“All right, boss!” he grinned, spotting the American.
“Hooligan.” Morgan smiled before turning his head to a bed in the room’s corner. “Lewis.”
“You got him, Jack.” Her eyes sparkled with pride.
“I did.”
The next few hours passed with laughter, some golden, some solemn. They made remembrance of their friend, and they looked to the future. Through it all, the grief of Jane Cook’s departure banged on Morgan’s soul like the battering ram of a besieging enemy, but he held the pain at bay with the love and company of his agents, with Lewis, and with the children of his friend.
It could never last forever, Morgan knew, and he was right: Hooligan’s phone began to ring.
“It’s for you, boss,” he explained, passing it over.
“Jack Morgan.”
Faces peered intently as Morgan received what could only be the briefing of a task newly dropped onto Private’s desk. As the one-sided conversation drew on, Knight observed how Morgan’s battered body began to fill with purpose. By the time he hung up the call, Morgan’s back was straight, his eyes alive.
“I’ve got to go,” he told the room.
“Is it a good one?” the newly retired Peter Knight asked.
“It is,” Morgan told him, getting to his feet.
Knight looked from his playing children to the adults in the room. One group were his family, and the other group were his…
“Can I withdraw my—” Knight began.
Morgan cut him off with a smile. “You are Private London, Peter.”
“We are,” Knight insisted, taking in his friends. “We are.”
They embraced. Then, with pride in his step and purpose in his soul, Jack Morgan walked from the room.
He was onto his next mission.
He was alive.