Private Royals: BookShots (A Private Thriller) (9 page)

‘I don’t think he was going,’ Morgan explained. ‘The way he was dressed – scruffy jeans and a T-shirt – he would have drawn attention at the event.’

‘Then why say that? Why make those threats about Abbie?’

‘Misdirection. Trooping the Colour had been the Duke and Wilkinson’s plan. They would have been able to get Abbie in and release her. But you and I saw how tight the security was to get in there. Why would real kidnappers risk it?’

‘To prove a point?’

‘This was about money, not politics.’

‘God, you’re right,’ Cook realised, crestfallen. ‘Then the other kidnapper could be taking Peter and Abbie anywhere. Our only hope is that Waldron’s partner tries one more time to make the demand.’

‘He won’t.’ Morgan shook his head. ‘They were quick to kill before, just to prove a point. He won’t have any second thoughts about doing it now to clean up. I mean they killed the bodyguard before they’d even …’ He fell silent, his eyes growing wide.

‘What?’ Cook asked, looking at Morgan.

‘We’ve been working on assumptions, Jane,’ he told her. ‘We assumed the threat to kill Abbie and make it public at the parade was real. That was wrong. What else have we assumed?’

Cook had no answer.

Morgan hit speed dial. ‘Hooligan. Bring up the dead bodyguard’s records.’

‘Done,’ came the Londoner’s swift reply.

‘Was he medically trained?’ Morgan asked, his fingers tightly gripping the phone.

‘Sergeant Aaron Shaw was a qualified team medic for every one of his operational tours, boss.’

Morgan looked to Cook, the scent of prey thick in his nostrils.

The Major almost gasped as she came to the same conclusion. ‘Shaw knew how to draw blood,’ she whispered.

Morgan nodded. ‘Abbie was taken by her own bodyguard.’

IT WAS THE
pain beneath his ribs that brought Knight back to consciousness.

His eyes opened wide, and he wanted to scream in agony, but his lips wouldn’t move and the sound died in his throat. It took him a moment to realise that his mouth had been taped shut. Wanting to tear it away, Knight discovered with panic that his hands were tied behind his back, his ankles also bound, and his shoes removed.

He was a prisoner, he realised, dread rising from his stomach. He had no idea how, but he had an idea by whom.

He was the prisoner of a ghost.

Aaron Shaw entered the room – the bodyguard whom Private had presumed dead was still very much alive. He was looking at a phone in his hand, as if weighing up a mighty decision.

‘Will your dad pay?’ the man asked, his tone heightened by adrenaline. Knight followed Shaw’s gaze to another bound prisoner, though unlike him, Abbie Winchester had the comfort of a threadbare sofa.

‘Abbie!’ Shaw roared. ‘Will your dad pay?’

Abbie’s mouth was free from tape, but fear kept the words inside her.

‘You useless little twat!’ he screamed, brandishing a knife that he pulled from inside his coat. ‘You still think you’re bloody special, don’t you? Even covered in your own piss and puke, you still think you’re special! Well you’re not!’

The man backhanded his prisoner, who let out a moan.

‘Your dad was the same! Treated his blokes like they were his bloody servants! But who did he come to when he needed the dirty work doing? What kind of man would set up his own fucking
daughter
to go through this?

‘Don’t you understand, you stupid little tart? Your dad would rather have you dead and out of the picture than give away the family’s money! Why do you think he got these pricks from Private involved, instead of just paying up? He wanted them to push us into a corner! If he wasn’t going to get what he wanted, then he wanted you dead!’

‘No,’ Abbie moaned, but the tone of grief in her voice led Knight to think that she believed it.

As if feeling the eyes on him, Shaw snapped his head around to face the man who had tried to stop him.

‘You probably think I’m a sick bastard, don’t you?’ he said.

Knight was gagged, so he let his eyes speak for him.

‘It wasn’t me who came up with this plan!’ Shaw shouted, slapping at his chest. ‘It was her bloody dad! And it wasn’t me who killed the girl! That was that prick Waldron. All I did was do as the Duke said, like when we were in the regiment, and now I’m the one left holding the bucket! I’m the one who’s going to go to prison!’

He seemed to sag as he realised how compromised his situation was. In an instant he became calm. Almost remorseful.

‘I’ve got no choice now,’ he told Knight. ‘I’ve got to cut my losses and extract. I’m sorry.’

Knight knew what the man’s next words would be before he said them.

‘I’ve got to kill you.’

