Private Royals

by James Patterson

  CHAPTER 27

  IN THE LAB of Private HQ, Hooligan turned in his chair to watch Knight pacing the room like a caged animal. ‘You want to be out there, mate,’ he stated to his friend and superior.

  Knight shrugged. Of course he did, but he also knew that the Duke was their only tangible link to Abbie and her kidnapper, and Morgan had wanted him to be on hand to handle the next and final ransom call that was expected in nineteen minutes’ time. Knight was also the head of Private London, and sometimes – as much as he hated to admit it to himself – that meant delegating the tasks on the ground to others.

  He told Hooligan as much.

  ‘Bollocks.’ The Londoner laughed, his tone quickly becoming serious as he saw the incoming call from Jack Morgan. ‘Go ahead, boss,’ Hooligan told him, patching Morgan through the lab’s speakers. ‘Peter’s with me.’

  ‘Peter,’ Morgan said, the Range Rover’s revving engine audible in the background, ‘he’s been holding Abbie in a flat-panel truck. The company is Jones Brothers, but he’s probably pulled off the decals or painted over them. I think he’s moving Abbie closer to Horse Guards before he makes the last call.’

  ‘Where are you?’ Knight asked.

  Hooligan pulled up a GPS tracking screen to show him as Morgan answered.

  ‘Heading for Westminster Bridge,’ said Morgan, ‘but the traffic is packed. We need the police’s help on this now, Peter. But low-key. Can you make the call to Elaine?’

  ‘I can.’

  ‘Put out a description of the van. See if we can get a location, but no intervention.’

  ‘You’ve got it,’ said Knight.

  ‘Check back in with me after you talk to her,’ Morgan told him and hung up.

  ‘I’ve got an idea,’ Hooligan said over his shoulder before realising he was talking to an empty space.

  ‘I’ve got my own plan,’ Knight said, running through the door.

  CHAPTER 28

  DESPITE HIS MONIKER – given to him as a rowdy teenager by his siblings – Jeremy ‘Hooligan’ Crawford, a few speeding tickets notwithstanding, rarely broke the law.

  ‘I’m a bloody model citizen,’ he said firmly, as if trying to convince himself.

  He had grounds to believe the statement. After all, Jeremy Crawford had shown that, no matter what circumstances a person was born into, they could rise high with a dash of natural talent and a bucketful of hard work.

  Hooligan had earned degrees in both mathematics and biology from Cambridge University by the age of nineteen. By twenty, he’d added a masters in criminal and forensic science from Staffordshire University. There he’d been headhunted by MI5. Hooligan had worked in the government’s domestic intelligence agency for eight years before Private had lured him away with a staggering pay rise. In those eight years the East Ender had played a key role in building the systems that monitored London’s surveillance grid for signs of terrorism, and as one of its architects, he knew of the system’s weak points, its windows and its doors.

  ‘I must be bloody mad,’ he giggled nervously under his breath.

  Because he was about to break into one of those weak points.

  CHAPTER 29

  INSPECTOR ELAINE POTTERSFIELD was a long-term servant of the Met, the service giving her a salty edge that had led to her blaming Peter Knight for the death of her beloved sister – Knight’s adored wife. It had taken the events of the London Olympics to reconcile the pair, and now Elaine was the doting aunt to Knight’s two children that he’d always wanted her to be. Early on a Saturday morning, she expected that her brother-in-law’s phone call would be an invitation to lunch, or perhaps to join him and the children in the park.

  It wasn’t.

  ‘We’re in the shit,’ Knight told her over the phone whilst running at speed through the corridors of Private HQ.

  ‘Let’s hear it,’ Elaine said, switching from loving aunt to ice-cold detective in the blink of an eye.

  ‘There’s a flat-panel truck around Westminster with precious cargo. Either Jones Brothers signage or freshly painted over. We need it found.’

  ‘That’s not much to go on.’

  ‘I know,’ said Knight. ‘And we’ve got less than an hour to find it.’

  ‘Bloody hell, Peter! If you want me to work miracles, I need a little more information.’

  ‘You can narrow the radius down to one mile around Horse Guards.’

