Private Princess

Chapter 109

Jack Morgan, drenched in Herbert’s blood, launched into his run like a sprinter at some ghastly Olympics. Unlike Flex, he made no effort to weave between the stalled traffic for cover, instead running along the bridge’s pedestrianized side.

As he ran, he passed some of the city’s early risers who had pressed themselves against the bridge’s scant cover, paralyzed by fear, or too old to run. They looked at him with terror-filled stares, but his eyes were locked on a figure a hundred yards ahead, the bulk of Flex pushing conspicuous even from a distance.

Flex had a head start, but Morgan had seen Rider’s bullet strike the man in his armored chest plate. Even the greatest athlete would be winded after such a hit, and Flex was made of sixty pounds more muscle than his heart and lungs had been built to carry — in effect, he was running with a rucksack. In his SAS days, that was exactly what Flex did as his bread and butter, but he was older now, and Morgan could bet that Flex’s gym time was spent pumping up his muscles in the mirror, rather than on the cardio machines.

The result of all this was that Morgan was catching up.

The American was at the end of the wide bridge now, and saw Flex fleeing eastward with the tail end of the bridge’s terrified fugitives.

“Out of my way!” Morgan heard the man bellow. “Police! Get out of my way!”

The wide-eyed pedestrians moved aside for the human bowling ball, who knocked to the ground any who were too slow to clear a path. As Flex reached a set of elevators that carried passengers down to the ground level of London Bridge station, a young woman was sent tumbling forward by the muscleman’s barging shoulder. People screamed, and Morgan used those shouts as beacons whenever he lost sight of the man. The foot of the open bridge was now twisting into steps and staircases that entangled into the concrete jungle of buildings, roads and train track. Morgan had closed the distance, but as the urbanity built up ahead of him, he knew he could lose his quarry from as close as twenty yards away.

“Flex!” Morgan called, willing to set himself up as a target if that’s what it took to halt his prey. “Flex!”

The second shout reached the man’s ears. The fugitive turned, scowled, and snapped off a double tap from his pistol. The bullets zipped by Morgan’s head as he continued to run forward in a crouch, ducking behind a low wall. The sound of panicked civilians was everywhere, but no more shots, and so Morgan risked a look around the end of the wall. There was no sign of Flex.

Morgan rushed onward, preparing for the final showdown. He reached behind his back and pulled free the revolver — he had six shots.

Six shots to kill, or be killed.