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

head, frustrated. ‘Did you get hurt back there?’
    ‘He didn’t land a finger on me,’ the soldier said, with more than a little pride. ‘He needs to take some time off the weights and work on his cardio.’
    ‘The beating you put on him, he’s going to be taking time off from everything.’
    Cook’s smile dropped a little.
    ‘I was praying he was our guy,’ she said.
    ‘Me too.’
    ‘I would have beat Abbie’s location out of him if he was,’ Cook promised.
    ‘I know.’ Morgan considered giving his prospective employee a pep talk on the need for good conduct and rules of engagement, but he held his tongue. The truth was, Jack himself would have done whatever it took to get the information that could save Abbie Winchester – there was an innocent life at stake.
    ‘Flex will come back at you,’ she warned.
    Morgan nodded. ‘He will.’
    ‘Ex-SAS and he runs mercenaries. The guy has a reputation to protect, Jack. You need to watch him.’
    ‘I will,’ Morgan promised, hearing the concern underlying the professional warning. ‘Thanks,’ he told her.
    ‘For what?’ Cook asked, taking her eyes off the road and meeting his.
    ‘For everything so far, and for having my back.’
    ‘Oh,’ she said, and paused, weighing up her next words. ‘It’s a nice back to have.’ Cook smiled, and the pair laughed. It was a laugh of relief as adrenaline wore away from tired muscles.
    ‘We’re almost there,’ Morgan said, checking the GPS, then turning his serious eyes onto Cook. ‘You’re our liaison here, Jane. You don’t have to come in for this.’
    ‘You think Abbie’s going to be there?’ she asked.
    Morgan nodded.
    Cook said nothing more. She didn’t need to.
    Up ahead was the truck yard. The soldier brought the Range Rover to a stop and, with a look to Morgan, stepped out.

CHAPTER 26
    MORGAN’S FEET SPLASHED down into a puddle as he stepped down from the Range Rover, his eyes on the haulage firm’s yard in the near distance. Leaving Cook behind, he made off at a casual walking pace, covering all four sides of the truck yard’s perimeter. There was little for him to see save a line of trucks, a Portakabin office and rain-filled wheel ruts.
    As Morgan had expected, Jones Brothers Haulage were closed for the weekend, the gate bolted shut.
    ‘We’ll go through the fence,’ he told Cook, rejoining her at the Range Rover.
    ‘You found a way in?’
    ‘We’ll make one,’ he said, lifting a pair of bolt cutters from the boot.
    ‘They could have CCTV,’ Cook warned.
    ‘If the police come, we’ll either be gone or have Abbie. Here.’ Morgan handed over the cutters. ‘They’ll be armed. This is the best we can do.’
    ‘I hate doing this kind of thing without a firearm,’ Cook confessed. ‘I feel naked.’
    ‘Come work for me in LA, and you won’t have to be.’ Morgan spoke without thinking, and Cook couldn’t help a sly smile.
    ‘But it’s an option, right?’ she said.
    For the first time in hours, a ghost of Morgan’s usual happy, handsome face appeared. ‘Come on,’ he said, trying to fight it. ‘Let’s go and get her.’
    ‘We’re not waiting for help?’
    ‘You’re in the artillery, right?’ he said. He moved off, Cook following on his shoulder. ‘When you’re sending forward observers behind enemy lines to spot your targets, do you send the entire unit, or a small team?’
    ‘A small team,’ she conceded. ‘And they call in the heavy stuff.’
    ‘There you go.’ Morgan smiled.
    ‘OK. But who are our big guns?’
    ‘SCO19,’ he answered – the Metropolitan Police’s firearms unit. ‘If we find Abbie, and there’s no way we can safely pull her out of there, then we’ll call them in.’
    Carrying the wheel brace from the breakdown kit, Morgan led Cook to a stretch of fence that was hidden from the haulage yard’s Portakabin by a line of wheeled bins. Cutting a hole through took moments, then the pair ran low across the open ground to the cabin. The