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Synopsis
Jack Morgan receives an offer he cannot refuse...
When the head of the world's foremost investigation agency receives at invitation to meet Princess Caroline, third in line to the British throne, he boards his Gulfstream jet and flies straight to London.
The Princess needs Morgan's skills, and his discretion. Sophie Edwards, a close friend of the Princess, has gone missing. She needs to be found before the media become aware of it.
Morgan knows there is more to this case than he is being told.
But what is the Princess hiding?
Release date: May 15, 2018
Publisher: Grand Central Publishing
Print pages: 400
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Princess
James Patterson
COUNT TO TEN
“ONE OF PRIVATE’S MOST INTRIGUING AND ENTERTAINING INSTALLMENTS TO DATE.”
—BookReporter.com
MISSING
“MISSING IS, IN A WORD, TERRIFIC. This is a one-sit, fast-paced read that fully satisfies but nonetheless will leave you wanting more.”
—20somethingreads.com
THE GAMES
“FAST PACED… THERE IS NO DOUBT YOU CAN FINISH THIS BOOK IN ONE SITTING.”
—Blograma.com
PRIVATE PARIS
“THERE’S NO FLUFF OR DEAD WEIGHT, AND REVELATIONS COME FAST AND HARD… This story is drenched in realism and really strikes a chord, proving to be a worthwhile read.”
—matthewrbel.blogspot.com
PRIVATE VEGAS
“NEVER A DULL MOMENT IN THIS ACTIONPACKED PAGE-TURNER.”
—Writerswrite.co.za
PRIVATE INDIA: CITY ON FIRE
“IT IS UNPUTDOWNABLE AND DEFINITELY A PAGE-TURNER… ONE IS FORCED TO KEEP READING TIL THE END, THOUGH THE END IS OVER 450 PAGES AWAY.”
—Winnowed.blogspot.com
PRIVATE DOWN UNDER
“FAST-PACED AND SUSPENSEFUL.”
—Upinstitchesblog.wordpress.com
PRIVATE L.A.
“A GREAT READ DEVOURED IN ONE SITTING… [I’M] LOOKING FORWARD TO SEE WHAT HAPPENS NEXT FOR JACK MORGAN AND HIS TEAM(S).”
—RandomActsofReviewing.blogspot.com
PRIVATE BERLIN
“FAST-PACED ACTION AND UNFORGETTABLE CHARACTERS WITH PLOT TWISTS AND DECEPTIONS WORTHY OF ANY JAMES PATTERSON NOVEL.”
—Examiner.com
PRIVATE LONDON
“THE STORY CONTINUES ALONG QUITE QUICKLY WITH THE TWO-PAGE CHAPTERS FLYING PAST FASTER THAN YOU CAN IMAGINE. I READ THIS BOOK IN ONLY AN EVENING. If you are a Patterson fan then you will probably enjoy this one as well.”
—TheFringeMagazine.blogspot.com
PRIVATE GAMES
“PATTERSON, HE OF SIX DOZEN NOVELS AND COUNTING, HAS AN UNCANNY KNACK FOR THE TIMELY THRILLER, AND THIS ONE IS NO EXCEPTION… A PLEASANT ROMP.”
—Kirkus Reviews
PRIVATE: #1 SUSPECT
“[THEY] MAKE ONE HECK OF A GREAT WRITING TEAM AND PROVE IT ONCE AGAIN WITH [THIS] CLASSY THRILLER, THE LATEST IN A PRIVATE INVESTIGATION SERIES THAT’S SURE TO BLOW THE LID OFF A POPULAR GENRE… If you want to be entertained to the max, you can’t go wrong when you pick up a thriller by Patterson and Paetro.”
—NightsandWeekends.com
PRIVATE
“PRIVATE WILL GRAB YOU FROM PAGE ONE AND FORCE YOU TO SIT THERE UNTIL YOU TURN THE VERY LAST PAGE… A GREAT START TO A NEW SERIES FROM THE MASTER OF FAST-PACED THRILL RIDES.”
—LorisReadingCorner.com
CRACKED LEATHER TOUCHED rich soil. Knee in the dirt, the man thought of what was to come, and smiled. A broken nose took in the smell of the damp earth, memories carried in its dank scent. Memories of digging spades, pleading eyes and shallow graves.
