Private Princess

Chapter 91

Morgan stood alone in the center of the courtyard for some time after his conversation with the Princess. Except for the occasional tramp of a sentry’s feet, or the caw of a raven, the place was quiet. The Tower’s walls muted London’s traffic, giving it the serene sense of being a place of calm amidst the city’s storm. Of course, for Morgan, that was exactly what it was. Soon it would be time to go out into that storm.

De Villiers’ tall frame appeared in the doorway of one of the buildings.

“You could have waited inside,” the Colonel told him.

“I wanted to think,” Morgan replied.

And think he had done. Of Jane Cook. Of Sharon Lewis. Of Jeremy “Hooligan” Crawford. Of Peter Knight. All wards in his care. All people that, on some level, he had failed. In Cook’s case, Morgan’s actions and lack of foresight had led to her death.

“Whatever you’re thinking, it’s not good for you.” De Villiers frowned, reading Morgan’s features like a map. “You need your head on straight, Morgan. Come on, man, this isn’t what I expected from you. Look at how you handled the people who took Abbie Winchester.”

“I’ve lost one of my agents, Colonel.” He didn’t need to tell De Villiers that he had lost much more than that.

“I know you have, Morgan. And now you have this.” He passed Morgan a sheet of paper.

“What are these?”

“Joyce has had no luck in contacting Flex directly, and he’s heard nothing from him since Jane... He’s heard nothing from him since then.

“What you have here,” he continued, “is a list of addresses that Flex has been known to frequent. And these,” he pointed, “are the details of Flex’s expected accomplice, Nathan Rider. Joyce heard that Rider had been brought over from Africa by Flex. Apparently Rider isn’t the kind of man who cares to be in a country where there is a higher kind of law than who has the biggest guns, and so the pieces fit that he’s here for one reason.”

“To kill me.”

“To try. I’ll walk you to the gate. I expect you’ll want to make use of the night.”

They walked in silence. Morgan left the way he had come in: through the small door set into the wall. As he emerged he found himself facing lengthways along the Thames, London’s skyline brilliant in the darkness.

“You have everything you need?” De Villiers asked, emerging beside him.

“I do,” Morgan replied, his eyes on the towers that were lit up toward the clouded heavens.

“Then I’ll leave you with one last thought. I’m giving you as much rope as I can, Morgan, you understand? Precise and deliberate retribution I will allow you, but...”

“I get it.”

“Good. Just remember that this is London, not Afghanistan. If you bring war onto our streets, you’ll be in our sights as much as he is. This city’s suffered a lot these past few years. Our security forces are on a hair trigger.”

Morgan nodded.

“Thank you for your help, Colonel.” He put out his hand and De Villiers took it in a firm grip.

“Get the bastard, Morgan. Get him, and put him down.”