SHAW STALKED TOWARDS
his bound prey.

Knight’s eyes went wide as they fixed onto the blade in the man’s hand, the hunting knife looming as large as a samurai sword. Despite the burning agony of his wounds, Knight tried to stand, desperate to fight no matter how doomed his cause.

Shaw saw his struggle and hissed, ‘Stop moving! You want to go out in pain, or you want it quick? Just shut your eyes and I’ll make it quick!’

But Knight had no desire to go quietly. The thought of never seeing his children again was enough to give him the energy to rock back onto his shoulders and propel himself forwards, his feet connecting with Shaw’s chest.

‘You stupid arsehole!’ Shaw raged. ‘For that, you can bleed out slow!’ He took hold of Knight’s struggling legs in one hand and prepared to drive home his blade with the other.

And then the window shattered.

MORGAN PUT EVERY
ounce of his strength into hurling the rubbish bin at the dirt-covered window. The metal smashed the single glazing with ease. Knowing that his moment of surprise would be measured in milliseconds, he was already throwing himself through the opening before the dust had settled, shards of glass tearing at his clothing and skin.

He hit the floor and went into a shoulder roll. He instantly took in the room at a glance, seeing Abbie bound but unharmed on an old sofa and Knight a moment away from death at the hands of the wild-eyed Shaw.

But Morgan wasn’t the only trained killer in the room, and the disgraced bodyguard jumped away from Knight, knowing that this new threat must be dealt with immediately. Shaw was fast, and before Morgan could fully recover from his explosive entrance a powerful swing of Shaw’s blade sliced across the flesh of his upper arm.

‘Drop the knife!’ Morgan ordered as he sidestepped a thrust. ‘The police are on their way, Shaw! Don’t make it worse for yourself!’

‘Yank bastard!’ the man spat, thrusting again. ‘Let me past or I’ll kill you!’ he threatened.

‘I’m not letting you leave,’ Morgan warned.

‘Then you’re dead!’ Shaw promised, and stabbed forwards again.

This time, as he stepped backwards to avoid the strike, Morgan pulled a blade from behind his back. Shaw eyed the KA-BAR knife, recognising it.

‘I know Waldron killed Grace Beckit,’ Morgan said, wanting to avoid further bloodshed. ‘You’re not a murderer, Shaw. You’ve seen what this blade can do. Don’t make me use it on you.’

Shaw laughed at the threat. ‘Come and try then, Yank!’

Morgan thrust forward with the blade, finding flesh and grazing Shaw’s ribcage.

‘Flesh wound!’ Shaw beamed, rapidly losing his grip on reality. ‘Flesh wound!’ he laughed again, before launching a series of rapid thrusts at Morgan’s face and neck. Morgan avoided them, but then Shaw let loose a brutal kick. The steel toecap of his boot connected with Morgan’s ankle. ‘Ha!’ Shaw shouted in triumph, seeing his adversary stumble. Pressing home the attack, he aimed the blade at Morgan’s neck.

Morgan raised his arm as a shield and howled in agony as the blade pierced flesh and scraped bone. The pain was almost unbearable, but he fought through it, knowing this was his moment. His only chance. Either he would end it now, or Shaw would work his blade free and kill him.

Teeth gritted, Morgan pushed his wounded arm upwards so that Shaw’s blade dug deeper until it was trapped. Roaring a challenge against the pain, he thrust his own blade into the kidnapper’s left ankle, and before Shaw could even scream, Morgan thrust it again into his right.

Hamstrung, the disgraced bodyguard collapsed wailing to the floor, leaving his blade embedded in Morgan’s arm. Morgan sat back heavily, his vision narrowing, body singing in pain, but with both blades in his possession.

Fighting against the whiteness that threatened to overcome his sight, Morgan saw Shaw struggle to get to his feet, but the man was as helpless as a newborn foal. Eventually he realised it, and turned his pleading eyes to Morgan.

‘I don’t want to go to prison.’

Morgan said nothing.

‘Please,’ the man begged. ‘Finish me. Just finish me.’

The sound of sirens began to echo through the smashed window.

‘You had an honourable life,’ Morgan managed, teeth gritted against the pain. ‘You could have lived it. I’m not going to give you an easy way out, now that you know what you really are.’

‘Just kill me!’ Shaw screamed, bursting into tears.

Morgan’s sympathy had run dry.

‘You killed yourself.’

Footsteps pounded outside the window. Seconds later, the door splintered from its frame.

