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  He breathed deeply, holding back tears behind closed eyelids. He knew he had become a runaway train, and that he had to hold back his emotions—or at least channel them—if he was to bring justice to Jane’s killers. Killers, because now he knew the face of Flex’s accomplice.

  Morgan breathed out and opened his eyes. The square about him was deserted, the magnificent buildings surrounding him standing as proud as Guardsmen in their lit-up glory. Such a sense of history and scale helped to focus Morgan’s mind. How many men who had stood on this square had gone on to war, never to come back? They had taken on danger and death because they had believed in a cause—a mission. Morgan’s mission was one he believed in with every fiber of his being: to avenge Jane. A strange sense of calm settled upon him as he realized, without the slightest trace of doubt, that he would die to avenge her.

  “There’s no other way,” he said out loud.

  And so, resolved to his mission, Morgan’s boots crunched the gravel as he strode toward the arched gate of the parade ground, and out into his war. If he was going to win it, though, he’d need firepower.

  He pulled out his phone and called an unlikely ally.

  Chapter 79

  THE SUMMER RAIN had stopped by the time Morgan had walked to the Thames Embankment, the few puddles left in its wake shimmering beneath the street lights, as the breeze coming off the wide river plucked at their surface.

  He was guided to his destination by the stone structure that stood sentinel over the river. At the monument’s head was a gilded bronze eagle. It was the Royal Air Force’s memorial, and Morgan had met a man here before, two summers ago.

  That same man was here again to greet him now. “Good evening, Morgan,” he said.

  “Good evening, Colonel,” he replied to De Villiers. “How’s Lewis?”

  “She’s demanding we let her out of the hospital so that she can go after them. She’s a bloody trooper.”

  “And Perkins?”

  “He’ll live. He’s damn lucky not to have been trampled to death in that stampede.”

  “That’s good to hear,” said Morgan. “I don’t think the Princess is in danger, but you should probably hold back on public appearances until this is over.”

  “Of course,” De Villiers agreed. “She’s already been moved to a safe place.”

  “Where?”

  De Villiers ignored the question.

  Morgan turned to face the Thames. On the opposite bank stood the huge wheel of the London Eye—how many happy couples on there? Morgan wondered. How many couples for whom death would be something to be confronted in their eighties, and at a bedside?

  “Have you brought me what I wanted?” he asked.

  “I haven’t,” the Colonel replied.

  Morgan turned his head sharply toward the other man. “Then why are you here? I don’t have time to waste.”

  “And it won’t be wasted,” the Colonel promised. “But this isn’t Texas, Morgan. One doesn’t simply walk into Walmart and leave with a trolley full of guns.”

  “You wouldn’t need to go to Walmart, Colonel. You’re the head of royal security, and a solider. You have access to armories.”

  “Well-secured and -monitored armories,” De Villiers added.

  Morgan’s burning glare prompted the Colonel to explain himself, and in a hurry. “Do you want the police and the army’s special branch breathing down our necks from the moment I walk out of the armory? You’ll get your weapon, but you’ll do things my way.”

  De Villiers pushed a folded piece of paper into Morgan’s pocket.

  “What’s this?”

  “The address of a place where you can find what you want.” Morgan raised an eyebrow in question.

  “It’s an illegal-club-slash-drug-den,” the Colonel explained. “High end. I’ve had to pull a few of our wards out of there over the years.”

  “How do you know I’ll find weapons?”

  “Because I’ve had the bloody things pointed in my face when I came in the back door unannounced. Believe me, Morgan, you’ll find what you need there. Their security will be holding them.”

  Morgan considered it for a moment. “What about police?” he asked.

  “I told you, it’s high end. The people there are people that matter. The police give it a wide berth.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I once saw the retired head of Scotland Yard in there, Morgan. I’m sure.”

  Morgan shook his head and snorted. The hypocrisy of the world and the establishment never ceased to amaze him. And yet, he had to remind himself, there were many good men and women in such archaic institutions, doing good work in a corrupt system. Despite first appearances, Marcus De Villiers was showing himself to be one of them.

