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And he was the loser.
Chapter 96
HERBERT HAD SPILLED some good information as to who Flex was working with. There was always the chance he was lying, but Herbert swore blind that the former Foreign Legion man Nathan Rider was the only other man Flex trusted to stand by him during outright murder. Rider had been waiting in London during the shootings in Wales, should opportunity arise there. Once Herbert had gone down to Lewis’s gunshots—treated by Flex, a deft medic from long experience—Rider and Flex had ridden together, and Herbert’s part in the actions had been reduced to watching the news channels, and reporting to Flex anything of interest.
“He thinks it was you that caused the Knightsbridge shooting,” Herbert told him. “Thinks you went in there looking to get yourself a pie
ce.”
“And what do you think?” Morgan asked, pressing the steel of the stolen pistol against the man’s head.
“You know you shot someone? You’re in as much shit as me.”
The only shots Morgan had fired were to take down the lighting fixtures. It must have been the girl’s wild shots that had found flesh, and left the dark blood trail on the dance floor.
“Who was it?”
“Some bellend TV presenter. It clipped off a few fingers, apparently.”
Morgan didn’t feel too bad about that. He was relieved that it wasn’t Natalie or the security men who’d been hit.
“Look, mate,” Herbert tried, “I’ve been in enough bad situations to recognize a really bad one, and the only way I see of getting out of this is by working with you.”
No honor amongst thieves, Morgan thought to himself. Same goes for scumbags.
“Talk.”
“I’ll testify. I’ll tell them everything they need to know about Flex. I just need looking after, because he’ll kill me if we end up in the same prison.”
But Morgan shook his head. “I don’t need testimony. I need him brought out in the open. I need him in front of me, so I can deal with him myself.”
“But—”
“Look, you’ve seen this guy’s capacity for revenge. You think being in a different prison is what’s gonna save you from him? No. If you’re going to live past tonight, you need to help me. And if you’re going to live after that, then you need Flex in the dirt.”
“Shit,” Herbert hissed, knowing that it was the truth. “Shit. What is it you need me to do?”
Morgan bundled Herbert into the back of the Focus. Already wounded, and with his wrists bound in tape, there was little Herbert could do to escape. A final piece of tape across his mouth had been enough to stifle the groans of pain—Morgan had not been gentle on the man.
The American scowled as he looked at the captive on the back seat behind him. In truth, he still had no concrete plan of how he would use Herbert to get to Flex.
Though it pained him to do so, Morgan knew he must take his foot off the gas, and allow thought to take over from action. He realized that the best place for him to do that would be in Private London’s headquarters, where he could draw on the minds of his agents.
As if his thoughts were being read, he saw a familiar name flash up on his phone’s caller ID. He took it on the second ring, his eyes in the car’s mirrors as he pulled out of the Wandsworth estate and headed toward London’s city center.
“Peter. I’m coming back to HQ. I’ll meet you there in ten.”
“No,” Flex’s voice answered him. “You won’t.”
Chapter 97
“DON’T DO IT,” a strange voice had said from outside of Peter Knight’s car, seeing his finger moving to redial. “I’ll put one in your head before your call goes through.”
Slowly, Knight had turned his head. He had not been surprised by what he’d seen, and had found himself looking into the barrel of a pistol. It was held by an ugly man in a dark hoody.
“You fuckin’ amateur,” the man had sneered. “Maybe you want to turn down the brightness of your phone next time you call in a sighting. Get out the car.”
Knight had obliged, furious with himself. The man was right—Knight had acted like an amateur. Thoughts of his children had clouded his mind, and on seeing Flex he had acted quickly, without thinking. Now that impulse would probably mean he would never see Luke or Isabel again.
