Private Princess

Chapter 14

Jack Morgan couldn’t sleep. The image of the splintered door and the suppressed thwacking sound of the bullets were still fresh in his mind. So too was the picture of Jane Cook as they had lingered outside the hotel room.

Morgan was alone in his bedroom, a quaint space decorated in the typical fashion of a farmhouse — the furniture plain and practical, wooden beams crossing the ceiling and climbing the walls. The structure reminded him of prison, and that was how he felt — trapped. Trapped with no clear leads and his head seemingly in a noose that he could not see.

Thirty minutes of press-ups and crunches did something to clear his mood, his skin slicked with sweat, muscles pumped with blood. He looked to the Rolex on his wrist, seeing the hands creep delicately onto the hour. It was 6 a.m., and time to call Peter Knight.

“Jack,” Knight answered. “The rest of the night was quiet?” Morgan had briefed him about the attack the moment they had left the hotel.

“Security is tight,” Morgan assured his friend, “but we’re useless while we’re here. We need to get back to Brecon, and find out what’s worth killing me over.”

“I’m sure there are a few things,” Knight replied, trying to lift Morgan’s mood. “Do you think they’ll call off the hunt?”

Morgan had asked himself the same question. Princess Caroline hiring an investigation agency to find her friend was one thing. Having one of the agents killed in that search was another. The whole point of hiring Private was to avoid public knowledge and scandal, and Morgan’s brains on his bed sheet could hardly get buried in the back pages.

“If they don’t, I’ll need more manpower,” he told Knight.

“I can be there in a few hours.”

“Thanks, but no,” Morgan said, abreast of Knight’s own investigation. “Stick with Sir Tony. Has Hooligan cracked the USB’s encryption yet?”

“Not yet.”

“Then you have to stay with it. If someone’s gone to that much trouble to hide what’s on that USB, then there must be a good reason.”

“Or a bad one,” Knight added.

Morgan heard footsteps and turned to the bedroom’s door. This time it was knuckles against the wood, not bullets. “Come in.”

It was Sharon Lewis.

She took in the sight of the sweat-shined American. If she was attracted to the man, she showed no sign. “Take a shower, Morgan. You’ve been invited to breakfast with a princess.”