  “Thank you for doing this for me,” Morgan told the man.

  “No offence, Morgan, but this isn’t for you. This is for Lewis and Perkins, and for Cook.”

  Morgan felt as though the Colonel was holding something back. “Go ahead,” he pressed.

  “Lewis told me what happened,” De Villiers admitted. “She remembered names, Morgan. She told me about Flex.”

  “You know him,” Morgan muttered.

  “Of course I know him. He’s from the regiment, and he runs one of the biggest private security firms in London. At least, he did.”

  Morgan looked at the man, and let his eyes ask the question.

  “His business has taken a dive over the past couple of years. Word got out that he was beaten down and had his knee blown out by a couple of civilians, one of them a woman, the other an American.”

  Morgan said nothing.

  “He’s had the first part of his revenge, Morgan, but he won’t be satisfied until you’re dead.”

  “The feeling is mutual.”

  “Good. Flex is not only a murderer, but by virtue of who he was, he is a national disgrace. Better he be dealt with quietly, rather than dragged through the courts.”

  “You’re helping me because you want this kept quiet?”

  “I’m helping you because it’s the right thing to do. There are two pieces of paper in your pocket, Morgan. One is the address, and the other is a copy of my letter of resignation. Lewis and Perkins were hurt under my command. As I can’t take their place in the hospital—which I wish I could—I can only give up my command. I’m staying in my post only to be useful until this bastard is dealt with, Morgan. Then I will resign my commission.”

  “We have to deal with Flex first,” Morgan replied.

  “We do,” De Villiers agreed. “So you’d better go get your gun.”

  Chapter 80

  COLONEL DE VILLIERS walked eastward along the Thames’ northern bank, his eyes on the pavement as the wind began to whip off the water, finding every opening in his clothing.

  “It’s supposed to be bloody summer,” the man grumbled to himself as he reached inside his Barbour jacket for his phone.

  “Yes?” the voice asked as De Villiers’ call connected.

  “I met with Morgan,” the Colonel replied after a look over both shoulders. “I gave him the address.”

  “Will he go?” the voice asked.

  “He will. He’s on a rampage. You could see it in his eyes.”

  For a moment there was silence, all quiet in De Villiers’ ears except the slap of his brogues against the Embankment’s damp paving stones.

  “Did he buy your resignation?” the voice finally asked.

  “He did,” De Villiers replied.

  “Good. It’s important he trusts you.”

  “I don’t know if he trusts me, but he believes me. With the state of mind he’s in, I think that will be enough.”

  “Very good, Colonel. You’ll see this through for me, won’t you?”

  “Anything for you, Your Highness.”

  Chapter 81

  JACK MORGAN STARED intently through the Audi’s windshield, his fingers tight on the wheel. The car’s navigation system told him that he was one minute away from the destina
tion given to him by De Villiers, and Morgan intended to make his first reconnaissance in the car.

  The venue’s location was in Knightsbridge, which struck Morgan as no surprise. Given that the streets were dotted with Ferraris and Maseratis, where better to hold a private party for London’s mega-rich and ultra-connected?

  It was the appearance of a tall woman that first gave away the location. She was every inch the Russian millionaire’s wife, with blonde hair piled on top of her head, and fur over her shoulders. Knightsbridge was home to rich clichés, and Morgan watched as she was followed out of the golden Lamborghini by a bearded man whose clothes were twenty years too young for him, and two chest sizes too small. Morgan slowed and watched the couple as they climbed the steps to a black door. The bearded man gave his woman a helpful grab on the ass as she slipped slightly in her heels, then knocked on the door. The couple waited patiently to be admitted. As there was no one else outside the building, one thing was clear to Morgan—the security, and the weapons he wanted, were behind that black door.

  “Dammit,” Morgan swore softly, pulling his car into a side street a block away so that he was clear to think—how the hell could he get inside there without starting World War Three?

