“Get me a rope or something!” he shouted up.
Morgan said nothing, and stared impassively.
Knowing that no help was coming, and seeing that he was alone in his efforts, Flex gritted his teeth and pushed higher. Morgan watched with grim satisfaction as he saw the pain that Flex’s right hand was causing him.
“You’re getting tired, Flex,” Morgan taunted. “All that muscle, and one heart. Your blood’s not getting around fast enough, Flex. Your muscles are filling with lactic acid, and soon you’ll cramp. One big gust, Flex, and you’re done.”
“You said you wouldn’t kill me!” Flex shouted up.
“And I won’t,” Morgan replied, his face devoid of emotion.
And that was the truth. Jack Morgan had decided to let Flex climb, and face justice. During the murderer’s ascent the winds had calmed, and Morgan wondered if perhaps some force unknown to him wanted to see the man answer for his crimes in court.
He looked down at the struggling man below him. Flex’s red face was a mere two feet from the ledge now. Close enough for Morgan to put a hole through his skull without thinking, but his finger remained away from the trigger because he knew without hesitation what Jane Cook and Peter Knight would tell him. They would want justice, but they would want it within the law of the country they loved so much.
“Help me, please,” Flex pleaded, and one look told Morgan that the man’s oversized muscles had run out of gas a mere foot from his refuge. “Come on, Jack, please! I can’t keep holding on!”
Morgan looked into Flex’s eyes and saw the big man’s spirit wither as he realized that the American’s mercy had extended to its furthest point.
“I don’t want to die, Jack! Please, I have kids!”
“Peter Knight had kids,” Morgan said evenly, taking a step backward to drive home Flex’s predicament.
The former soldier grimaced and looked to his right hand. With two broken fingers, he could barely hold on. “I’ll confess everything!” Flex shouted. “I’ll confess! Just please don’t let me die!”
“You’ll confess?”
“Yes! Just get me up there!”
Morgan thought for a few seconds, during which Flex dug his fingernails into his hands as he sought to tighten his grip. Then Morgan pulled out his phone, and opened the camera.
“Confess,” he ordered.
And Flex did. He told about how he had attacked Morgan and his team at the Brecon hotel, and in the forest. He told of how he had murdered Jane Cook, and beaten PC Sharon Lewis to within an inch of her life. He told of how he had feigned an attack on Hooligan to lure Morgan into a deadly trap. When that hadn’t worked, he had kidnapped Peter Knight, and then thrown him into the Thames. From there, Flex told of how he had shot down innocent civilians in his bid to escape.
“How’s your conscience?” Morgan asked the man.
“Just get me up!” Flex growled.
Morgan turned off the camera. Then he shook his head.
“We had a deal!” Flex begged.
Morgan braced himself as a gust of wind shook the buildings, and Flex’s fingers began to slip.
“Don’t do this, Jack! You can’t let me die!”
Morgan knelt, and looked into Flex’s dark soul.
“You’re a good man, Jack,” Flex pleaded.
“And she was a better woman.”
Morgan held Flex’s terrified stare until the next blast of wind rocked the tower top, and Flex’s fingers slipped away.
Chapter 126
AS HE WATCHED Flex fall away into oblivion, the weight of Jack Morgan’s grief came crashing down—her killer had received justice, but Jane Cook was still dead. Nothing would ever bring her back.
He sank to his knees, and closed his eyes.
That’s how he was found by the armed men that burst onto the building’s rooftop. Without an ounce of resistance, Morgan let himself be pushed face first into the cold metal flooring. He heard the men shouting, but he paid them no heed. Hands cuffed behind his back, Morgan was dragged to his feet roughly and a hood was pulled over his head.
Shoved and pulled by his captors, Morgan was taken from the roof and inside the building. There he was lifted and put onto a gurney, where he felt a second cuff attach to his right ankle. Morgan’s world turned darker still as what felt like a blanket was laid over him.
