The bastard was harder to kill than a cockroach, he railed. Flex needed him dead. He needed him dead more than he needed almost anything else in the world.
The only thing more important than Morgan’s death was Flex’s own survival. Caught up in moments of red mist and rage, he had lost sight of that. Rider’s greedy treachery had pushed him to the edge and over it, but now Flex was calming, and becoming more calculating—escape and evade, he told himself. Come on, you old bastard, he goaded. You were trained for this. Escape, evade, and then track the Yank down and cut his throat. It doesn’t have to be today, it doesn’t have to be tomorrow. Let him suffer a bit. Let him remember how you blew that bitch’s brains out on screen. Let him remember how you chucked his mate into the Thames like he was an empty tracksuit. Let him suffer for a bit, and then kill him.
Yes, Flex told himself. That’s what I’ll do.
But first he had to escape.
To that end, he took a wide berth around the train station, knowing there would be coppers there. Instead he circled it two streets over, running eastward, the roads all but empty of onlookers now. Those that Flex did pass stood still in wide-eyed bewilderment—they saw a running cop, they heard a siren, but they had no idea why. In the Big Smoke it could mean a house fire or a terrorist massacre.
“What’s going on, officer?” an elderly man asked plaintively as Flex thundered past.
But Flex had no time to play cops, because he was looking at two real ones coming down the street toward him. They pulled their BMW motorbikes to a stop and dismounted.
Flex saw his opportunity.
“Thank God!” he shouted, cursing inwardly as he saw that the men were armed, and cautious. “I got attacked! He’s armed and on a rampage, and he’s right behind me, covered in blood!”
“Just stop there, mate!” one of the cops called, hand on his pistol. “What’s your name and police number?”
Flex said nothing. Instead he cursed his own stupidity. He should never have used the police gambit again after their trap at the London Stadium. Word must have gone out to the police about imposters in uniform, and Flex was not the kind of person people forgot in a hurry—his huge bulk and disheveled appearance taking these police to the logical assumption that this man might not be what he seemed.
“Move your hand away from your weapon,” the second cop told him, moving his own hand to his holster.
Flex didn’t give him the chance, and drew. A double tap cracked the officer in the chest. Flex turned to draw down on his companion, but that officer had already dropped into cover, positioning his bike between himself and the shooter.
Flex snarled. He didn’t have time for this. So he turned and ran. He ran for the only building he could see with an open entrance. He ran for a building he knew was a dead end, but would at least give him a place where he could take hostages, and negotiate, for with a professional’s eye, he saw that its top reaches would be almost impossible for his former SAS comrades to assault.
And so Flex ran for the Shard.
Chapter 111
JACK MORGAN HEARD the gunshots but did not break stride. They were away to his right, echoing from the street where he had seen Flex disappear. He flinched at the thought of Flex taking more innocent life, and braced himself for what scene he would come across in his pursuit. Morgan prepared for a decision he might have to make between saving that person’s life, or catching the murdering monster.
But then he heard a second set of gunshots crash through the streets, closely overlapped by others, and that overlap could mean only one thing: Flex was in a gunfight.
Morgan waited then—a patient hunter behind the low wall of a staircase, steadying himself, and waiting for his shot.
It came seconds later. Flex barreled out of the street with a quick look over his shoulder, closely followed by a gunshot. Any people in the locale who were not already running and screaming took off like a burst of frightened partridges, obscuring Morgan’s view as he brought up his pistol and tracked Flex’s progress—he was coming closer, running at an oblique angle to the American, who remained undetected, ready and waiting.
Morgan pulled the trigger.
The first round went wide, impossible to tell how far, but the sound was enough to draw Flex’s attention. The fugitive fired back a trio of shots without breaking stride. One of the bullets struck close, sending chips of brick into Morgan’s face and eyes, scratching him and forcing him down into cover. He cursed and wiped his eyes with his fingers to clear his vision.
When he looked again Flex was out of pistol range, charging like a bull ahead in the direction Morgan knew there would be no escape from—the Shard. With a flash of realization, Morgan understood Flex’s intention: he would take captives in one of the country’s most difficult buildings in which to effect a hostage rescue, beginning a siege that would end only in the death of innocents, or in the government-sanctioned escape of Flex.
Morgan could not allow either of those things to happen.
He ran onward.
Chapter 112
FLEX DIDN’T LIKE running with his back exposed, but with the armed copper in the street, the inevitable backup on its way, and Morgan taking his own shots, he had decided the best thing for him to do was to put his head down and just go.
Get to the Shard, he told himself. Get in there, grab a hostage, take a breath, work this out.
Despite the death and the carnage, Flex was confident he could escape the situation alive. He knew that the government line on not negotiating with terrorists was bollocks—he had seen it with his own eyes in countless failed states and backwaters around the globe—so he was sure they’d be willing to come to an agreement. After all, Flex had likely trained some of the men who would be orchestrating any planned rescue—he already knew their probable moves. There wasn’t much Flex could do to prevent them gaining access to him eventually, but with a few hostages, he could make a convincing enough argument that there would only be bodies to greet the would-be heroes. With limited options, Flex charged toward the Shard and the endgame that had been forced upon him.
“You!” he shouted to the top-hatted doorman, who was cowering behind a flower pot. “Take me upstairs! Now!”