Private Royals: BookShots (A Private Thriller) by James Patterson

down onto his knees with a cry of agony.
    Across the room, Flex’s partner had slowed down, his massive muscles outstripping the capacity of his heart and lungs to deliver blood and oxygen to them. His huge chest billowed as he fought for breath, his swings increasingly wild and ragged.
    ‘You bitch!’ he wheezed at Cook.
    She saw her chance and stepped into the man’s reach, thrusting her bar into his jaw. He dropped as if a switch had been thrown.
    Grasping at his knee in agony, and seeing his friend toppled like a demolished skyscraper, Flex knew the game was over.
    ‘You’ve blown out my knee, you bastard,’ he hissed at Morgan.
    ‘I’ll smash out your brains if you don’t tell us what we need to know,’ Morgan threatened. ‘Is that him?’ he asked, pointing at the unconscious American. ‘Is that the Marine who took her?’
    Flex shook his head.
    ‘He’s an Army Ranger. Go check his tattoos.’
    Cook did. Faded Ranger insignia were inked onto both of the man’s shoulders. ‘It’s not him,’ she said.
    ‘But you know who the Marine is, don’t you?’ Morgan pressed, putting his boot against Flex’s destroyed knee.
    Flex howled. He knew now that to hold out would only cause him further pain.
    ‘His name’s Alex Waldron. He was a Recon Marine.’
    Morgan cursed. Recon Marines were the elite of the service, selected for their mental and physical toughness.
    ‘If you’d told me this last night, two young women would still be alive.’ Morgan glared at the big man.
    ‘I couldn’t tell you because he’s a bloody nutcase. I didn’t want any comebacks. The guy killed a bunch of civilians in Afghanistan, but they couldn’t prove it, so they found a bullshit medical reason to discharge him.’
    ‘And you took him on anyway?’ Cook asked, disgusted.
    ‘I hire out the right tools for the right jobs,’ Flex answered. ‘And he’s the right kind when it comes to “no questions asked” work.’
    ‘You knew Aaron Shaw, Abbie’s bodyguard, didn’t you?’ Morgan pushed the big man, who nodded.
    ‘He came to me with a woman called Wilkinson. They wanted putting in touch with someone who could help them stage a kidnap. I gave them Waldron.’
    ‘Well, it’s not staged any more, is it?’ Morgan growled. ‘Three people are dead, Flex, including the two who came to you. What does that tell you?’
    ‘It tells me the fucker’s gone mad,’ Flex grunted. ‘He could have made an easy fifty K. Instead, that lunatic bastard jarhead went off the deep end, and he’s gonna take that girl with him.’
    ‘You could pretend to give a shit,’ Morgan snarled.
    ‘Oh, come off it, Jack. Like people haven’t died to make you richer,’ Flex sneered.
    The words hit home and stopped Morgan cold.
    Cook stepped in. ‘Where can we find them?’
    Flex shrugged. A sharp kick to his knee helped him to open up.
    ‘In between contracts, Waldron and some of the other operators work for a haulage firm called Jones Brothers. They’re big on hiring veterans. Maybe you can find someone there who knows more.’
    ‘Where is it?’ she demanded, threatening to strike again.
    ‘Newington,’ he answered, shielding the ruined joint with his hands. ‘It’s the other side of Westminster Bridge from Big Ben.’
    ‘And Horse Guards,’ Morgan said, his eyes lighting up. ‘That’s where she is.’

CHAPTER 25
    COOK GUNNED THE engine, blaring the horn as she used the Range Rover’s size to bully her way through the morning traffic. Above them, the muggy June skies loomed heavy and grey.
    ‘I think it’s going to rain,’ Morgan assessed with a pilot’s eye for the weather.
    He was right. Not thirty seconds later the clouds opened.
    ‘You know any shortcuts?’ Morgan questioned Cook, cursing as others in the road braked and slowed as the rain bounced from the tarmac.
    ‘Nothing legal,’ she replied. Outside, the rain ceased as if a tap had been turned.
    ‘We can’t risk the police stopping us.’ Morgan shook his