Jack Morgan said nothing through all this. He felt the sensation of falling through air, and presumed it was the elevator. He heard distant sounds of sobbing, sirens and shouts of command. He felt himself pushed and wheeled, the sudden bump of the gurney’s legs tucking as he was slid into what he presumed was an ambulance. Seconds later, the siren blared and he felt the unmistakable movement of a vehicle travelling at speed.
He had no idea how long it was until the vehicle stopped, his gurney was unloaded, and Morgan was wheeled through quiet corridors. He had no idea how long it was until a man pulled away the blanket, and then the hood.
“Peter Knight?” Morgan asked, looking up at the man above him, desperate to know the fate of his friend. “Is he alive?”
“Knight is at Guy’s Hospital,” Colonel De Villiers told him, “but he’s alive.”
Morgan closed his eyes in relief. The Colonel pretended not to notice the tear that ran down Morgan’s cheek. Instead he used a set of keys to take off the cuffs that bound Morgan to the gurney. The American pushed himself up, and took in his surroundings: he was in a bare corridor, the smell of bleach and disinfectant thick in his nostrils.
“I’m sorry you had to be brought in like this,” De Villiers said as Morgan rubbed at his sore wrists. “Given the circumstances, we decided the best option was to convince MI5 to claim you as an operative. As far as everyone but the few operators from the rooftop knows, you were a British intelligence asset, who died heroically. Jack Morgan has been under my protection in the Tower this entire time.”
“You said we?” Morgan asked.
“The Princess likes you,” De Villiers replied, confirming Morgan’s thoughts about who had been pulling the strings to keep him out of a British prison.
“Thank you, Colonel,” Morgan said, putting out a hand.
“Marcus,” the Guards officer insisted.
“You saved Peter’s life?” Morgan asked as they shook.
De Villiers smiled. “He saved his own. I found him on one of the stone arches. He’d kicked his way there and was using his cuffed hands to grip a submerged mooring ring. His head was just above water.”
“So you did save him.” Morgan smiled.
“I helped him.”
For keeping him from prison, Morgan had offered the Colonel a handshake. For saving Peter Knight’s life, he put his arm around the taller man and embraced him.
“No need to make a scene, Morgan,” De Villiers said, coloring a little.
“Jack,” Morgan told him, standing back. “Thank you, Marcus.”
De Villiers smiled and straightened his jacket.
“But now, if I’m not here to see Peter,” Morgan asked, “then where am I?”
De Villiers cleared his throat, and told him.
Chapter 127
THE SMELL OF bleach and disinfectant hit Jack Morgan strongly as he pushed open a heavy door and entered the pathologist’s lab, the room as still and lifeless as the woman that lay at its center.
Jane Cook.
He stopped as if shot when he saw the shape of the covered body on the metal table, the memory of his lover’s contours etched into his mind so that even the silhouette of her was enough to trick him into believing it had all been a nightmare, and that Jane would now rise, smiling, and kiss him.
She never would, Morgan knew. Jane Cook would never breathe again. She would never laugh again. She would never crease the corner of her lip when she was deep in thought, a memory that now pushed a choked laugh of love from Morgan’s dry throat.
He approached her.
De Villiers had warned Morgan not to pull the sheet away, and Morgan obeyed. He had
seen her death. He knew what lay beneath the sheet, no matter how he wished he didn’t. Instead, he reached under the material, and felt out Jane’s hand. As he gripped her cold fingers, a quartet of tears trickled over the cuts and bruises of his cheeks.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I know that Flex’s death can never bring you back, but you were a warrior. I wanted you to know that justice was done.”
Morgan used his free hand to wipe at his red eyes. They were tired—so tired.
Behind him he heard the sound of the doors opening. “Give me five more minutes, Colonel.”
“It’s me, Jack,” came the voice of Princess Caroline in response.
Morgan turned. The royal was dressed in dark jeans and a hoody, and held a baseball cap in her hands.
“I came to pay my respects. To her, and to you.”