The owner of the gloves wiped them against his camouflage trousers, his memories cleansed as easily as the leather. To him, the image of those graves was as inert in his mind as the way a postman views the mail. It was his job to fill holes in the ground, and with pride—the man knew that he was good at it. Better than good. He had been born as just another shitbag on the estate, but now he was a hunter.
He was a killer.
He’d tracked in forests, stalked in deserts, kidnapped in jungles and killed in cities. He had done these things for service, for his country and for his brothers. Sometimes, he’d done it for money.
Today he did it for pride.
He did it for justice.
The hunter-killer turned his eyes up to the sky. Rain was beginning to fall, bouncing from the thick green leaves of summer. The hunter-killer welcomed it. It was his ally. It would cover him as he slid and crept his way closer to his target. Closer to justice.
He could see his prize now, and the proximity caused his heart to beat against his scarred chest, endorphins flooding his body as he pictured his kill and the satisfaction it would bring.
It had been a long stalk, but the prize would justify the suffering and the cost. This kill would come at a price—a great price—but he would not shirk it. The butcher’s bill would be paid in full, and then there would be justice.
Fifty yards away now, and the hunter-killer begged his heart to still, despite the thrill of what was only moments away. Wet branches pulled at him as he moved forward, checking his pace. He forced himself to slow, too close now to fail.
He looked down at the pistol in his hand, checking it for dirt. There was none, as he knew there wouldn’t be. Inside the weapon in his hand, a bullet rested snugly in the chamber, ready to shatter on impact, and to tear out a great chunk of flesh in the body of his prize.
The hunter-killer smiled as he pictured that carnage.
Then he brought the pistol up into the aim, and centered its sights on the back of his target. A target that had caused pain and misery and suffering.
With a smile on his face, the hunter-killer pulled the trigger.
One day earlier
JACK MORGAN WAS alive.
For a former U.S. Marine turned leader of the world’s foremost investigation agency, Private, that could mean a lot of things. It could mean that he had survived knife wounds, kidnap and helicopter crashes. It could mean that he had survived foiling a plot to unleash a virus on Rio, or that he had lived through halting a rampaging killer in London.
Right now, it meant that he was twenty thousand feet in the air, and flying.
Morgan sat in the co-pilot’s position of a Gulfstream G650 the private jet cruising at altitude as it crossed the English Channel from Europe, the white cliffs of Dover a smudged line on the horizon. To the east, the sun was slowly climbing its way to prominence, the sky matching the color of Morgan’s tired, red eyes.
He was exhausted, and it was only for this reason that he was a content passenger on the flight and not at the controls.
The pilot felt Morgan’s hunger: “You can take her in, if you’d like, sir,” the British man offered.
“All you, Phillip,” Morgan replied. “Choppers were always more my thing.” He thought with fondness of the Blackhawks he had flown during combat missions as a Marine. Then, as it always did, the fondness soon slipped away, replaced by the gut-gripping sadness of loss—Morgan had walked away from the worst day of his life, but others hadn’t.
What is it the British say on their Remembrance Day? “At the going down of the sun, and in the morning, we will remember them.” Morgan liked that. Of course, he remembered those he had lost every minute between the rising and the setting as well. Every comrade of war, every agent of Private fallen in their mission. Morgan remembered them all.
He rubbed at his eyes. He was really tired.
But he was alive.
And so Morgan looked again at the printed email in his hand. The friendly message that he had read multiple times, trying to draw out a deeper meaning, for surely the simple words were the tip of a blade. As the sprawl of London appeared before him, he was trying to figure out if Private were intended to be the ones to shield against that weapon, or if it would instead be driven into the organization’s back.
He was trying to figure this out because the email had not come from a friend. It had come from Colonel Marcus De Villiers, a Coldstream Guards officer in the British Army. Though no enemy of Morgan’s, he was certainly no ally, and when in doubt, Morgan looked for traps. That was why he was alive.
But De Villiers was more than just an aristocratic gentleman in an impressive uniform. He was the head of security for a very important family. Perhaps the greatest and most important family on earth.
And that was why Morgan was flying at full speed to London.
Because Jack Morgan had been invited to meet the powerful people under De Villiers’ care.
He had been invited to meet the royal family.
