Private Princess

Chapter 125

“Climb!” Morgan ordered. “Now!”

“You won’t kill me?” Flex asked in disbelief.

“I won’t kill you,” Morgan spat. “Now climb!” he shouted again, his pistol unwavering as the big man’s shaking fingers searched for their first handholds.

Flex winced with pain as he put strain on the hand that Morgan had crunched beneath his boot. Grimacing, he began to haul himself upward. To stay on the shelf was to risk the wrath of the wind, but Flex was no more secure from it as he began his slow ascent, his big body buffeted by the gusts.

“Get me a rope or something!” he shouted up.

Morgan said nothing, and stared impassively.

Knowing that no help was coming, and seeing that he was alone in his efforts, Flex gritted his teeth and pushed higher. Morgan watched with grim satisfaction as he saw the pain that Flex’s right hand was causing him.

“You’re getting tired, Flex,” Morgan taunted. “All that muscle, and one heart. Your blood’s not getting around fast enough, Flex. Your muscles are filling with lactic acid, and soon you’ll cramp. One big gust, Flex, and you’re done.”

“You said you wouldn’t kill me!” Flex shouted up.

“And I won’t,” Morgan replied, his face devoid of emotion.

And that was the truth. Jack Morgan had decided to let Flex climb, and face justice. During the murderer’s ascent the winds had calmed, and Morgan wondered if perhaps some force unknown to him wanted to see the man answer for his crimes in court.

He looked down at the struggling man below him. Flex’s red face was a mere two feet from the ledge now. Close enough for Morgan to put a hole through his skull without thinking, but his finger remained away from the trigger because he knew without hesitation what Jane Cook and Peter Knight would tell him. They would want justice, but they would want it within the law of the country they loved so much.

“Help me, please,” Flex pleaded, and one look told Morgan that the man’s oversized muscles had run out of gas a mere foot from his refuge. “Come on, Jack, please! I can’t keep holding on!”

Morgan looked into Flex’s eyes and saw the big man’s spirit wither as he realized that the American’s mercy had extended to its furthest point.

“I don’t want to die, Jack! Please, I have kids!”

“Peter Knight had kids,” Morgan said evenly, taking a step backward to drive home Flex’s predicament.

The former soldier grimaced and looked to his right hand. With two broken fingers, he could barely hold on. “I’ll confess everything!” Flex shouted. “I’ll confess! Just please don’t let me die!”

“You’ll confess?”

“Yes! Just get me up there!”

Morgan thought for a few seconds, during which Flex dug his fingernails into his hands as he sought to tighten his grip. Then Morgan pulled out his phone, and opened the camera.

“Confess,” he ordered.

And Flex did. He told about how he had attacked Morgan and his team at the Brecon hotel, and in the forest. He told of how he had murdered Jane Cook, and beaten PC Sharon Lewis to within an inch of her life. He told of how he had feigned an attack on Hooligan to lure Morgan into a deadly trap. When that hadn’t worked, he had kidnapped Peter Knight, and then thrown him into the Thames. From there, Flex told of how he had shot down innocent civilians in his bid to escape.

“How’s your conscience?” Morgan asked the man.

“Just get me up!” Flex growled.

Morgan turned off the camera. Then he shook his head.

“We had a deal!” Flex begged.

Morgan braced himself as a gust of wind shook the buildings, and Flex’s fingers began to slip.

“Don’t do this, Jack! You can’t let me die!”

Morgan knelt, and looked into Flex’s dark soul.

“You’re a good man, Jack,” Flex pleaded.

“And she was a better woman.”

Morgan held Flex’s terrified stare until the next blast of wind rocked the tower top, and Flex’s fingers slipped away.