Private Princess

Chapter 114

The doorman whimpered as the elevator shot upward. The muzzle of Flex’s pistol was pressed into his cheek so hard that he could feel it against his teeth.

“Please,” the man begged, his accent Eastern European, “I have a family.”

Flex said nothing. His eyes were on the numbers on the elevator’s controls. “How many floors in this building?” he demanded.

“Seventy-two.”

“Then why does this lift only go up to thirty-four?”

“It goes to the hotel,” the terrified man explained. “Then there is another set of lifts.”

Flex swore. His plan had been to ride the elevator to its highest level, grab a few more hostages, and then to ensconce himself somewhere that had a good view of the entrances, but was clear of windows that would allow him to be taken out by a helicopter-borne sniper. He also didn’t put it past the regiment to land on the top of the narrow building before abseiling down and smashing their way through the glass. In fact, they’d probably love that, Flex thought to himself, a sense of pride in his past life reaching up momentarily through his anger and hate.

He had been a part of something once, Flex knew. He had been a part of something greater than himself, and not as a cog in a machine, but as a brother amongst pilgrims. Eventually, when push came to shove, he had chosen that band of men over his own wife. She hadn’t been able to understand what it was he did, and why he was the way he was. After losing friends in Desert Storm, the last thing Flex needed to hear was her moaning about him having a couple of beers with his mates instead of driving her to Tesco. As much as it had hurt when she’d taken the kids, Flex had seen it as just one more sacrifice to be made in the service of his beloved regiment, and his country.

And what had happened then? He’d served his years, and though he’d felt fit and able, and had had no wish to leave, the army had had other ideas. Thanks for your work. Sorry about your dead mates. Here’s a shit pension, now piss off, will you, and drink yourself to death somewhere nice and quiet. There’s a good man.

Not Flex. He had joined the most elite unit in the world to prove a point — that he mattered. That he was good enough. The chip on his shoulder was still there when he left the service, only it had been joined by the vicious things he had done — and enjoyed doing — in the name of Queen and country. Flex had found he was bloody good at killing people, and as the West had capitalized on the spoils of war, Flex had thought it only right he take his own share.

And so he had started P-C-Gen Security, using his network of Special Forces contacts across the world to bid for the lucrative contracts spawned by the wars on terror and drugs. As he’d snapped them up like a greedy dog, Flex had reached out to men he’d worked with in the world’s most dangerous corners. As the money had rolled in, Flex had moved into offices on the Thames — literally — and though he was not in the regiment any longer, he’d had what he wanted — pride. Respect. A career that kept him in the center of the world’s web of violence, and the men who administered it.

Jack Morgan had ruined all of that. The beating in the gym had been embarrassing enough — and had left Flex with a ruined knee that had required long and arduous reconstruction — but what had followed from Private was worse than any smackdown.

It was the whispers. Flex is a pussy. Flex got his arse beat. Flex is crooked. Flex can’t be trusted. Flex knew that Morgan had started those rumors, and soon P-C-Gen was losing contracts hand over fist. Reputation was everything in this game, and Flex had lost his. What made it most unbearable to such a proud man was that no one had even been hostile about it. They’d simply stopped calling. And like guilty lovers, they’d stopped answering his calls.

And there was Morgan, the charismatic American twat who had whispered in the ears of CEOs, politicians and agents. Morgan was no soldier, Flex fumed to himself. He was a pilot who’d stuck his chopper into the ground, and hadn’t had the common courtesy to die with it, despite toasting his comrades. He was a schmoozing bastard, not a warrior, and Flex fumed at the thought of the prick’s smug face as he had stood over him in the gym and demanded — demanded — answers.

“Please don’t hurt me,” the doorman in Flex’s grip begged, sensing the rising swell of anger.

Flex obliged by smashing the man’s head into the elevator’s polished mirror. The man slumped to the floor, a smear of blood left behind by his ruined skull.

Flex looked dispassionately at the body. Another life taken because of Morgan. He was the instigator in all this. He was the one who didn’t have the decency to stand, fight and die.

“Bastard!” Flex roared in the confines of the elevator. “Bastard!” he fumed again, as the doors pinged open.