Princess: A Private Novel (Private #14)(53)

“I cross-referenced Flex’s record with the SAS men on the Princess’s security detail,” the Colonel explained. “I started with the oldest first, as they were most likely to cross paths.”

“And you found one?” Morgan asked.

“Second name I tried. I’ve got my most trusted people checking the others, but until then, I told Corporal Joyce to meet us down here, so that we can have a chat.”

Corporal Joyce, of the Special Air Service Regiment, arrived in the cellar a few minutes later. Having been called from rest, he was unarmed, wearing only a tracksuit and a frown.

“Colonel De Villiers down here?” he asked the room’s sole occupant, Jack Morgan.

“He’s not,” Morgan said simply.

“Oh. All right. Wrong bloody room.” The man was about to turn away when Morgan’s words stopped him.

“You know who I am, don’t you?” he asked. “I saw it in your face. You know who I am, and now you’re about to run upstairs, to tell your boy Flex.”

Joyce tried to snort at such a ridiculous notion, but his shifting feet and awkward posture paid testament to his guilt. “I don’t know who you are, mate. And I don’t care.” He turned, coming face to face with Colonel De Villiers.

Who held a dusty chair by its legs.

“Bastard!” the Colonel roared, swinging the piece of furniture down on the treacherous man. Joyce raised his arms to protect himself, but the Colonel was tall, and his swing fierce. The blow smashed against Joyce’s arm with the sound of cracking bone.

“Jesus!” the man gasped, dropping to one knee.

“Colonel!” Morgan shouted, shocked at the attack. “Colonel! Stop!”

But De Villiers would not stop. He brought the chair down on the man again, this time over Joyce’s back. He was about to swing the remnants of the now-broken chair a third time, but Morgan wrestled it from his grasp. Denied, De Villiers settled for delivering a kick into Joyce’s stomach.

“He did it! It was all over his face, Morgan! You piece of shit, Joyce! I’ll beat you to death for this!”

Morgan held the Colonel back, and spoke evenly into his ear. “Colonel. We need him to talk. We need him in one piece, so he can talk. That’s how we find Flex. That’s how we get justice for Lewis, Perkins and Cook.”

“You’ll talk,” the Colonel growled at the man on the floor.

Morgan, knowing the SAS’s training to withstand interrogation, did not expect the man to give it up easily.

He was wrong.

“I didn’t know he was gonna do what he did!” the soldier spat between gritted teeth. “I didn’t know, sir!”

“What did you do?” De Villiers hissed. “Why were you helping him?”

“He said this one had tried to kill him over money,” Joyce replied, pointing a hand at Morgan. “He came into Flex’s gym and attacked him, but Flex beat him off. I was helping him get even.”

“‘Get even’?” De Villiers roared. “A former army officer is dead! Lewis—your teammate!—is in hospital, beaten to within an inch of her life!”

“Flex said that he did it,” Joyce said meekly, looking at Morgan. “He said it was a set-up.”

De Villiers was unable to stop himself, and slapped the soldier hard around the head. “Have you got shit where your brains should be, Joyce? This is all Flex’s doing! He used you, you idiot! He used you to kill one of us, and to put two others in hospital!”

“Oh God…” Joyce swallowed, as the horrible truth crashed down on him. “Sir, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.” He looked to Morgan.

Morgan made no reply.

It was De Villiers who spoke for them. “You have blood on your hands, Joyce.”

The man made no move to deny it, simply nodding with stunned guilt. “Just tell me what to do to make it right,” he begged them. “I’ll do anything, sir. Please. Let me help you catch Flex.”





Chapter 90


MORGAN WALKED OUT of the building and into the cool summer air. Blood pulsed in his temples. It wasn’t from the admission of the soldier that he had planned to help Flex do harm to Morgan—in his line of work, he was used to that enough not to take it personally. The quickening of his heartbeat came at the thought of being one step—a big step—closer to Flex.

Morgan pulled out his phone. A few seconds later, he called Peter Knight’s personal number.

“Jack, are you OK?” Knight asked, hopeful.

“Yeah. How are things going back there?” Morgan replied.

“Everyone’s safe, but we’re banging our heads against a brick wall trying to find leads.”

Morgan could hear something in his friend’s voice. Something that hadn’t been there when they had parted company. Was it suppressed anger? Grief?

“How are you holding up?” he asked.

“I’m OK,” Knight replied. Morgan was sure then that he was lying. “But we need a lead. Anything to get this moving.”

“I’m taking care of it,” Morgan told him, then regretted his choice of words. “We’re going to take care of this,” he assured his friend. “I’ve found out who was leaking information to Flex. Maybe he can lead us to him.”