Private Royals: BookShots (A Private Thriller) (6 page)

His bones aching from weariness and anxiety, the Duke crossed his mahogany-clad office, coming to stand in front of a framed photograph that held pride of place in the centre of the wall.

It had been taken twenty-six years ago, and the Duke studied the lines of soldiers who stood and kneeled in ranks, many sporting moustaches, the younger Duke’s own nothing but a pathetic pencil line. It had been a dangerous time in Northern Ireland, and the Duke had revelled in the challenge. Standing beside him was Sergeant Aaron Shaw.

The Duke swallowed. Shaw had always been his man – solid, unflappable. It grieved him that his sergeant had survived the Troubles in Ireland, only to die protecting his daughter. The bond between officer and NCO could never have been described as friendship, but there was a deep-rooted respect and understanding born from comradeship. They had relied upon one another, and so, on learning of Shaw’s very likely passing, the Duke had imagined that he would be saddened.

He wasn’t. He was only angry. So many people had let him down.

The Duke moved to his desk, his sagging body almost disappearing into the depths of the high-backed chair as he sat. He was exhausted. He was finished.

Worse yet, his
family
was finished.

He heard a commotion in the corridor. He knew who it would be. He had expected him to arrive sooner and for the endgame to be played out, for the man’s coming could only mean one thing – the Duke was doomed.

And so was his daughter.

THE DUKE’S OFFICE
door opened so violently that it almost came off its hinges.

Morgan was the cause, his handsome face darkened with a snarl as he stormed in with Knight and Cook behind him.

The Duke’s grey face showed no sign of alarm as Morgan slammed a piece of paper onto the mahogany desk.

‘This is for you,
Your Grace
,’ he growled.

The Duke looked from the note to Morgan. Then tears began to roll down his sallow cheeks.

‘I don’t want to read it,’ he choked.

‘Then I will,’ Morgan declared and snatched up the paper. ‘It’s pretty concise, because Sadie Wilkinson was in a hurry to take her own life.’

A groan from the Duke confirmed that this had been his fear.

‘That’s right,’ Morgan told him. ‘Wilkinson is dead, and so is Grace Beckit. Now we know why.’

As the eyes of Knight and Cook burned into the Duke, Morgan went on to read Wilkinson’s confession. Desperate to salvage Abbie’s image in the public eye, the Duke and Wilkinson had dreamed up the idea of a staged kidnapping. It had been Wilkinson’s suggestion that the young royal would have been released during the Trooping the Colour parade for maximum exposure, the contrast of a dishevelled and abused young woman against a strong and regimented military force a stroke of PR genius. Abbie had been ignorant of the plot, just as Wilkinson had been ignorant of the true danger of the stunt. She’d had no idea how Grace had become involved, but seeing her body had been too much for her. Wilkinson had not been able to live with the guilt.

‘I couldn’t do anything for her,’ Knight growled, approaching the Duke. ‘She was dead when I found her.’

‘Three deaths,’ Morgan spat, throwing the suicide note into the Duke’s lap, then leaning across the desk so that his own face was in the older man’s. ‘Why?’ he roared.

‘They’ve gone rogue,’ the Duke whined, tears still falling.

It was too much for the soldier Cook, who stepped up and drilled her fist into the ex-military man’s jaw.

‘Hold yourself like a bloody soldier, you coward, and tell us what we need to know!’

The blow brought some composure back to the Duke. ‘Shaw,’ he said. ‘Shaw was handling it.’ A trickle of blood ran from the corner of his mouth.

‘Shaw’s dead,’ Knight stated.

‘He brought in someone else. Shaw must have lost control of him,’ the Duke told them, confirming Morgan’s suspicions that Shaw had been killed by someone he trusted.

‘Who?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know! I don’t know! Shaw organised it all, and Sadie took care of the money!’

Morgan cursed, knowing that their two best leads to Abbie were now dead. Before he could press the Duke further, his phone began to vibrate in his pocket.

So too did the phones of Cook and Knight.

‘Watch him,’ Morgan instructed the pair, stepping away. ‘Morgan,’ he answered.

‘Boss, it’s Hooligan. I matched the isolated blood I found at the apartment with Grace. She was there at the time of the kidnap.’

‘Is there more?’ Morgan asked, hearing the excitement in Hooligan’s voice and expecting that there was.

He was right.

‘I inspected the wound to her throat, and I think I’ve come up with the kind of blade that was used to kill her. It would also be consistent with what I thought cut the strands of fibre I found in the blood.’

‘A hunting knife?’ Morgan asked.

‘A very specific one,’ Hooligan confirmed. ‘It’s called a KA-BAR. You know it?’

But Morgan didn’t reply. Instead, he hung up the phone and left the room, needing to be alone, needing to breathe.

Because the kidnapper wasn’t only a killer.

He was a United States Marine.

‘ARE YOU OK?’
Cook asked as a stony-faced Morgan re-entered the Duke’s office.