MORGAN JOINED DE Villiers in the blacked-out Range Rover that waited beside the landed jet. The Colonel would divulge no more information, but he had said enough to get Morgan’s attention.
The men were driven from London’s outskirts into the lush green countryside of Surrey, where multimillion-pound properties nestled in woodlands. It was beautiful, and Morgan watched it roll by the tinted windows as he considered who he might be heading to meet, and why.
The British royal family was large, with Queen Elizabeth II at its head and dozens of members tied in by blood or marriage, but Morgan had some clue as to who they were driving to see in the English countryside. Colonel De Villiers had once told Morgan that the family’s inner circle was his concern, so the American was either on his way to meet the Queen herself, or one of her closest family.
Morgan allowed himself a smile at the thought. Here he was, an American—and once an American serviceman at that—driving to meet the monarchy that his nation had fought against for their independence. The fact that the bloodiest relationships could be repaired made him pause and look to De Villiers. There were enough people in the world that wished Morgan dead. Why not take a lesson from the United States and the United Kingdom?
“Thank you for inviting me here,” Morgan said to the Colonel. “It really is a beautiful day, and a beautiful country.”
“It is.” The Colonel nodded. “But don’t let it fool you. At this time of year, you can get the four seasons in a day.”
The Range Rover left the main road and entered a long driveway flanked by woodland. It would have been hard for anyone to spot the two armed men camouflaged among the trees, but Jack Morgan was not just anyone.
“Relax.” De Villiers smiled, seeing Morgan tense. “They’re ours.”
As the Range Rover came to a stop and crunched the gravel, Morgan took in the exquisite Georgian farmhouse of ivy-covered red brick that stood before him.
“It looks like something out of a fairy tale.” He smiled, allowing himself to relax.
But then, as the house’s green door opened, Morgan’s pulse began to quicken. It was not the sight of more armed men that caused it, but the figure that walked by them and into the dappled sunshine.
Morgan stood straight as he was approached by one of the most famous women in the world.
Her name was Princess Caroline.
THE PRINCESS PUT out her hand, offering it to Jack Morgan as he stepped away from the Range Rover.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Morgan,” she said.
“Please, call me Jack, Your Highness,” Morgan answered, feeling himself bow on instinct.
“Let’s take a walk, Jack. De Villiers tells me that you’re the person I need to speak to.”
Morgan looked to De Villiers, surprised that such praise would come from the Colonel. De Villiers’ face gave nothing away, nor did he move to follow as Princess Caroline led Morgan away from the courtyard.
“It’s too nice a day to be inside,” she explained as they entered a walled garden. Bright red strawberries clung to the planters. “Try one,” she insisted.
Morgan raised his eyebrows as he bit down on the fruit and the juice hit his tongue. With food in his mouth, he had the excuse he needed to keep it shut—introductions to a mission always worked better when he let the client do the talking. Nothing brought out the little details as well as just keeping quiet and allowing the other person to fill the dead space.
“This place belongs to a friend of mine,” Caroline offered up against the silence. “Aside from my security detail, there aren’t many people who know that I come here. I like it. It’s quiet and it’s close enough to London that I can sneak off here for some peace without it being noticed. I hope you know how to keep a secret, Jack.”
Morgan nodded, but said nothing.
Princess Caroline smiled. “You don’t say much.”
“It’s not every day I meet a princess, Your Highness.”
Her smile grew, but from insight, not flattery. “I think it’s more that you like to let your clients do the talking, to see what they may let slip.”
Morgan couldn’t help but grin. She was smart.
“I like to read about crime, and detectives,” the Princess admitted, her smile then falling. “I didn’t ever think that I’d be needing one.”
Morgan held his tongue and waited. She gathered herself, and he noticed the briefest trace of sadness pass across her face, and something else: fear.
“I need you to find someone for me, Jack. A dear friend of mine. She’s missing, and I need her found. Her name is Sophie Edwards.”
“Are the police looking for her?” Morgan asked, knowing the answer before her reply.
“No,” Caroline said.
Morgan knew that he would not be standing here if they were. More than that, he was certain that Princess Caroline’s fear was an indication that this was more than a simple missing-person case. Where there are complications, people tend to want to avoid the shining beam of the law.
