Private Princess

Chapter 110

Flex used a backhand to clear a fear-stricken young man from his way, the youth falling backward with a whimper as Flex barged through the narrow alleyway.

Bastard, he growled to himself. Bastard. He could not believe Morgan had survived the fusillade of bullets that he had pumped into Herbert’s torso. Now the American was clinging to him like the parasite he was, the chances of Flex’s escape diminishing with each yard of ground that the man gained.

The bastard was harder to kill than a cockroach, he railed. Flex needed him dead. He needed him dead more than he needed almost anything else in the world.

The only thing more important than Morgan’s death was Flex’s own survival. Caught up in moments of red mist and rage, he had lost sight of that. Rider’s greedy treachery had pushed him to the edge and over it, but now Flex was calming, and becoming more calculating — escape and evade, he told himself. Come on, you old bastard, he goaded. You were trained for this. Escape, evade, and then track the Yank down and cut his throat. It doesn’t have to be today, it doesn’t have to be tomorrow. Let him suffer a bit. Let him remember how you blew that bitch’s brains out on screen. Let him remember how you chucked his mate into the Thames like he was an empty tracksuit. Let him suffer for a bit, and then kill him.

Yes, Flex told himself. That’s what I’ll do.

But first he had to escape.

To that end, he took a wide berth around the train station, knowing there would be coppers there. Instead he circled it two streets over, running eastward, the roads all but empty of onlookers now. Those that Flex did pass stood still in wide-eyed bewilderment — they saw a running cop, they heard a siren, but they had no idea why. In the Big Smoke it could mean a house fire or a terrorist massacre.

“What’s going on, officer?” an elderly man asked plaintively as Flex thundered past.

But Flex had no time to play cops, because he was looking at two real ones coming down the street toward him. They pulled their BMW motorbikes to a stop and dismounted.

Flex saw his opportunity.

“Thank God!” he shouted, cursing inwardly as he saw that the men were armed, and cautious. “I got attacked! He’s armed and on a rampage, and he’s right behind me, covered in blood!”

“Just stop there, mate!” one of the cops called, hand on his pistol. “What’s your name and police number?”

Flex said nothing. Instead he cursed his own stupidity. He should never have used the police gambit again after their trap at the London Stadium. Word must have gone out to the police about imposters in uniform, and Flex was not the kind of person people forgot in a hurry — his huge bulk and disheveled appearance taking these police to the logical assumption that this man might not be what he seemed.

“Move your hand away from your weapon,” the second cop told him, moving his own hand to his holster.

Flex didn’t give him the chance, and drew. A double tap cracked the officer in the chest. Flex turned to draw down on his companion, but that officer had already dropped into cover, positioning his bike between himself and the shooter.

Flex snarled. He didn’t have time for this. So he turned and ran. He ran for the only building he could see with an open entrance. He ran for a building he knew was a dead end, but would at least give him a place where he could take hostages, and negotiate, for with a professional’s eye, he saw that its top reaches would be almost impossible for his former SAS comrades to assault.

And so Flex ran for the Shard.