Private Princess

Chapter 73

“Bomb!” Jack Morgan shouted as he sprinted toward the White Swan pub. “Bomb!” he roared, hoping to sow confusion and chaos.

He got it. London was a city where terror attacks were a question of when, not if, and now dozens of panicked fans began to run, some screaming, others echoing Morgan’s frantic calls.

“Bomb!” they yelled, scrambling to get clear.

The stampede began moments later.

It took only seconds for word to pass from one mouth to another, twenty meters at a time. In under thirty seconds, it had reached the tail end of the crowd, who now surged forward, sideways and backward. What had been a steady flow of fans became a torrent, and no amount of cajoling by police or stewards could stop the flood.

“Out of my way!” a man screamed at Morgan, shoving him aside.

Others battered their way past him, many carrying children. The White Swan was only a dozen meters from Morgan, but the wave of fleeing spectators turned his approach into that of crossing a raging Rocky Mountain river.

“Hooligan!” he shouted. “Jeremy!”

Between the flashes of hustling claret-and-sky-blue shirts, Morgan caught sight of Hooligan sheltering by the pub’s wall as if from a storm, but it was a tidal wave of people that rushed by him.

“Over here!” Morgan shouted. “Over here!” His words were getting lost in the din of the crowd, but he kept calling. “Look! Jeremy! Here!”

And finally Hooligan did look, his eyes caught by Morgan’s motion, which was counter to the direction all others were moving. “Jack!” he called, his voice cracking. “Jack!”

Morgan saw Hooligan waving and pushed forward with more force, his sole focus on reaching Hooligan’s side. When he burst from the crowd, it was almost as a newborn, tossed from the frantic motion of fleeing fans into a tranquil haven.

“Where is he?” asked Morgan.

“I haven’t seen him since the stampede started.” Hooligan hugged Morgan as if he were a long-lost father. “That was you who started the bomb scare?”

Hooligan was not the only one to have figured that out, and now the alert mounted police, who’d been drawn to Morgan by his rushing through the crowd, pointed fingers in his direction and turned their horses into the press. The steady flow of fleeing fans broke around the beasts like river rapids.

“They’re coming for us, Jack! Thank God!”

Morgan felt no such elation. Flex was owed retribution, and Morgan could not deliver that from a Metropolitan Police cell. The mess could be cleared up, but it would take time. Time where Flex could be hunting more of Morgan’s people, or disappearing.

“Up and over the fence,” Morgan ordered, his eyes on the wooden fencing that stood between them and the back of the pub. “Go! Put your boot in my hand, and I’ll push you up!”

Hooligan knew better than to argue with Jack Morgan. In seconds he was over the fence. Morgan chanced one look over his shoulder before he followed.

The horse troopers were surging forward, eyes narrowed in pursuit as they talked into their radios.

Morgan was a wanted man.