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“Jack!” the voice bellowed. “Jack!” The sound of the familiar voice he so hated ignited every inch of his body in furious fire as he turned to face the owner.
Flex.
The muscle-bound man stood in the street as the final panicked remnants of the stampede hurried by him. By his side was a tall brute in a gray hoody.
Morgan wanted to kill them both.
Flex knew it, and smiled.
Then he simply walked away.
“Flex!” Morgan roared at the man’s back, his mind too full of anger to formulate threat or insult. “Flex!” he shouted, his call cutting away as he realized he was immobile, something holding him back from charging at the man who had killed Jane Cook.
“Help me hold him!” Knight shouted at Hooligan, who stretched from the back seat to reach out the door, taking hold of Morgan’s belt. “Hold him!” Knight demanded, struggling with his own grip as he twisted from the driver’s seat.
“Get off of me!” Morgan ordered.
“It’s a trap!” Knight shouted back.
“I don’t care!” the American argued.
Knight lifted his foot from the brake and hit the accelerator. He let the car leap forward a few feet before he stopped it. It was enough of a distance to yank Morgan off balance and give Knig
ht and Hooligan a chance to pull him backward. Morgan’s head hit hard against the door frame as he was bundled awkwardly into the passenger seat, side on.
“What the hell are you doing?” he roared.
But Knight was not about to answer. With his friend and leader safely in the car, he drove up onto the pavement and hit the accelerator.
They were clear.
Chapter 75
JACK MORGAN WAS still furious as Knight eased off the gas and drove them back onto the roads.
“Have you gone crazy?” the American shouted. “Flex was there, Peter! I had him!”
“He had you.” Knight spoke calmly. “He was pulling you into a trap, Jack. They could have had Hooligan if they wanted to. Think about it. This was a trap for you.”
“It felt like they wanted me,” Hooligan protested as adrenaline and shock shook his body. “Who the hell are they?”
Morgan was in a silent rage. Nostrils flaring, he turned his head to look out the window but all he could see was the image of Flex as he taunted him, within reach. Deep inside, Morgan knew that Knight was right—it had been a trap, with Hooligan the bait—but that didn’t make it any easier to swallow the fact that Flex still drew breath.
“Flex Gibbon’s behind it,” Knight answered Hooligan from behind the wheel, with a concerned look toward Morgan.
“Flex Gibbon?” Hooligan asked, fishing in his memory for the name. “He was the SAS guy that Jack and Jane beat up to find Abbie Winchester?”
“He was.”
“Where is Jane?” Hooligan then asked, cautiously, his intellect connecting the dots between Morgan’s behavior and Cook’s absence. “Guys? Where’s Jane?”
The silence told Hooligan all he needed to know.
“Oh God. Oh God, no,” he uttered, slipping down his seat. “Not Jane.” He trembled, his lip shaking violently.
“Flex killed her,” Morgan pushed out through clenched teeth, his eyes like lasers as he stared out the window. “And he’s still out there.”
“You’d be dead if you’d have followed Flex,” Knight ventured, as neutrally as possible. “What use is that to her, Jack? That’s not what she’d want. Think about it like this: when Flex goes down, do you want hundreds of witnesses?”
