“No!” Flex begged, knowing that any wound that didn’t kill him would certainly brush him from his narrow perch. “Please!”
Morgan’s pistol hand shook with rage, adrenaline and grief. It shook as another gust of wind hit the building’s top. Flex dug his fingernails into the building’s side as if he thought he could claw his way to safety.
“For God’s sake, Jack!” he cried. “Shoot me before I get blown off here! Shoot me! Shoot me!”
Morgan felt the cold metal of the trigger beneath his finger. He had the bullets and he had the shot. Since Jane’s murder, he had dreamed of this moment, the fate of the killer in his hands, his face filling the sights of Morgan’s pistol.
Do it for Jane, Jack Morgan thought savagely to himself. Do it for Sharon Lewis. Do it for Peter Knight. Do it for all those other people that Flex has left dead, ruined or scarred in his wake.
Do it, Morgan told himself.
DO IT! his mind screamed.
And so he did.
Chapter 125
“CLIMB!” MORGAN ORDERED. “Now!”
“You won’t kill me?” Flex asked in disbelief.
“I won’t kill you,” Morgan spat. “Now climb!” he shouted again, his pistol unwavering as the big man’s shaking fingers searched for their first handholds.
Flex winced with pain as he put strain on the hand that Morgan had crunched beneath his boot. Grimacing, he began to haul himself upward. To stay on the shelf was to risk the wrath of the wind, but Flex was no more secure from it as he began his slow ascent, his big body buffeted by the gusts.
“Get me a rope or something!” he shouted up.
Morgan said nothing, and stared impassively.
Knowing that no help was coming, and seeing that he was alone in his efforts, Flex gritted his teeth and pushed higher. Morgan watched with grim satisfaction as he saw the pain that Flex’s right hand was causing him.
“You’re getting tired, Flex,” Morgan taunted. “All that muscle, and one heart. Your blood’s not getting around fast enough, Flex. Your muscles are filling with lactic acid, and soon you’ll cramp. One big gust, Flex, and you’re done.”
“You said you wouldn’t kill me!” Flex shouted up.
“And I won’t,” Morgan replied, his face devoid of emotion.
And that was the truth. Jack Morgan had decided to let Flex climb, and face justice. During the murderer’s ascent the winds had calmed, and Morgan wondered if perhaps some force unknown to him wanted to see the man answer for his crimes in court.
He looked down at the struggling man below him. Flex’s red face was a mere two feet from the ledge now. Close enough for Morgan to put a hole through his skull without thinking, but his finger remained away from the trigger because he knew without hesitation what Jane Cook and Peter Knight would tell him. They would want justice, but they would want it within the law of the country they loved so much.
“Help me, please,” Flex pleaded, and one look told Morgan that the man’s oversized muscles had run out of gas a mere foot from his refuge. “Come on, Jack, please! I can’t keep holding on!”
Morgan looked into Flex’s eyes and saw the big man’s spirit wither as he realized that the American’s mercy had extended to its furthest point.
“I don’t want to die, Jack! Please, I have kids!”
“Peter Knight had kids,” Morgan said evenly, taking a step backward to drive home Flex’s predicament.
The former soldier grimaced and looked to his right hand. With two broken fingers, he could barely hold on. “I’ll confess everything!” Flex shouted. “I’ll confess! Just please don’t let me die!”
“You’ll confess?”
“Yes! Just get me up there!”
Morgan thought for a few seconds, during which Flex dug his fingernails into his hands as he sought to tighten his grip. Then Morgan pulled out his phone, and opened the camera.
“Confess,” he ordered.
And Flex did. He told about how he had attacked Morgan and his team at the Brecon hotel, and in the forest. He told of how he had murdered Jane Cook, and beaten PC Sharon Lewis to within an inch of her life. He told of how he had feigned an attack on Hooligan to lure Morgan into a deadly trap. When that hadn’t worked, he had kidnapped Peter Knight, and then thrown him into the Thames. From there, Flex told of how he had shot down innocent civilians in his bid to escape.
“How’s your conscience?” Morgan asked the man.
“Just get me up!” Flex growled.
Morgan turned off the camera. Then he shook his head.
“We had a deal!” Flex begged.
Morgan braced himself as a gust of wind shook the buildings, and Flex’s fingers began to slip.
“Don’t do this, Jack! You can’t let me die!”
Morgan knelt, and looked into Flex’s dark soul.
“You’re a good man, Jack,” Flex pleaded.
“And she was a better woman.”
Morgan held Flex’s terrified stare until the next blast of wind rocked the tower top, and Flex’s fingers slipped away.
Chapter 126
AS HE WATCHED Flex fall away into oblivion, the weight of Jack Morgan’s grief came crashing down—her killer had received justice, but Jane Cook was still dead. Nothing would ever bring her back.
He sank to his knees, and closed his eyes.
That’s how he was found by the armed men that burst onto the building’s rooftop. Without an ounce of resistance, Morgan let himself be pushed face first into the cold metal flooring. He heard the men shouting, but he paid them no heed. Hands cuffed behind his back, Morgan was dragged to his feet roughly and a hood was pulled over his head.
Shoved and pulled by his captors, Morgan was taken from the roof and inside the building. There he was lifted and put onto a gurney, where he felt a second cuff attach to his right ankle. Morgan’s world turned darker still as what felt like a blanket was laid over him.
Jack Morgan said nothing through all this. He felt the sensation of falling through air, and presumed it was the elevator. He heard distant sounds of sobbing, sirens and shouts of command. He felt himself pushed and wheeled, the sudden bump of the gurney’s legs tucking as he was slid into what he presumed was an ambulance. Seconds later, the siren blared and he felt the unmistakable movement of a vehicle travelling at speed.
He had no idea how long it was until the vehicle stopped, his gurney was unloaded, and Morgan was wheeled through quiet corridors. He had no idea how long it was until a man pulled away the blanket, and then the hood.
“Peter Knight?” Morgan asked, looking up at the man above him, desperate to know the fate of his friend. “Is he alive?”
“Knight is at Guy’s Hospital,” Colonel De Villiers told him, “but he’s alive.”
Morgan closed his eyes in relief. The Colonel pretended not to notice the tear that ran down Morgan’s cheek. Instead he used a set of keys to take off the cuffs that bound Morgan to the gurney. The American pushed himself up, and took in his surroundings: he was in a bare corridor, the smell of bleach and disinfectant thick in his nostrils.
“I’m sorry you had to be brought in like this,” De Villiers said as Morgan rubbed at his sore wrists. “Given the circumstances, we decided the best option was to convince MI5 to claim you as an operative. As far as everyone but the few operators from the rooftop knows, you were a British intelligence asset, who died heroically. Jack Morgan has been under my protection in the Tower this entire time.”
“You said we?” Morgan asked.
“The Princess likes you,” De Villiers replied, confirming Morgan’s thoughts about who had been pulling the strings to keep him out of a British prison.
“Thank you, Colonel,” Morgan said, putting out a hand.
“Marcus,” the Guards officer insisted.
“You saved Peter’s life?” Morgan asked as they shook.
De Villiers smiled. “He saved his own. I found him on one of the stone arches. He’d kicked his way there and was using his cuffed hands to grip a submerged mooring ring. His head was just above water.”
“So you did save him.” Morgan smiled.
“I helped him.”