Private Princess

Chapter 52

Michael Gibbon looked down at the body that lay in front of him. What had been a beautiful woman was reduced now to a body of useless meat. It was a waste, really. Still, the bitch who had attacked him at his gym was dead, and Morgan had seen her die. That gave Flex some solace, but it did not fill him with satisfaction. That wouldn’t come until Jack Morgan had suffered still more, and then finally died in agony himself.

“You fucking coward,” Flex then heard, breaking him from his thoughts.

He turned his masked head to look at the police officer, Lewis. She was on her knees and trembling, but her face was hard and defiant.

“You’re a copper,” Flex stated.

“I am,” Lewis answered, with a proud jut of her chin.

“Look at her. Go on. Look at her,” Flex urged with a wave of his pistol.

Willing herself to be stoic, Lewis obeyed and turned her eyes to Cook’s body on the floor.

“This woman was a traitor,” Flex declared, lifting up Cook’s head by her hair so that her dead eyes looked at Lewis. “She was a traitor, and so she got treated like one.”

“She wasn’t a traitor, you fucking murderer!” Lewis shouted, hoping that she could face death with the same tenacity that Cook had.

“She was,” Flex stated coldly, dropping Cook’s head so that it hit hard on the floor. “She’s been working with that American bastard to undermine British security. She’s been working to undermine the army, and the police. Your team, Lewis. She’s been out to fuck your team.”

“Bollocks!” Lewis spat. “Just shoot me and get it over with, you fat bastard! I don’t want to hear your crap!”

Flex’s accomplice hit her hard in the face. The police officer tasted blood, and braced herself as she saw a boot coming in at her stomach.

Being ready wasn’t enough. Lewis doubled over in pain as she felt one of her lower ribs crack.

“I’ve got nothing against you, Lewis,” Flex explained. “But I’ve had nothing against a lot of people I’ve killed, so don’t let yourself think that will stop me. Now,” he asked, bringing up the silencer of his pistol to brush against his captive’s forehead, “are you gonna help me, or are you gonna die?”