Private Princess

Epilogue

Jack Morgan had been standing for a long time in the hospital’s corridor. He had been driven there by Marcus De Villiers, the men saying their farewells with some sadness, a mutual respect and admiration having grown between them. During the drive across London, De Villiers had informed Morgan that the media was indeed lapping up the story circulated that Flex had been a troubled veteran who had gone on a rampage, before taking his own life.

“It’s all very neat,” Morgan had remarked.

“You don’t leave much mess,” De Villiers had replied.

Jack Morgan knew that wasn’t true. Jane Cook was dead, as were a handful of innocent bystanders. So too were Flex and his crew. Morgan had not an ounce of pity for the dead killers, but even so, he wished he could have taken them down more cleanly, without so much blood being spilled.

He exhaled loudly.

And then there were Sharon Lewis and Peter Knight. They rested in the hospital toward the end of the corridor in which he was now standing, but Morgan could not bring himself to walk the short distance, and to face the two people who had almost died in a vendetta that had been targeted at Jack Morgan himself.

“You going to stand there all day?” Morgan heard from over his shoulder.

He turned quickly, and looked down. A man in a wheelchair had spoken the words, two young kids combining forces to push him.

“Luke. Isabel,” Peter Knight said to his children. “Go and see Sharon.”

“OK, Daddy!” They smiled, and raced each other to the end of the corridor.

“I thought you died,” Morgan said as the children disappeared from sight.

“I didn’t.” Knight smiled.

He gestured, sensing Morgan’s reluctance to talk in public.

“I thought you were gone, Peter,” Morgan told his friend after pushing him to privacy. “Thank God.”

“Thank my parents,” Knight grinned. “Swimming lessons.”

Morgan shook his head and looked at his hands. “I shouldn’t have left you.”

“De Villiers came in for me. That lanky bugger’s a strong swimmer. He helped me into the police boat.”

“Still...”

“You had to get Flex,” Knight insisted. “You had to, Jack, for all of us. We all loved her. She was one of us.”

“She was,” Morgan acknowledged with love and pride.

“I know she meant more to you than maybe anyone, Jack, but she was a friend and a sister to everyone in Private London. I still can’t believe it.”

Morgan put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. Knight turned his head upward. The look that passed between the men was enough to say all that words could, and more. That they shared love and grief. Purpose and brotherhood.

Eventually Knight spoke. “I’ve got to leave Private, Jack. The kids. I can’t...”

Morgan said nothing. He understood. A nod and a look told Knight as much.

“Let’s go back to the room,” Morgan suggested, forcing a smile. “I want to hang out with these kids that are stealing my best agent.”

The sound of animated chatter grew louder as Morgan wheeled Knight along the corridor. “I’m OK to walk,” Knight insisted.

“I’m sure you are, but there’s a lot of pretty nurses here, Peter. Make the most of it while you can.”

Knight snorted, and used his foot to push open the door.

The source of the raucous babble was revealed immediately: Hooligan, playing the fool for Knight’s laughing children.

“All right, boss!” he grinned, spotting the American.

“Hooligan.” Morgan smiled before turning his head to a bed in the room’s corner. “Lewis.”

“You got him, Jack.” Her eyes sparkled with pride.

“I did.”

The next few hours passed with laughter, some golden, some solemn. They made remembrance of their friend, and they looked to the future. Through it all, the grief of Jane Cook’s departure banged on Morgan’s soul like the battering ram of a besieging enemy, but he held the pain at bay with the love and company of his agents, with Lewis, and with the children of his friend.

It could never last forever, Morgan knew, and he was right: Hooligan’s phone began to ring.

“It’s for you, boss,” he explained, passing it over.

“Jack Morgan.”

Faces peered intently as Morgan received what could only be the briefing of a task newly dropped onto Private’s desk. As the one-sided conversation drew on, Knight observed how Morgan’s battered body began to fill with purpose. By the time he hung up the call, Morgan’s back was straight, his eyes alive.

“I’ve got to go,” he told the room.

“Is it a good one?” the newly retired Peter Knight asked.

“It is,” Morgan told him, getting to his feet.

Knight looked from his playing children to the adults in the room. One group were his family, and the other group were his...

“Can I withdraw my—” Knight began.

Morgan cut him off with a smile. “You are Private London, Peter.”

“We are,” Knight insisted, taking in his friends. “We are.”

They embraced. Then, with pride in his step and purpose in his soul, Jack Morgan walked from the room.

He was onto his next mission.

He was alive.