“De Villiers said there’s a scandal to avoid,” he said bluntly. “It’s easier to avoid if I know what it is.”
“He shouldn’t have told you that,” she whispered after a moment.
“I’d have been back on the jet if he hadn’t.”
Princess Caroline nodded, but instead of talking, she walked toward the far door of the walled garden. Morgan followed, and they stepped out into the woodland that butted against the house. Shafts of warm sunlight cut their way through the canopy.
“Do you believe in second chances, Jack?” she asked, her eyes on the path that wound ahead through the trees.
“I do,” he answered, his eyes to the trail’s flanks—some fifty meters away, armed men moved parallel to the royal who was third in line to the British throne. They were her deadly shadow. The guardians who protected her at all times.
“There are things in Sophie’s past—things in her life—that should not be public knowledge,” she explained. “I live life under a microscope, Jack, because I was born into it. I wouldn’t change that. But for Sophie? She hasn’t lived with it. She hasn’t trained for it.”
“And what are these things in Sophie’s past?” Morgan asked.
She walked on in silence for a few moments before giving her answer. “Sophie is a young woman who’s lived her life, and in doing so—like all people—she’s made some bad decisions.”
Suddenly she stopped. She turned to face Morgan, her expression earnest. “She doesn’t deserve to have those bad decisions made public as a consequence of being my friend. Do you understand, Jack?”
Morgan did. He also understood that those under the closest scrutiny became guilty of the sins of their company, and guilt by association was never more magnified than in the scandal-hungry media of the twenty-first century. Morgan knew that Princess Caroline was a reflection of the time she had been born into—a people’s royal who connected to the country on all levels, leading a life that seemed as close to their own as was possible, given her position—but the same machine that had built her reputation could savage her overnight.
Caroline read his thoughts. “It’s in the country’s interest that the monarchy avoids scandal, Jack. We’re the benchmark. The example. I should be someone whom people look up to.”
“And you’re not?” Morgan asked directly.
It was a long time before she replied.
“I’m human, Mr. Morgan. De Villiers will give you everything you need. I hope to see you again soon.”
She turned away from him then and continued to walk further into the woodland. Out in the trees, her armed shadows moved with her.
“I didn’t say I’d take the job,” Morgan said to her back.
“You didn’t need to,” Princess Caroline replied without breaking step. “Your eyes did. You should learn to be a better liar, Jack.”
Morgan said nothing, because she was right.
He would take the job.
He would find Sophie Edwards.
ALONE IN THE woodland, Morgan pulled his phone from his pocket. He was surprised to see he had such good reception, but then reasoned that residents of one of the wealthiest regions of England would be unlikely to put up with poor service.
His call was picked up on the first ring.
“Hello, Jack,” Peter Knight answered in his London office. The head of Private London, Knight had been side by side with Morgan through some of their toughest scrapes. He was also the American’s friend. “The office told me you diverted here. Business or pleasure?”
“Business, Peter. Let’s get together and talk about it. I’m going to send you my location.”
“What’s the case?” Knight asked, knowing that their calls were encrypted to government levels and stood no chance of being monitored.
“Missing person with connections.”
“I might need to send you a team in my place, Jack. I had a case come in a few days ago. A man named Sir Tony Lightwood was found hanged in his home a few days ago, and his daughter wants us to take a look into it.”
“What have the police found?” Morgan asked, disappointed that it appeared he would be working without his British right hand.
“Said it looks like a straight-up suicide. Daughter wants a second opinion.”
“Why?”
“Says suicide doesn’t fit her dad.”
“Everyone says that. The truth’s hard to accept.”
“True,” Knight mused, “but the Sunday Times did list him at number fifty-two on their Rich List.”
“You’d better run with that case,” Morgan agreed. “Money doesn’t buy happiness, but…”
“It does give people a good reason to w. . .
“ONE OF PRIVATE’S MOST INTRIGUING AND ENTERTAINING INSTALLMENTS TO DATE.”
—BookReporter.com
MISSING
“MISSING IS, IN A WORD, TERRIFIC. This is a one-sit, fast-paced read that fully satisfies but nonetheless will leave you wanting more.”
—20somethingreads.com
THE GAMES
“FAST PACED… THERE IS NO DOUBT YOU CAN FINISH THIS BOOK IN ONE SITTING.”
