He raised his pistol and fired.
The first bullet went a foot wide of his target. The second hit dead center, and the police officer dropped to the ground.
Then crawled to cover.
Morgan had shot out the power box above the glass sliding doors, and now they were immobile, a six-inch gap between them. It would be enough to buy Morgan moments for his pursuit, before the police response teams could access the building’s industrial entrances. It would buy him moments to stop Flex from beginning what could turn out to be one of the country’s most bloody hostage situations. It would buy Morgan the time to offer Flex the one thing that could halt his course of action.
Morgan’s own life.
Chapter 114
The doorman whimpered as the elevator shot upward. The muzzle of Flex’s pistol was pressed into his cheek so hard that he could feel it against his teeth.
“Please,” the man begged, his accent Eastern European, “I have a family.”
Flex said nothing. His eyes were on the numbers on the elevator’s controls. “How many floors in this building?” he demanded.
“Seventy-two.”
“Then why does this lift only go up to thirty-four?”
“It goes to the hotel,” the terrified man explained. “Then there is another set of lifts.”
Flex swore. His plan had been to ride the elevator to its highest level, grab a few more hostages, and then to ensconce himself somewhere that had a good view of the entrances, but was clear of windows that would allow him to be taken out by a helicopter-borne sniper. He also didn’t put it past the regiment to land on the top of the narrow building before abseiling down and smashing their way through the glass. In fact, they’d probably love that, Flex thought to himself, a sense of pride in his past life reaching up momentarily through his anger and hate.
He had been a part of something once, Flex knew. He had been a part of something greater than himself, and not as a cog in a machine, but as a brother amongst pilgrims. Eventually, when push came to shove, he had chosen that band of men over his own wife. She hadn’t been able to understand what it was he did, and why he was the way he was. After losing friends in Desert Storm, the last thing Flex needed to hear was her moaning about him having a couple of beers with his mates instead of driving her to Tesco. As much as it had hurt when she’d taken the kids, Flex had seen it as just one more sacrifice to be made in the service of his beloved regiment, and his country.
And what had happened then? He’d served his years, and though he’d felt fit and able, and had had no wish to leave, the army had had other ideas. Thanks for your work. Sorry about your dead mates. Here’s a shit pension, now piss off, will you, and drink yourself to death somewhere nice and quiet. There’s a good man.
Not Flex. He had joined the most elite unit in the world to prove a point — that he mattered. That he was good enough. The chip on his shoulder was still there when he left the service, only it had been joined by the vicious things he had done — and enjoyed doing — in the name of Queen and country. Flex had found he was bloody good at killing people, and as the West had capitalized on the spoils of war, Flex had thought it only right he take his own share.
And so he had started P-C-Gen Security, using his network of Special Forces contacts across the world to bid for the lucrative contracts spawned by the wars on terror and drugs. As he’d snapped them up like a greedy dog, Flex had reached out to men he’d worked with in the world’s most dangerous corners. As the money had rolled in, Flex had moved into offices on the Thames — literally — and though he was not in the regiment any longer, he’d had what he wanted — pride. Respect. A career that kept him in the center of the world’s web of violence, and the men who administered it.
Jack Morgan had ruined all of that. The beating in the gym had been embarrassing enough — and had left Flex with a ruined knee that had required long and arduous reconstruction — but what had followed from Private was worse than any smackdown.
It was the whispers. Flex is a pussy. Flex got his arse beat. Flex is crooked. Flex can’t be trusted. Flex knew that Morgan had started those rumors, and soon P-C-Gen was losing contracts hand over fist. Reputation was everything in this game, and Flex had lost his. What made it most unbearable to such a proud man was that no one had even been hostile about it. They’d simply stopped calling. And like guilty lovers, they’d stopped answering his calls.
And there was Morgan, the charismatic American twat who had whispered in the ears of CEOs, politicians and agents. Morgan was no soldier, Flex fumed to himself. He was a pilot who’d stuck his chopper into the ground, and hadn’t had the common courtesy to die with it, despite toasting his comrades. He was a schmoozing bastard, not a warrior, and Flex fumed at the thought of the prick’s smug face as he had stood over him in the gym and demanded — demanded — answers.
“Please don’t hurt me,” the doorman in Flex’s grip begged, sensing the rising swell of anger.
Flex obliged by smashing the man’s head into the elevator’s polished mirror. The man slumped to the floor, a smear of blood left behind by his ruined skull.
Flex looked dispassionately at the body. Another life taken because of Morgan. He was the instigator in all this. He was the one who didn’t have the decency to stand, fight and die.
“Bastard!” Flex roared in the confines of the elevator. “Bastard!” he fumed again, as the doors pinged open.
Chapter 115
Early morning was a quiet time in the Shangri-La, customers of the five-star hotel asleep in their comfortable beds, or admiring panoramic views from their rooms over coffee. There were only a small number of people in the hotel’s reception, an international collection of the establishment’s workers, and all were pressed up against the glass of the floor-to-ceiling windows, their fearful eyes zoned in to the pandemonium on London Bridge below, where sirens wailed and lights flashed, dozens of police officers swarming about the bridge like ants on a log.
“I can see bodies,” a sharp-eyed receptionist gulped.
“Is it a terrorist attack?” one of the breakfast chefs asked, logging into Twitter.
“I hope not,” the duty manager prayed. The sound of the elevator doors pinging open behind them caused the group to turn. They stood frozen as they saw an armed police officer emerging, the body of the hotel’s doorman crumpled at his feet.
Chapter 116
As Flex emerged from the elevator, he saw the fear on the faces of the people stood huddled in front of him. No, he corrected himself — not people. Sheep, just waiting for one of their flock to make the first move before the others followed. Flex could see their tiny minds trying to work out what was going on — a man lying slumped dead on the elevator’s floor, and a police officer — a symbol that they had been told all of their lives was a force for good — standing over him.
Flex decided he would help the sheep make up their minds, and shot the duty manager in the face.
Chapter 117
Jack Morgan pressed himself as tightly as he could into the elevator’s front left corner. As soon as the doors opened, he expected incoming fire from Flex. Morgan would have a couple of seconds at most before the door was fully open, and he had less than half a foot of cover to hide behind. If Flex was waiting in ambush, Morgan would have a split second to decide if he would gut it out against all odds, or if he would hit the button to close the door and return him to ground level. Deep down, Morgan knew the decision had already been made.