Morgan let go of Jane’s cold hand, and delicately placed the sheet back over her still flesh.
“You got what you wanted, Jack.”
Morgan shook his head. “I can never get back what I want.”
The royal looked to the shrouded body.
“The city’s going crazy,” she told him after a moment. “Another lone-wolf attack. A troubled individual hitting out at a society they feel has failed them.”
Morgan raised an eyebrow. “That’s how you’re writing this off?”
She nodded. “Flex is a dark stain on the British armed forces, and the country, and he’s one that’s best forgotten as quickly as possible. The story that we tell can make all the difference.”
“And how will that happen?” Morgan asked skeptically, thinking of the carnage left in Flex’s wake—the lives taken, or blighted forever.
“People see what they want to see, and believe what they want to believe,” Princess Caroline explained. “A tragedy, where a broken veteran went on a rampage before throwing himself to his death. The media will lap it up like milk.”
“Why not the truth?”
Caroline shrugged. “Because there’s nothing to gain from it. The SAS tarnished. The police tarnished.”
“Yourself tarnished,” Morgan added.
She met Morgan’s eyes, and nodded. “You found Sophie’s killer, Jack, and now you’ve avenged yourself on the man who killed the woman who was special to you. I think it would be best if you stayed away from the UK for a while. Flex may have more friends.”
“They know where to find me,” Morgan replied, causing Caroline to smile whimsically.
“How have you lived so long, Jack?”
Morgan smiled in return. “Thank you for coming to see me, Your Highness. I’ll take your advice and change the scenery, but first, I have things to do.”
“Colonel De Villiers will see you’re taken care of,” the Princess promised.
“Don’t let him resign over this,” Morgan told her.
Caroline gave an apologetic smile. “I’m afraid that was a lie, and my idea. We thought that you’d be more likely to believe his help was genuine if you saw him falling on his sword.”
Morgan shrugged it off. Then he turned to take one last look at the woman who had taken his heart.
“I’ll leave you to pay your respects to Jane,” he said to the Princess. “She was a hell of a woman and a soldier.”
“I know,” Caroline confirmed. “I’ll be sure that she’s remembered as such. Goodbye, Jack.”
“Goodbye, Caroline.”
With those words, Morgan walked from the room, knowing that though the body of Jane Cook would be left behind him, her memory would be carried forever in his heart.
Epilogue
JACK MORGAN HAD been standing for a long time in the hospital’s corridor. He had been driven there by Marcus De Villiers, the men saying their farewells with some sadness, a mutual respect and admiration having grown between them. During the drive across London, De Villiers had informed Morgan that the media was indeed lapping up the story circulated that Flex had been a troubled veteran who had gone on a rampage, before taking his own life.
“It’s all very neat,” Morgan had remarked.
“You don’t leave much mess,” De Villiers had replied.
Jack Morgan knew that wasn’t true. Jane Cook was dead, as were a handful of innocent bystanders. So too were Flex and his crew. Morgan had not an ounce of pity for the dead killers, but even so, he wished he could have taken them down more cleanly, without so much blood being spilled.
He exhaled loudly.
And then there were Sharon Lewis and Peter Knight. They rested in the hospital toward the end of the corridor in which he was now standing, but Morgan could not bring himself to walk the short distance, and to face the two people who had almost died in a vendetta that had been targeted at Jack Morgan himself.
“You going to stand there all day?” Morgan heard from over his shoulder.
He turned quickly, and looked down. A man in a wheelchair had spoken the words, two young kids combining forces to push him.
“Luke. Isabel,” Peter Knight said to his children. “Go and see Sharon.”
“OK, Daddy!” They smiled, and raced each other to the end of the corridor.
“I thought you died,” Morgan said as the children disappeared from sight.
“I didn’t.” Knight smiled.
He gestured, sensing Morgan’s reluctance to talk in public.
“I thought you were gone, Peter,” Morgan told his friend after pushing him to privacy. “Thank God.”
