Princess: A Private Novel (Private #14)(38)

Hadn’t he seen enough death? He could still remember the helicopter crash in the Afghan mountains. He could still remember the screams and the smell of burning flesh. He could still remember the nightmares and bed sheets soaked in sweat. He could still feel the guilt that hung from his shoulders like the heaviest rucksack he had ever carried as a Marine. And now this? Now Jane’s death, too?

“Why are we doing this?” Morgan asked himself, but the words came out loud enough for Knight to hear. The Englishman frowned in confusion, as if the answer were so simple.

“For justice.”

“For justice.” Morgan smiled. What justice could there be for Jane Cook? Her life was worth a million Flex Gibbons. How could her soul and presence ever be replaced? How could there be real justice when the world was an emptier place without her?

“I miss her already,” he confessed to Knight. “And it hasn’t even hit me yet. Not really.”

“We’re here for you, Jack,” Knight promised. “All of Private London. We’re here for each other, as a family.”

Private London. So caught up was he in his own loss that Morgan had yet to consider the wider ripples of Jane’s tragedy. Cook was beloved of every member of the London office, he knew. She had family there, and family in the wider world. What of her comrades from the army? People who had fought and lived beside her in the hardest of circumstances. Flex’s actions would cause distress and grief to hundreds of people. His attack had been not just on Cook and Lewis, but on hundreds, maybe thousands of people. He was a monster, and he had to be stopped.

No matter the consequences.

“Peter, are you ready to step up? If the time comes, are you ready to step up, for Private?”

It took Knight a moment to grasp the implications of what Morgan was saying. “I am, Jack,” he promised. “But I won’t need to.”

We’ll see, Morgan thought.

Because he knew this was only going to end one of two ways—with the death of Michael “Flex” Gibbon, or with the death of Jack Morgan.





Chapter 65


MORGAN FELT THE shrouded looks and pity-filled smiles as he walked into Private London’s HQ alongside Peter Knight.

“My children are upstairs,” Knight sighed, shoulders slumping in relief.

“You should stay with them,” said Morgan. “I can handle this alone.”

Knight didn’t reply, but there was no chance he would leave this for Morgan to handle alone. “How are we doing on the headcount?” he asked his watch manager.

“Almost everyone is accounted for,” she advised Knight. “We’ve got them either coming into here or safe houses if they’re in other parts of the UK.”

“How is it affecting ongoing ops?” he asked.

“Minimally. Sir Tony and Sophie Edwards were our main investigations. We have a fraud case in Scotland, and a widow in Sheffield has asked that we look over her husband’s death, but other than that, the decks are clear.”

“Those cases can wait,” Morgan said evenly. “Right now, Private only has one case.”

The watch manager nodded. No one needed telling what that case was. “There is just one person we haven’t yet been able to contact,” she said.

“Who is it?” Knight asked, instantly fearful.

“Jeremy Crawford,” she replied. “Hooligan.”





Chapter 66


MORGAN AND KNIGHT sprinted for the Audi. Knight relieved the driver and jumped in behind the wheel. Within a moment they were tearing out into traffic.

It had been less than ninety seconds since the watch manager had informed them that Hooligan was the only Private employee who hadn’t been contacted. She put this down to his being at the West Ham game, where phone coverage was always pitiful due to the number of users in one place, but Knight and Morgan had darker thoughts.

“Flex won’t have had time to get him before the game started,” Morgan worked out. “But he could be waiting for him. Hooligan was one of the team that worked on the case to rescue Abbie Winchester, so if that’s his list, we have to find him before Flex does.”

“How much do we know about the man Hooligan’s with?” Morgan asked.

“Perkins? He was sent from De Villiers to coordinate with them on the tech side of things. No one’s been able to get hold of him either. You think he could be working with Flex?”

“He’s not one of ours, so I’m ruling nothing out.”

I’m not losing anybody else, Morgan promised himself as he picked up his phone, the call going straight to Hooligan’s voicemail for the tenth time. “Come on, dammit! Connect!” He hit his fist against the car’s dashboard.





Chapter 67


JEREMY “HOOLIGAN” CRAWFORD streamed out of London Stadium with thousands of other downcast West Ham fans, having been drubbed 2–0 by the visitors in a pre-season friendly.

“I can’t believe you pay for a season ticket to watch that dross,” said Perkins, the Millwall fan.

“Been paying for the past seventeen years.” Hooligan shook his head. “I must be a sucker for punishment.”

“If you’re into paying to be miserable, there’s ladies that will do that for you in Soho.”