Morgan nodded and turned his hard eyes to the Duke.

‘We don’t have any powers to arrest or detain you, but I’m assuming that for your own protection you’d like to be escorted to Private headquarters.’

The Duke understood that he wasn’t really being given a choice, and gave his stuttering consent.

‘Take him to HQ, Peter,’ Morgan instructed Knight. ‘I want you to work with Hooligan there. See if you can come up with anything about a US Marine working as a bodyguard in London.’

‘A US Marine?’ Knight asked, knowing it was Morgan’s former service.

The American gave him a curt nod in reply. ‘He used a Marine blade. See who you can find, then cross-reference it against Aaron Shaw. See if they cross paths.’

‘Will do,’ Knight promised. ‘Where will you be?’

‘The gym,’ Morgan told him, without a trace of a smile.

FROM THE OUTSIDE,
Power House Gym looked like any other industrial unit in London. There were no signs to announce its presence, or gaudy banners promising discounts on joining fees. Power House was home to a hard-core fraternity of bodybuilders and membership was by invitation only, each member being given their own key to the building.

Luckily for Morgan and Cook, the June dawn was already warm and muggy and a dumb-bell propped open a fire escape to let in some air. Sounds of grunting and shouting emanated from within.

‘There’s a lot of testosterone in there,’ Cook commented as they approached.

Morgan stayed silent. The information that their kidnapper –
murderer
– could be a former comrade had left stones in his stomach.

They walked through the open door and into an industrial space that was packed with racks of dumb-bells and heavy-duty exercise machines of every description. Dusty mirrors lined the walls, and an array of flags hung from the ceiling. Morgan saw the red banner of the United Stated Marine Corps amongst them, its globe-and-eagle insignia staring down at him.

‘Flex,’ Morgan called across the room.

The big man turned. He was topless. His body was thick with muscle and scars. Alongside him, Flex’s gigantic training partner shot an ugly look at whoever was daring to interrupt their routine.

‘Who the hell are you?’ the training partner challenged, and Morgan’s fist clenched at the sound.

The man was American.

Morgan said nothing as he strode over to Flex and his partner. On an early Saturday morning, they were the only two training at the exclusive lock-up.

‘This is Jack Morgan,’ Flex answered for him, his eyes narrowing under his meaty forehead. ‘What are you doing here, Jack? I didn’t see any calls from you.’

‘No calls,’ Morgan told him. ‘I wanted to ask you this in person.’

‘OK.’ Flex shrugged, trying to be casual, but Morgan could see that the big man was tensing to spring. ‘What do you want to know?’

The time for tiptoeing was over. Morgan went for the jugular.

‘Where’s Abbie?’

For a moment there was only silence. A split second later, Flex launched himself at Morgan like a missile, but Morgan had been expecting the attack and sidestepped the bull rush, drilling a fist into Flex’s hard skull as he stumbled past.

Flex’s American partner wasted no time and scooped a barbell from the gym floor, swinging it at Cook’s head in the same movement. Like a limbo dancer Cook arched backwards, the metal whooshing through the air above her head. As the American fought to regain control of the weapon, Cook rolled away to her right, taking a bar of her own from a rack.

‘You twat, Jack!’ Flex spat at Morgan. ‘Who the hell do you think you are, sticking your nose into my business? My world!’ he roared, charging.

This time he caught hold of Morgan and the pair tumbled to the ground.

But Morgan had allowed himself to be caught, and now threw his legs up around Flex’s thick back and pulled the man’s head down towards his chest. Flex was caught in the jiu-jitsu move known as the triangle, but with his immense size and strength he was able to prevent Morgan from closing his windpipe and putting him to sleep.

Metres away, Cook ducked and danced to avoid the wild blows of Flex’s training partner. The man’s veins bulged like snakes beneath his skin, and Cook knew he could kill her with the power in his swings. She also knew that, with muscles that big, the man would tire quickly, so she ducked and danced, prodding the end of her own bar into his rock-hard stomach when she saw the chance.

‘Tell me where she is!’ Morgan hissed into Flex’s ear, fighting for leverage, his legs slowly slipping from the man’s sweaty torso.

Flex cursed, and doubled his efforts to break the hold. Morgan could see there was no way to finish the move, and holding Flex in position was rapidly sapping his own strength, so he let go. Flex’s sudden release caused him to shoot backwards.

Flex was on his feet again quickly and came charging once more. Morgan let him come, then knelt, picking up a small weighted disc in his hand. As if he had all the time in the world, Morgan threw it side-handed, as though skimming a stone at the beach.

The weight plate hit Flex in the centre of his face, smashing his nose and sending him staggering like a drunkard. Morgan knew it would take more than a broken nose to stop the monster, so he rushed forwards to take advantage of the moment and delivered a series of furious blows. A low leg kick to Flex’s shin connected with a crack and forced the man 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.’

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.