Free Private Royals: BookShots (A Private Thriller) by James Patterson

some of whom were preoccupied with filming the incident. ‘Call the police!’ he shouted again as Waldron came for him, KA-BAR in hand.
    Knight sidestepped the first thrust, his body singing out in agony at the sudden movement. Waldron was fast, even with the wound that had left his neck with a bright red scarf of blood. He thrust again and again, but somehow Knight was able to evade the blows, and his confidence began to soar. Perhaps, after all, he could survive long enough for the police to arrive.
    It was only when his left hand touched a wall that he realised he’d been played. Waldron had herded him like a sheep.
    ‘Dumb fuck,’ the Recon Marine growled, enjoying Knight’s shock and driving the blade forward.
    This time there was no escaping it.
    The knife ploughed into Knight’s midsection. If it wasn’t for the protection of his leather and Kevlar biker jacket it would have driven below his ribs and up into his lungs, but the protective material fought back enough that only an inch of metal penetrated his skin. He gasped in agony, but took the opportunity to deliver a swift headbutt, smashing the bridge of the American’s nose.
    Waldron stepped back in surprise, the blade pulling free. Knight followed up his attack, pouncing on Waldron and taking him down to the ground as the bigger man stumbled back on the uneven paving.
    For the frightened onlookers, there was no way of seeing who was gaining the upper hand. It was a rapid exchange of punches and elbows – a gutter fight, the blade changing ownership several times as both men fought for life.
    But only one of them stood. The other lay bleeding out on the pavement, the KA-BAR blade buried deep in his thigh, his face twisted in terror as he tried in vain to stop the flow.
    Some bystanders screamed. Others ran. Some of the younger ones stayed and continued to film.
    Through their lenses, they saw a man stagger towards a truck. There was a padlock key in his hand.

CHAPTER 35
    THE AIR INSIDE the Range Rover was thick, and it had little to do with the weather of a warm and muggy June morning.
    ‘I hate this,’ Morgan growled. ‘Where the hell is Peter, Hooligan? How far from them are we now?’
    ‘Three minutes.’
    ‘And the police?’
    ‘Maybe a minute behind you.’
    Beside Morgan, Cook was silent, her hands tight on the wheel.
    ‘What’s up?’ he asked her.
    ‘The same as you,’ she replied, not taking her eyes from the road.
    ‘No,’ Morgan insisted calmly. ‘We’ve been on the back foot for a long time. It’s only in the past few minutes you’ve started gripping the wheel like you’re trying to choke it.’
    Cook said nothing.
    ‘Talk it out,’ he pressed gently.
    ‘Something has set me off,’ she admitted. ‘A trigger. I don’t know what it is, but I feel like there’s a piece of the puzzle right in front of my eyes.’
    ‘You just need to take your mind off it. If you try and focus too hard on it, you’ll never get it. Keep busy with something else. Here.’ Morgan handed over a radio and headset. ‘Monitor this channel.’
    ‘What is it?’
    ‘It’s the police frequencies. The more open ones, anyway.’
    Cook’s mouth dropped open. ‘The police, Jack! The police!’
    ‘What about them?’ he said.
    ‘The kidnapper – he called them the filth! He called the police the filth!’
    ‘So what?’
    ‘So, you didn’t know what that means!’ she said. ‘You didn’t know what that means, because you’re an American!’
    ‘And so is Waldron,’ Morgan said, his stomach turning sour as he came to the inevitable conclusion. ‘Our kidnapper’s not alone.’

CHAPTER 36
    ABBIE THREW UP again.
    She was on her hands and knees, vomit on her chin and in her hair. The comedown from her drug high had already kicked in when her world had begun to violently sway and screech, the contents of her toilet bucket sent spilling across the floor and over her bare feet. It had all been too much for Abbie’s stomach. She had puked,