Private Royals: BookShots (A Private Thriller) Read Online Free PDF Page B

in Battersea, Morgan’s Range Rover led the Private convoy to the front of a fire-damaged furniture store.
    ‘Riots,’ Cook guessed, seeing Morgan inspecting the destruction. ‘They’re probably still waiting on the plans to redevelop it.’ Cook stopped short of her next words.
    ‘Go on,’ Morgan encouraged.
    ‘You think pulling up like this is the best idea?’ she asked, as neutrally as she could.
    ‘Don’t ever be afraid to disagree with me, Jane.’ He smiled. ‘But I think we’re good. Our guys could be ex-military, but I don’t think they’ll have RPGs.’
    ‘True.’ Cook nodded. ‘But they probably do have a good knowledge of how to make use of IEDs. There’s all kinds of rubbish and litter around here where they could hide one.’
    ‘And what would they gain from that?’ Morgan asked, interested.
    ‘Time. They take out the people who’re getting close to them, or why else do they put something out here for us as a distraction? It’s either desperation or a trap. If we’re all dead, it doesn’t matter to the kidnapper. The Duke’s not with us, and he’s the one paying the ransom.’
    Morgan thought it over.
    ‘Keep thinking like that,’ he told her, pleased, then spoke into a small button radio affixed to the neck of his hoody. ‘Knight, hold back here for now. I’m going to give the place a once-over. Take the van a hundred yards back.’
    Knight’s reply betrayed his unease with the order, but Morgan was his leader. ‘If that’s what you want,’ the Brit answered, and the van reversed back along the street.
    Scanning for wires that could lead to a firing point for any explosives, Morgan made his way cautiously to the front of the building. It had at one point been boarded up, but the chipboard was now ripped and torn, the graffiti dull.
    He saw that there were several points of entry, which made him feel more at ease about an ambush. If he was setting a trap, the kidnapper would want to funnel the Private personnel into a chosen killing ground. It made no sense to allow them to clear the obstruction of the shopfront, only to try to ensnare them inside.
    Pushing himself between the boards, Morgan eased into the shop and quickly moved five paces to his left, crouching into the deepest shadows. There he waited and listened for almost a minute. The only sounds were the Range Rover’s idling engine and the scurrying of mice.
    He turned on his flashlight. The beam cut through the darkness and played across the charred metal skeletons of beds and sofas. He saw nothing that put his senses on edge, so he got to his feet and slowly edged his way into what had been a display room. The torchlight shone on empty beer cans, the stubs of cigarettes and the general debris of the homeless. None of it was fresh. There was no odour to it.
    No odour to hide the smell that now hit Morgan like a fist.
    He was very familiar with it.
    It was the smell of death.

CHAPTER 17
    MORGAN SPOKE INTO the mic on his collar. ‘Guys, come in through the front. Hooligan, bring all your tools. Peter?’
    ‘Yes, Jack?’
    ‘We have body bags in that van?’
    ‘We do,’ Knight answered. Morgan didn’t need to tell him to bring one in.
    Head-torch beams criss-crossing the furniture store as they walked, the trio came up beside Morgan, whose own Maglite beam was unflinching. Knight and the others followed its direction.
    The torch lit up the face of a young woman. She was dead, and there was no elegance or dignity in her posture.
    ‘I thought we were going to find Aaron Shaw,’ Knight said. ‘This must be the second hostage.’
    ‘I know her,’ Cook spoke up suddenly.
    The three men turned to her in surprise.
    ‘You do?’ Knight asked.
    ‘Her name’s Grace Beckit. She’s a society girl. She was a model, but mostly she was known for her partying.’
    ‘She was also a close friend of Abbie’s,’ Knight confirmed after a quick Internet search on his phone.
    Cook took a step closer to the body, her