Morgan smiled darkly, then jumped upward, his hands grabbing a hold of the metal fixtures that the tower’s audacious work crew would use to clip in their belts as they descended to clean and maintain the glass leviathan. Morgan shut out any thought of the terrible possibility of what a mistimed jump or poor handgrip could mean. Instead, he focused all his strength and courage on leaping from handhold to handhold. Moving his feet closer to the tower’s summit and safety in strides, Morgan pushed Flex from his mind, concentrating solely on his movement, trying to predict the wind, and to jump between its vicious gusts.
It was on his final leap—barely two feet from the top—that his luck ran out, and a savage thrust of air hit Morgan as he was free of his handholds. The gust blew him to his left, and his right hand snatched at the fixture that had been meant for his left. He caught it, but the movement spun his body, and he found himself facing outward, his back to the building, and nothing ahead of him but sky.
Below him, on the ledge, Flex saw his moment for victory and grabbed at Morgan’s legs like a cat after a bird. Morgan was saved by Flex’s inability to let go of his own handhold, and so only one hand reached up to grasp Morgan. He tucked his legs up to avoid Flex’s grabs, but the movement left him even more vulnerable to the wind, his outstretched knees catching every gust. As Morgan moved his left hand to join his right and double his grip, he looked up and realized there was only one choice left to him—a movement that would either save his life, or take it. Without waiting a second more before the next gust could hit, he drew his knees up toward his chin and, like a gymnast, curled his body upward so that his feet went above his head, pushing through the movement until he felt his shins scrape against the metal of the floor above. Pushing with his hands, Morgan shoved his body up and back, and slid himself onto the upper deck. His chest heaving from exertion and the endorphins of near death, he looked down at Flex, helpless on the ledge below.
Then he turned his eyes to the revolver that lay beside him.
Chapter 124
MICHAEL “FLEX” GIBBON looked up at the revolver that was pointing down at his face.
“Put one in my head,” he asked Morgan, knowing the game was over. “I don’t want to fall, Jack! For God’s sake, put one in my head!”
Morgan said nothing. He wasn’t seeing Flex, and not because the blood was trickling into his eyes and blocking his vision—it was the picture of Jane Cook, seconds from death, tha
t he could see in front of him. Then it was the image of her violent execution carried out by the man who now waited helpless below Morgan, begging for mercy.
“Put one in my head!” Flex pleaded.
Morgan did not. Instead, he used the pistol to trace out the other parts of Flex’s body below him.
“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.