  And then he had it.

  “Hello,” Morgan said into his phone when it was finally answered. “I know, it’s been a long time,” he went on politely. “Listen, I’m calling because I need a favor.”

  Chapter 82

  AFTER MORGAN HUNG up the phone, he drove to the nearest twenty-four-hour superstore to collect what he would need to turn that favor into weapons. By the time he had arrived back at the Knightsbridge location, the American had received a text that told him he was “all good.” Armed with that piece of information, he began the short walk to the party. With each step he prayed that the rain would hold off and he could ascend the steps dry, his freshly purchased clothes spotless. Despite knowing what was soon to come, Morgan fought back his adrenaline and took the steps slowly, trying hard to appear as cool and calm as possible. He needed to look as though he belonged at that party.

  He knocked and counted to ten.

  Nothing.

  He knocked again.

  Eight… nine… ten…

  “Yes?” a female voice buzzed from the intercom beside the door.

  “I’m here to see Albert,” Morgan announced, using the phrase he had been given in his phone call.

  “There’s no Albert here,” the voice answered through the intercom.

  “Yes there is,” Morgan insisted. “Abbie Winchester told me to come and say hello to him.”

  The intercom went silent. Morgan pictured how the woman within would be looking on her phone for confirmation that the well-known socialite Abbie Winchester had indeed invited a guest.

  “She’s not here,” the voice came back, and Morgan wondered what his chances were of knocking down the thick door—zero, he reckoned.

  “I’m visiting from out of town,” he explained, smiling, certain that he was on camera. “Abbie recommended this place. I don’t really know London.” He shrugged, with another disarming smirk.

  A second later the electronic bolts of the door clicked open, and Morgan found himself looking into an empty hallway, the dull thud of bass drifting down from above.

  He stepped inside, and sense told him to wait. Moments later he was met from an adjoining room by the owner of the intercom’s voice, a petite young woman with tattoos teasing up her neck.

  “You’re too clean-cut to be a friend of Abbie’s, mate,” she assessed, looking Morgan over.

  “I’m American.” He smiled helplessly. “We’re not known for our fashion.”

  “True.” The girl smiled. “You got a phone?”

  Morgan shook his head. “Abbie told me to leave it in the car.”

  “Good. No photos allowed here. Lifetime ban if you do.”

  “Any other rules?” Morgan asked.

  “Just don’t be a dickhead.” She shrugged. “Three hundred quid, please.” The girl put out her hand.

  Morgan reached for his wallet and pulled out the notes.

  “Next time bring a girl and you’ll get in easier. Or don’t.” She shrugged with a smile, playing the game.

  “Here’s another two hundred for your trouble,” he told her, playing it himself.

  The girl held his look before finally nodding her head. “Upstairs. You can’t miss it. Just follow the music.”

  “I’ll see you later,” Morgan promised, and walked toward the staircase. As he moved, he looked through the open door that the girl had walked out of. He saw two muscular men on a sofa, their eyes on a bank of CCTV screens that showed what must be the party upstairs, and the building’s exterior. They were big men, Morgan thought to himself, dismissing the idea of rushing them immediately. Better to bide his time, he decided, and to think of a plan.

  Knowing that there was only one place in the building to do that without attracting attention, he followed the thump of bass and walked up the stairs.

  Chapter 83

  AS YOUNG MARINES, Jack Morgan and his comrades had enjoyed letting their hair down, short as it was. As head of Private, a multimillion-dollar business, Morgan had been invited to plenty of parties.

  He wasn’t sure if any of those experiences had prepared him for the sight that greeted him at the top of the staircase.

  It was not one of Caligula’s orgies, by any means. It was more just the sight in front of him was…bizarre, like a wild, wacky dream.

  To begin with, the building itself was a marvel. What appeared on the outside as a Knightsbridge home was actually a party space as well appointed as any London club. There were lasers, flashing lights and smoke machines. There was a DJ, a packed dance floor and a bar running across the back wall. Morgan realized that the building didn’t end there, and a quick look into the other corridors showed him a maze of rooms filled with bean bags, smoke and beautiful people.