—Blograma.com
PRIVATE PARIS
“THERE’S NO FLUFF OR DEAD WEIGHT, AND REVELATIONS COME FAST AND HARD… This story is drenched in realism and really strikes a chord, proving to be a worthwhile read.”
—matthewrbel.blogspot.com
PRIVATE VEGAS
“NEVER A DULL MOMENT IN THIS ACTIONPACKED PAGE-TURNER.”
—Writerswrite.co.za
PRIVATE INDIA: CITY ON FIRE
“IT IS UNPUTDOWNABLE AND DEFINITELY A PAGE-TURNER… ONE IS FORCED TO KEEP READING TIL THE END, THOUGH THE END IS OVER 450 PAGES AWAY.”
—Winnowed.blogspot.com
PRIVATE DOWN UNDER
“FAST-PACED AND SUSPENSEFUL.”
—Upinstitchesblog.wordpress.com
PRIVATE L.A.
“A GREAT READ DEVOURED IN ONE SITTING… [I’M] LOOKING FORWARD TO SEE WHAT HAPPENS NEXT FOR JACK MORGAN AND HIS TEAM(S).”
—RandomActsofReviewing.blogspot.com
PRIVATE BERLIN
“FAST-PACED ACTION AND UNFORGETTABLE CHARACTERS WITH PLOT TWISTS AND DECEPTIONS WORTHY OF ANY JAMES PATTERSON NOVEL.”
—Examiner.com
PRIVATE LONDON
“THE STORY CONTINUES ALONG QUITE QUICKLY WITH THE TWO-PAGE CHAPTERS FLYING PAST FASTER THAN YOU CAN IMAGINE. I READ THIS BOOK IN ONLY AN EVENING. If you are a Patterson fan then you will probably enjoy this one as well.”
—TheFringeMagazine.blogspot.com
PRIVATE GAMES
“PATTERSON, HE OF SIX DOZEN NOVELS AND COUNTING, HAS AN UNCANNY KNACK FOR THE TIMELY THRILLER, AND THIS ONE IS NO EXCEPTION… A PLEASANT ROMP.”
—Kirkus Reviews
PRIVATE: #1 SUSPECT
“[THEY] MAKE ONE HECK OF A GREAT WRITING TEAM AND PROVE IT ONCE AGAIN WITH [THIS] CLASSY THRILLER, THE LATEST IN A PRIVATE INVESTIGATION SERIES THAT’S SURE TO BLOW THE LID OFF A POPULAR GENRE… If you want to be entertained to the max, you can’t go wrong when you pick up a thriller by Patterson and Paetro.”
—NightsandWeekends.com
PRIVATE
“PRIVATE WILL GRAB YOU FROM PAGE ONE AND FORCE YOU TO SIT THERE UNTIL YOU TURN THE VERY LAST PAGE… A GREAT START TO A NEW SERIES FROM THE MASTER OF FAST-PACED THRILL RIDES.”
—LorisReadingCorner.com
CRACKED LEATHER TOUCHED rich soil. Knee in the dirt, the man thought of what was to come, and smiled. A broken nose took in the smell of the damp earth, memories carried in its dank scent. Memories of digging spades, pleading eyes and shallow graves.
The owner of the gloves wiped them against his camouflage trousers, his memories cleansed as easily as the leather. To him, the image of those graves was as inert in his mind as the way a postman views the mail. It was his job to fill holes in the ground, and with pride—the man knew that he was good at it. Better than good. He had been born as just another shitbag on the estate, but now he was a hunter.
He was a killer.
He’d tracked in forests, stalked in deserts, kidnapped in jungles and killed in cities. He had done these things for service, for his country and for his brothers. Sometimes, he’d done it for money.
Today he did it for pride.
He did it for justice.
The hunter-killer turned his eyes up to the sky. Rain was beginning to fall, bouncing from the thick green leaves of summer. The hunter-killer welcomed it. It was his ally. It would cover him as he slid and crept his way closer to his target. Closer to justice.
He could see his prize now, and the proximity caused his heart to beat against his scarred chest, endorphins flooding his body as he pictured his kill and the satisfaction it would bring.