  ‘Horse Guards?’ Elaine asked. ‘Today’s Trooping the Colour. If there are lives at stake here, Peter, then you need to come clean – like right bloody now.’

  ‘One life,’ Knight confessed. ‘And if I thought a full blues-and-twos response was the best way to keep them alive, then you know that’s what I’d do, Elaine.’

  There was a pause as his sister-in-law thought it over.

  ‘I’ll put out a call. Find and follow, no intervention.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Knight said and hung up the phone. He came to a halt at a desk to the rear of Private HQ’s large offices.

  ‘Can I help you, Mr Knight?’ the motor pool attendant asked.

  ‘Get me a bike,’ Knight told him. ‘A fast one.’

  CHAPTER 30

  HOOLIGAN’S FINGER HOVERED over the speed dial. With a wry smile he realised that what he was about to do could possibly spell the end of his career.

  He pushed the button.

  ‘Boss?’ he asked as the call connected.

  ‘Go ahead,’ Morgan answered, his voice thick with frustration.

  ‘I’m gonna give you bad news, bad news, good news, good news.’

  ‘Spit it out, Hooligan.’

  ‘Bad news number one is that Peter has left the building.’

  ‘What? Where’s he gone?’

  ‘More bad news first, boss.’

  ‘Jesus. Just tell me, Hooligan.’

  ‘I may have hacked into the security service’s CCTV network.’ Hooligan held his breath, as Morgan let out his.

  ‘You know that’s a terrorism charge if they catch you?’ said Morgan.

  ‘I know. And I take full responsibility, boss, but there’s a girl’s life at stake.’

  ‘You’re a good guy, Hooligan.’

  ‘I’m a great guy, boss. And now the good news – I think I’ve got the van. Flat-panel truck that’s had a fresh paint job. Really fresh, like Daz whites. It’s on Horseferry Road, about a kilometre south of Horse Guards.’

  ‘They must have taken the next bridge to the south.’ Morgan swore, and Hooligan thought he could hear the sound of the dashboard being hit in frustration. ‘We’re never going to make it through this traffic in time to cut him off, by vehicle or on foot.’

  ‘Well, that’s where the second bit of good news comes in, boss.’

  ‘Hooligan, you’re doing a great job, but please, just get it out.’

  ‘Sorry.’ Hooligan cleared his throat. ‘It’s Peter, boss. He’s on a bike, and he’s cutting through traffic.’

  ‘Can he get to Abbie?’ Morgan asked, suddenly more optimistic.

  ‘He can,’ Hooligan confirmed, checking his screens. ‘He’s going to intercept in one minute.’

  CHAPTER 31

  AS A MARRIED man Knight had been forbidden by his wife from owning a motorcycle, despite the amount of time it would have taken off his daily commute. In the years following her passing, he had taken up riding as a way to escape London, and to empty his mind of every painful thought as he concentrated solely on the road ahead.

  He was in that zone now, weaving and cutting through traffic, the bike’s 850cc engine roaring as he opened up the throttle and pushed through the crawling vehicles.

  Knight glanced at the GPS strapped to the bike’s handle. It showed two dots controlled from Private HQ by Hooligan. One was the position of the truck that was assumed to be the kidnapper’s. Another showed Knight’s own location. As he turned onto Horseferry Road, the two dots became one.

  ‘I see him.’ Knight spoke into the mic in his helmet. ‘I’m going in closer.�
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  ‘Peter,’ Morgan’s voice came through the speakers in the helmet. ‘Just stay on his ass.’

  ‘How far are you guys from me?’

  ‘Too far. At least five minutes.’ He heard Cook curse.

  ‘Then I’m getting tight on him,’ said Knight. ‘If he goes off script and makes a move, I need to be in place to stop it.’

  ‘Roger that,’ Morgan answered, realising there was no other option, but hating it nonetheless.

  Knight eased his way around the final few cars and positioned himself in the blind spot for the truck’s mirrors, seeing that the rear shutter-type door had been secured by a thick, shiny new padlock.

  ‘Brand-new lock on the truck’s door,’ he told those listening in to his radio. ‘I need to take a look at the sides and confirm this is our guy. Maybe the paint got washed out by the showers.’

