“What are you going to do? Kill me, then the coppers?”
Could he? Morgan asked himself. Could he shoot police officers acting in the line of duty, so that he could bring his own brand of justice to Flex? Could he bring that same heartbreak that he now felt to the families and loved ones of these officers?
No, Morgan knew. Not a chance in hell.
And so his options were to run, or stand—he chose to stand, and Herbert hissed that he was an idiot.
Morgan said nothing. Maybe he’d be proved wrong, but he was listening to his gut, and his instinct told him that Flex would not be happy with Morgan simply being arrested and imprisoned. Flex wanted Morgan’s blood as badly as Morgan wanted his.
No, Morgan told himself, growing more certain. Flex wouldn’t send the police, and though Morgan believed in coincidence, he did not believe that a squad car would happen to pull up on him the moment he walked onto London Bridge, and single him out, when dozens of other pedestrians were walking across the length of the bridge.
There was something more going on here, and as the car drew close enough for the early morning light to illuminate the occupants, Morgan saw that his gut had been right.
Flex.
There was no mistaking the bulk that sat in the car’s passenger side, and who now emerged onto the roadside, clad head to foot in police gear, his equipment accurate down to the shoelaces. Behind him the rear door opened, and Rider stepped forth, equally tailored. So dressed, neither the men nor their car would draw unwanted attention—security was a part of London life, and nowhere more so than at its iconic locations.
Flex had taken the precaution of turning off the car’s interior lights so that they did not come on with the open doors, and Morgan could only just make out the shape of the figure in the car’s recesses. Behind the wheel sat the face of another “police officer,” and Morgan chanced a glance to Herbert, who gave a quick shake of his head—he didn’t know him.
“You keep your mouth shut, you fucking rat,” Flex snarled at Herbert. “Did the regiment teach you nothing?”
“Taught me that you’ll blow the bridge to save yourself,” Herbert replied.
“Shut up,” Morgan told him, as calmly as he could in the presence of Jane’s killer. Then to Flex, “Take Knight out of the car, and Herbert’s yours.”
“Change of plan on that one.” Flex shrugged his massive shoulders. “Knight can go, but you’re coming with me.”
Morgan held his tongue. He’d expected the gambit, and now ignored it, instead taking in his options, and his chances. Flex and Rider were both armed, pistols holstered on their hips. As seasoned pros, neither man was impinging on what would be the other’s aim—Rider stood aside and staggered from Flex. Morgan was a quick draw, but he couldn’t expect to take down both men before he was hit himself. Was he willing to die to kill Flex? Was he willing to give Knight’s life, too?
“Let’s talk money,” Morgan said. “You said no to twenty million. Let’s make it thirty.”
“Thirty million to walk away?” Flex sneered.
“To walk away from this bridge,” Morgan corrected him. “We both know that this doesn’t end until one of us is dead, Flex. I’ll give you thirty million to give me Knight, and leave this bridge.”
Flex scoffed, and Morgan looked to Rider. “You may not want the money, but maybe your men do.”
“They want what I want,” Flex growled, taking a pace forward. “Honor. Respect.”
But the look on Rider’s face told Morgan different. “Thirty-five million.”
“Let him speak, Flex,” Rider said from behind his boss. “That’s a lot of money.”
“He’s trying to confuse you, you soft bastard,” Flex snarled, turning back to Rider.
“I’m trying to save my friend’s life, and to get us off this bridge.” Morgan now spoke to Rider directly. “Thirty-five million, or a lifetime as a wanted murderer. Your choice.”
The look on the former Foreign Legion man’s face said it was a simple one. “Let’s get back in the car, Flex. Let’s get out of here, and at least talk about this.”
“We’re not going anywhere.”
“It’s a lot of money.”
As the two men scowled at one another, Morgan chanced to look at the police car’s driver—the man was pale with nerves, his hands gripping the wheel hard.
“You can’t stay on this bridge forever,” Morgan said to Flex and Rider. “The real police are going to smell something, and when they get here, there’s no getting off this bridge.”
“The real police?” Flex snorted. “How often do you want to underestimate me, Jack? Insult me? Why dress up as coppers when I can just buy dirty ones? This is a Met Police car, and it works this beat. If I say we have all day, we have all day. All. Fucking. Day.”
Morgan shook his head, and flicked his eyes to the east—the sun was rising higher in the sky, and with it would come more pedestrians. More scrutiny. They could not stay on this bridge all day.
“Into the car!” Flex ordered Morgan and Herbert.
“Thirty-five million,” Morgan replied.
“Get in!”
“Flex, think about the money!” Rider pressed from behind him.
But Flex would not. He could only think about reputation, and how Morgan had stolen his. And so he reached into the car’s back seat and pulled Peter Knight out by his hair. Morgan watched tense as his battered friend was shoved toward the side of the bridge.
“I’m sick of your shit,” Flex spat at Morgan, confirming the American’s fears. “Either you get in the car, or he goes in the river.”
Morgan could see the handcuffs on Knight’s wrists, and knew that a fall from this height into the water with hands bound was a death sentence.
“If he dies,” he said evenly, “there will be no money, Flex. Only death.”
“Get. In. The. Car.”
For a moment all was silent. Then Morgan turned his hate-filled eyes from Flex’s face to Knight’s, the man he had been so angry with for putting them in this position, and for coming between Flex and Morgan’s justice. But the true spirit of Morgan’s soul broke through, and he knew that, no matter what, he could never put his own desires before the safety of his agents, and friends.
“I’ll get in the car,” he told Flex, stepping forward. “But Knight goes free.”
Flex smiled, moments from victory.
“Don’t!” Rider called out as Morgan stepped forward. “Stay there. Flex, we’re taking the money!”
“Enough!” Flex snarled.
Everything happened instantly, at once, and at speed.
Morgan watched on horrified as Flex used his massive arms to bundle the handcuffed Knight up and over the bridge’s side. In the same motion, Flex was already dropping to one knee and pulling his pistol.
But Rider had been faster—No honor amongst thieves, scumbags or killers—and his first 9mm round chipped stone from just above Flex’s head, the second striking Flex in his armored chest plate.
Rider didn’t get the chance to fire another. His eye was drawn to the figure of Morgan, who was pulling his own pistol free, and that split second of indecision cost Rider his life. Flex fired a double tap from his kneeling position, one round hitting the man in the neck, and the second clipping the side of his head. Rider went down, but his finger remained depressed on the semi-automatic trigger, 9mm rounds blasting and smashing into the police car’s windows and metalwork. Morgan saw in his peripheral vision a spray of blood on the windshield as the driver took one in the back of his head.
Two deaths had occurred before the large splash below announced that Knight had hit the chopping river, where now, handcuffed, he would have only moments to live.
And it looked as though Morgan had those moments—Flex was still twisted away from him, facing Rider, and now Morgan had a half second to sight in on the man and fire.
It was all he’d need. He would have justice and revenge.
His finger touched the trigger.
Chapter 102