  Having got his bearings, he turned back to the main room, first scanning the crowd for anyone known to him—in his position, it was always a possibility that he could run into a former client at a high-end establishment like this. Morgan saw none of them, but he did recognize an international football star sweating and grinding his jaw as he raged on the dance floor. In the room’s back corner, a toppled TV presenter was doing bumps of cocaine from the fingernails of a Page Three model. Little wonder they wouldn’t allow phones and cameras inside, thought Morgan. And little help these people would be to him in his attempt to liberate the guards of their weapons.

  Or maybe not, he thought, remembering a British showbiz scandal that had made the American news.

  Morgan stopped at the bar and ordered a virgin daiquiri. “Dress it up,” he asked the bartender. “I like flowers in there.” He slipped the man a note as tip once the glass was brimming with decoration.

  Then, having watched the TV presenter take another snort from his companion’s nail, he made his way over.

  “Hi.” Morgan smiled at the pair, directing his biggest grin at the presenter. “I’m Jack.”

  “I’m Natalie,” said the model.

  The presenter simply greeted Morgan with a nod, arrogant enough to believe that everyone knew his name.

  “You’re Matthew Alexander, right?” Morgan offered his hand as he named one of the man’s biggest rivals.

  “Matt Lloyd,” the presenter corrected, unable to take his scowling eyes from Morgan’s flowery drink. “What the fuck is that?”

  “It’s a daiquiri.” Morgan smiled. “Would you like some?”

  “Looks like something from the Chelsea Flower Show.”

  Morgan allowed his smile to drop and his shoulders to slump slightly. Natalie noticed.

  “Aw, don’t be a dick, Matt. You’ve hurt his feelings.” She stepped over to Morgan and put a protective hand onto his shoulder. Matt Lloyd saw the picture in front of him, and realized that the attractive woman’s attention had now switched to the American.

&nb
sp; “Are you gay?” he sneered.

  Morgan looked taken aback. “And what if I am?”

  “Yeah, Matt. It’s not a big deal,” Natalie opined.

  But it was a big deal for Matt Lloyd, Morgan knew. In fact, it had been a big part of the reason that Lloyd had lost his seven-figure contract with the BBC—a homophobic tirade that had been captured on smartphone and leaked to the media. The LGBT community had been outraged, and demanded Lloyd’s head. They’d got it, and Morgan was certain that Lloyd would have spent tens of thousands on PR gurus and therapists to clean up his image, and his act. There would be no more public slip-ups from Matt Lloyd, no more loose tongues.

  Of course, cocaine had a way of changing all of that.

  “It’s a big deal to me,” Lloyd rumbled, the drug divesting him of any tact or inhibition. “Your rainbow-loving freak mates cost me my job.”

  “I’m sorry?” Morgan asked, feigning ignorance.

  “You and the rest of the queers. You pushed me out of my job.”

  “He said some things about gays,” Natalie confessed. “They weren’t very nice.”

  “True though,” the bigot smirked. “So why don’t you take your flowers and piss off.”

  “Wow. I’m sorry I upset you. Really I am. I’ll go now.”

  Lloyd was halfway back into his chair when Morgan delivered his mental right hook: “Natalie, would you like to dance?”

  Lloyd was jumping to his feet in an instant. “You don’t ask my girl to dance!” he shouted, pulling Morgan back by the shoulder. Deliberately, Morgan dropped his glass, and heads turned to look at the commotion.

  “What are you doing?” Morgan shouted, feigning helplessness.

  “You do not dance with my girl!”

  “Your girl?” Natalie shouted. “I’m no one’s girl.”

  “Oh, really? Who bought you those clothes? You think you’re special? You’re no use except for getting your tits out. Those pics will be fish and chips wrapping by next week, and you’ll be forgotten!”