  Knight edged his bike out to the side of the truck and saw that his hunch was correct – the black of the Jones Brothers lettering was showing faintly beneath the fresh coat of white.

  ‘This is our guy!’ he said excitedly.

  But their guy was a Recon Marine before he was a kidnapper, and as such, Alex Waldron knew something about being scouted as a target. The black bike and its rider had aroused his suspicion, and now Knight saw a thick-jawed brute staring death at him in the wing mirror. He’d been spotted.

  And that was when Waldron tried to kill him.

  CHAPTER 32

  WALDRON HIT A hard left and a right on the wheel, causing the truck’s rear end to shoot out, hoping to send Knight and his bike smashing into the line of cars parked nose to tail at the roadside.

  Knight saw the truck’s movement just in time, and with a flick of the throttle the bike’s powerful engine pushed him forward and out of danger. He was now level with the cab. Waldron threw caution to the wind and began to drag the corner of the cab along the line of stationary vehicles. Knight would either be ground between the truck and the cars, or if he hit the brakes and dropped back, another flick of the wheel would send the truck’s rear end slamming into him.

  He had less than a second to make a decision that would either save or end his life.

  He took it, and with adrenaline pumping through his veins, he made the impossible leap to the rear of the truck’s cab. The bike fell to the tarmac and smashed to pieces under the truck’s wheels.

  Somehow, amidst the chaos and destruction, Knight found a handhold, gripping on by his fingertips.

  It was enough. Acting purely on impulse and instinct, he hauled himself to safety in the narrow refuge between the cab and its cargo container.

  With a soldier’s sixth sense, Waldron had seen the narrow escape of his prey and began to throw the truck into a series of wild manoeuvres in an attempt to shake Knight loose, the blare of horns echoing as other drivers sought to avoid the menace that barged through the London streets.

  Knight knew he had to act before the inevitable happened and someone was killed by this rampaging truck.

  He pulled the helmet from his head, grasping it in one hand, and used his other to pivot himself outwards so that the Kevlar crashed against the driver’s window, cracking it. Through the spider’s web of glass, Knight saw a look of pure animal rage on the face of a man who seemed to hold no value for life.

  Knight swung again, and this time the glass smashed. Waldron threw a savage punch through the now open window that connected with Knight’s jaw. The blow struck like a hammer, and Knight’s feet slipped beneath him on the narrow perch of the door ledge.

  Inches away from becoming a bloody smear on the roadside, Knight managed to regain his footing. He grabbed hold of the driver and the two men grappled, Waldron oblivious to the pedestrians and motorists who fled in panic from the weaving truck. Grasping wildly, Knight felt his hand come into contact with the truck’s steering wheel. Seeing a line of parked cars, the pavement clear of pedestrians, he turned it hard left with all of his strength.

  The truck slewed. Metal screamed as the cab ploughed into a lamp post that bent like a broken toothpick, the echo of the crash ringing out across the streets.

  It all happened in a split second, and in that moment Peter Knight was thrown through the air like a rag doll.

  CHAPTER 33

  KNIGHT WASN’T IN the air long enough to register the sensation of flight. One moment he had been fighting with Waldron through the truck’s smashed cab window. The next, he was half inside the front windscreen of a Ford Focus, the shattered glass giving way beneath the force of his landing.

  He wanted to lie there. The damage control centre of his mind was already telling him that he was bruised from head to toe, that his spine had suffered a blow, and that two of his fingers were likely broken. Looking at the awkward angle they’d assumed, he became sure of it. He wanted to lie there, but if he did, he knew he had about twenty more seconds to live – because Waldron was climbing from the truck’s smashed cab, his face as bloody as it was angry, and in his hands there was a knife.

  No, Knight corrected himself, it was a KA-BAR. It was the weapon that had killed Aaron Shaw, and had sawn open the throat of Grace Beckit. If Knight couldn’t move, he’d be the next to be slaughtered.

  Waldron was free of the cab and saw Knight, helpless. He grinned.

  Ten seconds.

