friend. “Is he alive?”

“Knight is at Guy’s Hospital,” Colonel De Villiers told him, “but he’s alive.”

Morgan closed his eyes in relief. The Colonel pretended not to notice the tear that ran down Morgan’s cheek. Instead he used a set of keys to take off the cuffs that bound Morgan to the gurney. The American pushed himself up, and took in his surroundings: he was in a bare corridor, the smell of bleach and disinfectant thick in his nostrils.

“I’m sorry you had to be brought in like this,” De Villiers said as Morgan rubbed at his sore wrists. “Given the circumstances, we decided the best option was to convince MI5 to claim you as an operative. As far as everyone but the few operators from the rooftop knows, you were a British intelligence asset, who died heroically. Jack Morgan has been under my protection in the Tower this entire time.”

“You said we?” Morgan asked.

“The Princess likes you,” De Villiers replied, confirming Morgan’s thoughts about who had been pulling the strings to keep him out of a British prison.

“Thank you, Colonel,” Morgan said, putting out a hand.

“Marcus,” the Guards officer insisted.

“You saved Peter’s life?” Morgan asked as they shook.

De Villiers smiled. “He saved his own. I found him on one of the stone arches. He’d kicked his way there and was using his cuffed hands to grip a submerged mooring ring. His head was just above water.”

“So you did save him.” Morgan smiled.

“I helped him.”

For keeping him from prison, Morgan had offered the Colonel a handshake. For saving Peter Knight’s life, he put his arm around the taller man and embraced him.

“No need to make a scene, Morgan,” De Villiers said, coloring a little.

“Jack,” Morgan told him, standing back. “Thank you, Marcus.”

De Villiers smiled and straightened his jacket.

“But now, if I’m not here to see Peter,” Morgan asked, “then where am I?”

De Villiers cleared his throat, and told him.





Chapter 127


THE SMELL OF bleach and disinfectant hit Jack Morgan strongly as he pushed open a heavy door and entered the pathologist’s lab, the room as still and lifeless as the woman that lay at its center.

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.