Princess: A Private Novel (Private #14)(56)

Knight turned the next page.

It was a picture of Flex’s children, now young adults, one studying at Liverpool University and the other in Manchester. The kids looked bright and athletic. A note in the dossier said that custody of the children had gone to their mother. The grounds of divorce had been that Flex was forever away on service for his country, and that when he’d returned he’d be angry and violent. On one occasion he had locked his wife in the bathroom for a day to “teach her some respect”—the police in Herefordshire had dropped the case in deference to Flex’s meritorious service. In what then looked like a trade with his wife, Flex had not fought the divorce.

Knight looked again at the picture of the man’s children. What effect had their father’s choice of career had on their lives? Were they able to live like their other classmates at university? Were they able to settle disputes with calm words, or did they fly to anger and violence? Did they feel abandoned, or resentful? Were they ambivalent toward their father, or did they hate him? Was he a part of their lives, or was he forever estranged? Forgotten.

Knight rubbed at his eyes as he realized he was asking these questions as much about himself as about Flex. Though Peter Knight could say honestly that he had never intentionally caused his children any harm, they had been harmed because of him. The death of their mother had been traumatic enough, but Knight’s role as head of Private London brought with it a constant threat of danger. He thought of how he’d almost lost them six years ago when they were kidnapped as part of Cronus’s vicious attack on the London Olympic Games. How could Knight live with himself if his children were brought into this? He couldn’t, he knew.

And the children were growing older. They were understanding more and more each day. They were reading moods, and reacting to them. Danger aside, Knight’s workload at Private was enormous. He could not have it any other way, as he was responsible for the lives of other people, but did he want to be just another absent father who put his business life before his children? With his beloved wife gone, did Knight really want to continue risking his own life, and potentially orphan Luke and Isabel?

He didn’t know the answer.

But one thing was clear: once this mission was done, Knight would have to seriously evaluate his life. He would have to choose between being the father he wanted to be, or Private.





Chapter 94


JACK MORGAN DROVE slowly into the suburban estate in the borough of Wandsworth, south of the Thames. Unlike parts of central London, the homes here were detached, sat back behind manicured lawns, and nestled amongst trees that were heavy and lush with summer rain. Morgan smiled as he saw the surroundings, but not out of any sense of romance—it would make his job of getting close to the buildings easier. He would need to move quickly, as there were three addresses listed to Flex on the paper. Morgan had chosen the closest to the Tower to begin his search, but he was aware that the cover of night was in short supply in summer. Estimating time to travel between each, he had less than an hour for each location.

He was a hundred yards away from his target now, so he pulled his car to the curbside and got out next to a narrow alley that led between two patches of greenery. Checking Google Earth, Morgan saw that the alley led to a pathway that ran behind the houses, before emerging onto a park and sports field. He turned the bright screen of the phone off, put it into his pocket and followed the path used by dog walkers and football-mad children during the day. Tonight, it would serve a darker purpose, and Morgan took the semi-automatic pistol in his right hand before pushing it into his jacket pocket. If need be, he could fire through the material and off the hip.

Counting off his paces, as taught to him in Marine training, Morgan measured the distance, the practice accurate enough for him to know that he had come to a stop behind the correct building, a two-story brick home that showed no light and emitted no sound. The house was separated from the footpath by a thin fence and a few trees, and it was no effort for Morgan to raise himself over the fence and drop quietly into the back garden. There he waited. There was nothing. Deep in suburbia as it was, Morgan did not expect Flex to have the garden defended as if it were Fort Knox—nothing drew suspicion like a big musclehead with sirens in his garden—but even so, he inched slowly across the open space to the back wall, his hand twisting the pistol’s grip so that the barrel was aimed through the material at the back door.

Morgan was halfway across the small garden when the sensor light flicked to life. He had expected it, and now covered the remaining distance in a split second, pressing himself against the back wall. He was cloaked from view from the windows, but he would be looming proudly on any CCTV screens that were inside the building—Morgan was willing to take a chance on that, having seen no flicker of lights inside to indicate that anyone was awake. He could only hope that the house wasn’t empty.

It wasn’t. Morgan saw him as he peered through the corner of the window, nothing but a pair of feet raised up at the end of a sofa. Confident that the man was sleeping and not watching TV, Morgan moved to the door and considered the lock—it was garden variety, the same as almost any suburban home. He reached into his left pocket and pulled out one of the items he had instructed to be placed in the old Ford’s glove box—it was a lock-picking kit, and Morgan made short work of the old Chubb. Then, pressing delicately, he depressed the handle and pushed open the door.

The house alarm sounded shrill and violent in the calm night. Morgan had been prepared for it, and as the first note pierced his eardrums he ditched his plan A of quiet calm and resorted to plan B, keeping in mind the three principles of close-quarter battle.