  CHAPTER 34

  WALDRON SMILED AS he closed the gap. Knight had met his kind before – the sickest members of humanity who could only find pleasure in inflicting pain and suffering on others. In most instances, Knight was as fascinated by them as he was disgusted. On this occasion, seconds away from dying on the man’s blade, his only thought was how to kill the Recon Marine first.

  Waldron was on him now, his tobacco-stained teeth showing in a bloody grin. He could see that Knight was trapped in the Ford’s window, maybe paralysed. With nowhere to run, Waldron wanted to take his time in dispatching his victim. It was only the panicked cries of onlookers that brought him back to reality. He’d have to make it swift, so he brought the knife high, aiming to plunge the blade into Knight’s rapidly beating heart. Waldron knew it was over – but he didn’t see Knight’s left hand, or what it had grasped from the car’s cluttered centre console.

  Knight’s arm shot out from inside the car like a viper, ploughing a ballpoint pen into Waldron’s neck. The big man staggered back and roared like an injured bull. It wasn’t enough of a wound to kill his opponent, but as Waldron clutched at the pen and blood spilled over his fingers, Knight had precious moments to extract himself from the car window.

  ‘Call the police!’ he shouted at the frozen onlookers, some of whom were preoccupied with filming the incident. ‘Call the police!’ he shouted again as Waldron came for him, KA-BAR in hand.

  Knight sidestepped the first thrust, his body singing out in agony at the sudden movement. Waldron was fast, even with the wound that had left his neck with a bright red scarf of blood. He thrust again and again, but somehow Knight was able to evade the blows, and his confidence began to soar. Perhaps, after all, he could survive long enough for the police to arrive.

  It was only when his left hand touched a wall that he realised he’d been played. Waldron had herded him like a sheep.

  ‘Dumb fuck,’ the Recon Marine growled, enjoying Knight’s shock and driving the blade forward.

  This time there was no escaping it.

  The knife ploughed into Knight’s midsection. If it wasn’t for the protection of his leather and Kevlar biker jacket it would have driven below his ribs and up into his lungs, but the protective material fought back enough that only an inch of metal penetrated his skin. He gasped in agony, but took the opportunity to deliver a swift headbutt, smashing the bridge of the American’s nose.

  Waldron stepped back in surprise, the blade pulling free. Knight followed up his attack, pouncing on Waldron and taking him down to the ground as the bigger man stumbled back on the uneven paving.

  For the frightened onlookers, there was no way of seeing who was gaining the
upper hand. It was a rapid exchange of punches and elbows – a gutter fight, the blade changing ownership several times as both men fought for life.

  But only one of them stood. The other lay bleeding out on the pavement, the KA-BAR blade buried deep in his thigh, his face twisted in terror as he tried in vain to stop the flow.

  Some bystanders screamed. Others ran. Some of the younger ones stayed and continued to film.

  Through their lenses, they saw a man stagger towards a truck. There was a padlock key in his hand.

  CHAPTER 35

  THE AIR INSIDE the Range Rover was thick, and it had little to do with the weather of a warm and muggy June morning.

  ‘I hate this,’ Morgan growled. ‘Where the hell is Peter, Hooligan? How far from them are we now?’

  ‘Three minutes.’

  ‘And the police?’

  ‘Maybe a minute behind you.’

  Beside Morgan, Cook was silent, her hands tight on the wheel.

  ‘What’s up?’ he asked her.

  ‘The same as you,’ she replied, not taking her eyes from the road.

  ‘No,’ Morgan insisted calmly. ‘We’ve been on the back foot for a long time. It’s only in the past few minutes you’ve started gripping the wheel like you’re trying to choke it.’

  Cook said nothing.

  ‘Talk it out,’ he pressed gently.

  ‘Something has set me off,’ she admitted. ‘A trigger. I don’t know what it is, but I feel like there’s a piece of the puzzle right in front of my eyes.’

  ‘You just need to take your mind off it. If you try and focus too hard on it, you’ll never get it. Keep busy with something else. Here.’ Morgan handed over a radio and headset. ‘Monitor this channel.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s the police frequencies. The more open ones, anyway.’

  Cook’s mouth dropped open. ‘The police, Jack! The police!’

  ‘What about them?’ he said.