‘Armed police!’ the masked men called as they flooded into the room. Cook, having guided them to the hostages, came in with them.

Morgan dropped his blade to the floor and looked to the dirty, threadbare sofa.

He saw the young woman there, her eyes wide. He knew she would struggle to come to terms with what she had witnessed, and the ordeal she’d suffered, but Abbie Winchester was alive.

Knowing as much, Morgan finally let the pain overwhelm him, a sheet of white covering his sight as he slipped into unconsciousness.

THE COHORTS OF
red-coated troops moved as if they were part of the same organism, gleaming black boots crunching into the gravel of Horse Guards Parade as the columns marched past the royal dais. The Queen and members of the royal family stood to take the salute.

The Duke of Aldershot was not among them. For now he was in the care of Private’s London headquarters, a pair of police officers waiting on their orders to issue the arrest warrant as soon as the detectives were happy that they had a watertight case. According to Inspector Elaine Pottersfield, Aaron Shaw had already offered to testify against his former employer and co-conspirator in return for a lighter sentence.

‘How did you know he was alive?’ Knight asked. He was seated in a wheelchair, his wounds bandaged by paramedics. Beside him, Morgan sat in his own wheelchair and bore his own dressings. Cook had called the men a pair of ‘stubborn, stupid bastards’, but Morgan had been adamant that he would see the parade. Knight had refused to leave his friend’s side, and so the two men had been wheeled onto the gravel of the parade ground, painkillers and the precision of the soldiers’ drill distracting them from their wounds.

‘We saw a lot of blood, and expected a body,’ Morgan answered. ‘But Aaron Shaw’s corpse never materialised. It was only when Jane picked up on the kidnapper’s slang that we knew there must be a second kidnapper, and if they displayed Grace’s body as a lesson, then why wouldn’t they have done the same with the bodyguard’s, and put that message out from the get-go?’

Knight filled in the blanks. ‘He probably built up the blood collection over weeks. The Duke said that Shaw was under the weather leading up to the incident. He’d have been weak from it all.’

‘Which is why he needed Waldron to do the heavy lifting,’ Morgan agreed.

‘He gave me a scare,’ Knight admitted. ‘Thought I was going to be gutted twice in one morning.’

‘Hooligan says you owe him a crate of Carling.’ Morgan smiled. ‘It was him that found you. When I told him I thought Shaw was our second guy, Hooligan raided databases and search engines for any links Shaw had within a three-mile radius of where the truck crashed.’

‘That was his place?’ Knight asked, shocked.

‘It was six months ago,’ Cook explained, a hand on Morgan’s shoulder. ‘They condemned the building, and Shaw had to move out. But he kept a key.’

‘He’s a soldier.’ Morgan shrugged. ‘He wanted to know he had a fallback position.’

The trio lapsed into silence, watching as the final company of troops made their way by the Queen. Her Majesty retired to Buckingham Palace, awaiting the fly-past of the Royal Air Force.

When it arrived, Knight broke into a grin. ‘This is my favourite bit,’ he said.

First came the helicopters, their blades beating against the air. Morgan’s stomach tightened as he remembered his own days at the stick, and the men and women he’d flown with. Then came the historic Lancaster bomber, flanked by a pair of purring Spitfires. Next it was the turn of the RAF’s jets, the transports escorted by sleek-winged Typhoon fighters. Finally, the crowds gasped in awe as the Red Arrows flew over the parade ground in formation, trails of red, white and blue smoke billowing out behind them.

‘That was impressive,’ Morgan beamed.

‘I’m glad you liked it,’ came a familiar voice from behind them.

Morgan turned and saw the outstretched hand of Colonel De Villiers.

‘I owe you an apology, Mr Morgan,’ the Guards officer admitted with remorse. ‘I’m sorry I doubted your talents. Rest assured that we will be re-examining Private’s bids for other royal events.’

Morgan was surprised by the admission, but he suspected there was more behind it than gratitude for saving the life of Abbie Winchester.

‘I appreciate that, Colonel, but right now our only interest in the royal family is the full recovery of Abbie.’

The Colonel smiled, his face seeming to strain with the effort. ‘Ah, yes. About Miss Winchester,’ he began. ‘I’m sure you can appreciate, Mr Morgan, that affairs such as these are best handled behind closed doors. A scandal involving the Duke is to no one’s benefit, and I’m sure that your discretion in the matter will go a long way in securing the very lucrative security contracts for royal events.’