“Thank my parents,” Knight grinned. “Swimming lessons.”
Morgan shook his head and looked at his hands. “I shouldn’t have left you.”
“De Villiers came in for me. That lanky bugger’s a strong swimmer. He helped me into the police boat.”
“Still…”
“You had to get Flex,” Knight insisted. “You had to, Jack, for all of us. We all loved her. She was one of us.”
“She was,” Morgan acknowledged with love and pride.
“I know she meant more to you than maybe anyone, Jack, but she was a friend and a sister to everyone in Private London. I still can’t believe it.”
Morgan put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. Knight turned his head upward. The look that passed between the men was enough to say all that words could, and more. That they shared love and grief. Purpose and brotherhood.
Eventually Knight spoke. “I’ve got to leave Private, Jack. The kids. I can’t…”
Morgan said nothing. He understood. A nod and a look told Knight as much.
“Let’s go back to the room,” Morgan suggested, forcing a smile. “I want to hang out with these kids that are stealing my best agent.”
The sound of animated chatter grew louder as Morgan wheeled Knight along the corridor. “I’m OK to walk,” Knight insisted.
“I’m sure you are, but there’s a lot of pretty nurses here, Peter. Make the most of it while you can.”
Knight snorted, and used his foot to push open the door.
The source of the raucous babble was revealed immediately: Hooligan, playing the fool for Knight’s laughing children.
“All right, boss!” he grinned, spotting the American.
“Hooligan.” Morgan smiled before turning his head to a bed in the room’s corner. “Lewis.”
“You got him, Jack.” Her eyes sparkled with pride.
“I did.”
The next few hours passed with laughter, some golden, some solemn. They made remembrance of their friend, and they looked to the future. Through it all, the grief of Jane Cook’s departure banged on Morgan’s soul like the battering ram of a besieging enemy, but he held the pain at bay with the love and company of his agents, with Lewis, and with the children of his friend.
It could never last forever, Morgan knew, and he was right: Hooligan’s phone began to ring.
“It’s for you, boss,” he explained, passing it over.
“Jack Morgan.”
Faces peered intently as Morgan received what could only be the briefing of a task newly drop
ped onto Private’s desk. As the one-sided conversation drew on, Knight observed how Morgan’s battered body began to fill with purpose. By the time he hung up the call, Morgan’s back was straight, his eyes alive.
“I’ve got to go,” he told the room.
“Is it a good one?” the newly retired Peter Knight asked.
“It is,” Morgan told him, getting to his feet.
Knight looked from his playing children to the adults in the room. One group were his family, and the other group were his…
“Can I withdraw my—” Knight began.
Morgan cut him off with a smile. “You are Private London, Peter.”
“We are,” Knight insisted, taking in his friends. “We are.”
They embraced. Then, with pride in his step and purpose in his soul, Jack Morgan walked from the room.
He was onto his next mission.
He was alive.
Acknowledgments
First thanks go to my incredible family—patient and supportive as ever. It goes without saying that the team at PRH were brilliant and insightful, and a pleasure to work with. Thanks to Gaz and Kat for allowing me to use their beautiful home when working on this book—truly inspirational. Love, as always, to the team at Furniss Lawton. And last, but most importantly, thank you James. It is a privilege to work alongside a master of the craft.
—Rees Jones
About the Authors
JAMES PATTERSON holds the Guinness World Record for the most #1 New York Times bestsellers, and his books have sold more than 355 million copies worldwide. He has donated more than one million books to students and soldiers and funds over four hundred Teacher Education Scholarships at twenty-four colleges and universities. He has also donated millions to independent bookstores and school libraries.
REES JONES is a former British Army soldier who deployed on three frontline tours of duty to Iraq and Afghanistan. Now a full-time writer, Rees also collaborated with James Patterson on the BookShot Private: The Royals. Rees is also an author of historical fiction and war memoir, under the name Geraint Jones. He can be found across social media at @grjbooks.
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