Princess: A Private Novel (Private #14)(40)

His pursuer’s flesh.

“Arghhh!” the man screamed as the blade pierced his stomach. “You bastard!” he growled at the football fan who had stabbed him.

No—Private’s tech guru corrected himself. Not a football fan. A football hooligan. A real one. And here came his friends, scarves pulled up over their faces as they hurried to form a barrier between him and who they assumed was an officer of the law.

“Run, you wanker!” they shouted at their friend and Hooligan’s unwitting savior, who took off quickly. “Run!” they urged.

Hooligan also decided to take their advice, as the stabbed man was getting to his feet. Hooligan cursed that he appeared mostly undamaged—his stab vest had taken most of the blow, and only a small amount of blood was leaking into his hand.

“Out of my way!” the man raged. “Out of my way or I’ll arrest you all!”

And as Hooligan pressed through the crowd, he saw the football fans slowly obey. In the near distance there was now the sound of shouts and whistles: above the heads of the West Ham supporters, Hooligan could see two mounted officers entering the horde on horseback. A quick calculation told him they would never get to him before the fake officer. Hooligan’s only chance was to keep running and to find his own safety. So he shoved, swore and sprinted his way between his fellow fans, ignoring the constant insults and occasional fists that came his way.

“I’m sorry!” he pleaded as he staggered on. The crowd began to thin as Hooligan reached the head of the exodus from London Stadium.

“Watch where you’re going, you knob!” a fan spat, instinctively kicking Hooligan’s legs from beneath him as he barged by him and the woman with him. Hooligan hit the ground hard, the tarmac peeling back the skin on his hands and bringing with it a sensation Hooligan hadn’t felt since his childhood—scraped knees and gravel burn as he dreamed of one day taking the field for West Ham.

No, he thought to himself. It can’t end here. I’m not ready.

But no amount of adrenaline or dogged determination could rouse his spent muscles and heaving lungs. Hooligan had run to the limit of his endurance—he had nothing left to give.

And then his phone began to ring.





Chapter 71


“IT’S GOING THROUGH!” Peter Knight shouted excitedly, as the sound of ringing came over the Audi’s speakers. “Come on, Jez, pick up! Pick up!”

Beside Knight, in the passenger seat, Jack Morgan sat tight-faced and impassive, his emotions shoved deep inside his chest as he tried to think only of the safety of his people that still breathed, and not the ones who were beyond help.

It was an impossible task. And as the phone continued to ring, Morgan could not help but think of Hooligan as Cook had been—forced onto his knees, with a pistol to his head.

“Goddammit, Hooligan, pick up!” shouted Morgan, the veneer of his outward calm breaking.

Through the windows, both men saw the beginnings of the football crowd seeping through the streets and away from the stadium that loomed in the middle distance. Around them, traffic began to calcify as car parks emptied.

“Pick up!” Morgan roared again, knowing they would soon be deadlocked.

The call connected.

“Help me!” The East Ender breathed heavily through the car’s speakers. “Please!”

“Where are you?” Morgan asked, holding up his hand to cut off the same question coming from Knight. “What do you see around you?”

“The White Swan pub.” The tremor of terror was clear in Hooligan’s voice. “Please! I’ve lost sight of him!”

“Get to the pub!” Morgan ordered. “Stay in a busy place!”

“It won’t stop him!”

“Just do it, Hooligan!” Morgan shouted. Knight was already turning the car in traffic to head back in the opposite direction.

“I saw that place on the way in,” he explained. “It’s only a few hundred meters back.”

But it may as well have been a few hundred miles back. The road heading away from the stadium was a parking lot, West Ham supporters weaving their way through the cars and making it impossible for them to drive at faster than walking pace.

“I’m going for him,” Morgan declared, opening the door.

“Jack, wait! It could be a trap! They’re using him to draw you in!”

Morgan heard the truth in Knight’s words, but he couldn’t care less—he would not sit idle as one of his own was in peril.

Instead he ran toward that danger.





Chapter 72


HOOLIGAN SHUFFLED AS quickly as he could to the packed White Swan pub. He was so busy throwing terrified looks over his shoulders that he never saw the bouncer in front of him, and recoiled as his head bumped off the big man’s chest.

“Watch where you’re going,” the bouncer warned.

“Can I come in?” Hooligan asked. “I’ve got friends inside.”

The bouncer shook his head at the disheveled man. “Not a chance, mate. You’re shit-faced.”

“I’m not!” Hooligan pleaded. “I swear on me mum! I’m not drunk!”

“Well, you’ve been scrapping then. Either way, you’re not coming in.”

“Can I stand next to you?” Hooligan asked, swallowing. “Someone’s trying to get me.”