Private Royals

Chapter 26

Morgan’s feet splashed down into a puddle as he stepped down from the Range Rover, his eyes on the haulage firm’s yard in the near distance. Leaving Cook behind, he made off at a casual walking pace, covering all four sides of the truck yard’s perimeter. There was little for him to see save a line of trucks, a Portakabin office and rain-filled wheel ruts.

As Morgan had expected, Jones Brothers Haulage were closed for the weekend, the gate bolted shut.

‘We’ll go through the fence,’ he told Cook, rejoining her at the Range Rover.

‘You found a way in?’

‘We’ll make one,’ he said, lifting a pair of bolt cutters from the boot.

‘They could have CCTV,’ Cook warned.

‘If the police come, we’ll either be gone or have Abbie. Here.’ Morgan handed over the cutters. ‘They’ll be armed. This is the best we can do.’

‘I hate doing this kind of thing without a firearm,’ Cook confessed. ‘I feel naked.’

‘Come work for me in LA, and you won’t have to be.’ Morgan spoke without thinking, and Cook couldn’t help a sly smile.

‘But it’s an option, right?’ she said.

For the first time in hours, a ghost of Morgan’s usual happy, handsome face appeared. ‘Come on,’ he said, trying to fight it. ‘Let’s go and get her.’

‘We’re not waiting for help?’

‘You’re in the artillery, right?’ he said. He moved off, Cook following on his shoulder. ‘When you’re sending forward observers behind enemy lines to spot your targets, do you send the entire unit, or a small team?’

‘A small team,’ she conceded. ‘And they call in the heavy stuff.’

‘There you go.’ Morgan smiled.

‘OK. But who are our big guns?’

‘SCO19,’ he answered — the Metropolitan Police’s firearms unit. ‘If we find Abbie, and there’s no way we can safely pull her out of there, then we’ll call them in.’

Carrying the wheel brace from the breakdown kit, Morgan led Cook to a stretch of fence that was hidden from the haulage yard’s Portakabin by a line of wheeled bins. Cutting a hole through took moments, then the pair ran low across the open ground to the cabin. The curtains were open. Morgan took a cautious glance through the window. The cabin was empty.

‘We’ll check the trucks,’ he whispered.

The company’s lorries were arranged in a single row, a mixture of flat-panel and dump trucks. Morgan and Cook made their way slowly around the dozen vehicles, looking into the cabs and listening for any trace of sound.

‘Jack,’ Cook whispered. ‘Over here.’

Morgan came to her side and found himself looking at a truck-sized space between two other vehicles. It was the only one missing from the neatly arranged line.

‘The ground’s dry,’ he declared, looking up to the sky and thinking of the recent shower. ‘We just missed them. Damn it!’

‘You don’t know that,’ Cook said, trying to be positive, but Morgan pointed to a rusty-coloured patch at the edge of the dry ground.

‘That’s blood. Probably Grace’s blood. They held Abbie in a truck here, and now they’re moving closer to the parade.’

Cook tried, but could find no flaw in the logic.

‘It’s nine forty,’ she told him, looking at her watch. ‘Twenty minutes until they call to arrange the drop. Will the Duke have the money?’

Morgan shook his head. ‘He was never supposed to pay, but Waldron heard “Duke” and thought “billionaire”.’

‘So what now?’

Morgan’s eyes narrowed. ‘We’ve got an hour to find that truck, or Abbie dies.’