Private Royals (Private 12.50)

‘Flex,’ Morgan called across the room.

The big man turned. He was topless. His body was thick with muscle and scars. Alongside him, Flex’s gigantic training partner shot an ugly look at whoever was daring to interrupt their routine.

‘Who the hell are you?’ the training partner challenged, and Morgan’s fist clenched at the sound.

The man was American.

Morgan said nothing as he strode over to Flex and his partner. On an early Saturday morning, they were the only two training at the exclusive lock-up.

‘This is Jack Morgan,’ Flex answered for him, his eyes narrowing under his meaty forehead. ‘What are you doing here, Jack? I didn’t see any calls from you.’

‘No calls,’ Morgan told him. ‘I wanted to ask you this in person.’

‘OK.’ Flex shrugged, trying to be casual, but Morgan could see that the big man was tensing to spring. ‘What do you want to know?’

The time for tiptoeing was over. Morgan went for the jugular.

‘Where’s Abbie?’

For a moment there was only silence. A split second later, Flex launched himself at Morgan like a missile, but Morgan had been expecting the attack and sidestepped the bull rush, drilling a fist into Flex’s hard skull as he stumbled past.

Flex’s American partner wasted no time and scooped a barbell from the gym floor, swinging it at Cook’s head in the same movement. Like a limbo dancer Cook arched backwards, the metal whooshing through the air above her head. As the American fought to regain control of the weapon, Cook rolled away to her right, taking a bar of her own from a rack.

‘You twat, Jack!’ Flex spat at Morgan. ‘Who the hell do you think you are, sticking your nose into my business? My world!’ he roared, charging.

This time he caught hold of Morgan and the pair tumbled to the ground.

But Morgan had allowed himself to be caught, and now threw his legs up around Flex’s thick back and pulled the man’s head down towards his chest. Flex was caught in the jiu-jitsu move known as the triangle, but with his immense size and strength he was able to prevent Morgan from closing his windpipe and putting him to sleep.

Metres away, Cook ducked and danced to avoid the wild blows of Flex’s training partner. The man’s veins bulged like snakes beneath his skin, and Cook knew he could kill her with the power in his swings. She also knew that, with muscles that big, the man would tire quickly, so she ducked and danced, prodding the end of her own bar into his rock-hard stomach when she saw the chance.

‘Tell me where she is!’ Morgan hissed into Flex’s ear, fighting for leverage, his legs slowly slipping from the man’s sweaty torso.

Flex cursed, and doubled his efforts to break the hold. Morgan could see there was no way to finish the move, and holding Flex in position was rapidly sapping his own strength, so he let go. Flex’s sudden release caused him to shoot backwards.

Flex was on his feet again quickly and came charging once more. Morgan let him come, then knelt, picking up a small weighted disc in his hand. As if he had all the time in the world, Morgan threw it side-handed, as though skimming a stone at the beach.

The weight plate hit Flex in the centre of his face, smashing his nose and sending him staggering like a drunkard. Morgan knew it would take more than a broken nose to stop the monster, so he rushed forwards to take advantage of the moment and delivered a series of furious blows. A low leg kick to Flex’s shin connected with a crack and forced the man down onto his knees with a cry of agony.

Across the room, Flex’s partner had slowed down, his massive muscles outstripping the capacity of his heart and lungs to deliver blood and oxy

gen to them. His huge chest billowed as he fought for breath, his swings increasingly wild and ragged.

‘You bitch!’ he wheezed at Cook.

She saw her chance and stepped into the man’s reach, thrusting her bar into his jaw. He dropped as if a switch had been thrown.

Grasping at his knee in agony, and seeing his friend toppled like a demolished skyscraper, Flex knew the game was over.

‘You’ve blown out my knee, you bastard,’ he hissed at Morgan.

‘I’ll smash out your brains if you don’t tell us what we need to know,’ Morgan threatened. ‘Is that him?’ he asked, pointing at the unconscious American. ‘Is that the Marine who took her?’

Flex shook his head.

‘He’s an Army Ranger. Go check his tattoos.’

Cook did. Faded Ranger insignia were inked onto both of the man’s shoulders. ‘It’s not him,’ she said.