It had been a long stalk, but the prize would justify the suffering and the cost. This kill would come at a price—a great price—but he would not shirk it. The butcher’s bill would be paid in full, and then there would be justice.
Fifty yards away now, and the hunter-killer begged his heart to still, despite the thrill of what was only moments away. Wet branches pulled at him as he moved forward, checking his pace. He forced himself to slow, too close now to fail.
He looked down at the pistol in his hand, checking it for dirt. There was none, as he knew there wouldn’t be. Inside the weapon in his hand, a bullet rested snugly in the chamber, ready to shatter on impact, and to tear out a great chunk of flesh in the body of his prize.
The hunter-killer smiled as he pictured that carnage.
Then he brought the pistol up into the aim, and centered its sights on the back of his target. A target that had caused pain and misery and suffering.
With a smile on his face, the hunter-killer pulled the trigger.
One day earlier
JACK MORGAN WAS alive.
For a former U.S. Marine turned leader of the world’s foremost investigation agency, Private, that could mean a lot of things. It could mean that he had survived knife wounds, kidnap and helicopter crashes. It could mean that he had survived foiling a plot to unleash a virus on Rio, or that he had lived through halting a rampaging killer in London.
Right now, it meant that he was twenty thousand feet in the air, and flying.
Morgan sat in the co-pilot’s position of a Gulfstream G650 the private jet cruising at altitude as it crossed the English Channel from Europe, the white cliffs of Dover a smudged line on the horizon. To the east, the sun was slowly climbing its way to prominence, the sky matching the color of Morgan’s tired, red eyes.
He was exhausted, and it was only for this reason that he was a content passenger on the flight and not at the controls.
The pilot felt Morgan’s hunger: “You can take her in, if you’d like, sir,” the British man offered.
“All you, Phillip,” Morgan replied. “Choppers were always more my thing.” He thought with fondness of the Blackhawks he had flown during combat missions as a Marine. Then, as it always did, the fondness soon slipped away, replaced by the gut-gripping sadness of loss—Morgan had walked away from the worst day of his life, but others hadn’t.
What is it the British say on their Remembrance Day? “At the going down of the sun, and in the morning, we will remember them.” Morgan liked that. Of course, he remembered those he had lost every minute between the rising and the setting as well. Every comrade of war, every agent of Private fallen in their mission. Morgan remembered them all.
He rubbed at his eyes. He was really tired.
But he was alive.
And so Morgan looked again at the printed email in his hand. The friendly message that he had read multiple times, trying to draw out a deeper meaning, for surely the simple words were the tip of a blade. As the sprawl of London appeared before him, he was trying to figure out if Private were intended to be the ones to shield against that weapon, or if it would instead be driven into the organization’s back.
He was trying to figure this out because the email had not come from a friend. It had come from Colonel Marcus De Villiers, a Coldstream Guards officer in the British Army. Though no enemy of Morgan’s, he was certainly no ally, and when in doubt, Morgan looked for traps. That was why he was alive.
But De Villiers was more than just an aristocratic gentleman in an impressive uniform. He was the head of security for a very important family. Perhaps the greatest and most important family on earth.
And that was why Morgan was flying at full speed to London.
Because Jack Morgan had been invited to meet the powerful people under De Villiers’ care.
He had been invited to meet the royal family.
MORGAN JOINED DE Villiers in the blacked-out Range Rover that waited beside the landed jet. The Colonel would divulge no more information, but he had said enough to get Morgan’s attention.
The men were driven from London’s outskirts into the lush green countryside of Surrey, where multimillion-pound properties nestled in woodlands. It was beautiful, and Morgan watched it roll by the tinted windows as he considered who he might be heading to meet, and why.
The British royal family was large, with Queen Elizabeth II at its head and dozens of members tied in by blood or marriage, but Morgan had some clue as to who they were driving to see in the English countryside. Colonel De Villiers had once told Morgan that the family’s inner circle was his concern, so the American was either on his way to meet the Queen herself, or one of her closest family.
Morgan allowed himself a smile at the thought. Here he was, an American—and once an American serviceman at that—driving to meet the monarchy that his nation had fought against for their independence. The fact that the bloodiest relationships could be repaired made him pause and look to De Villiers. There were enough people in the world that wished Morgan dead. Why not take a lesson from the United States and the United Kingdom?
“Thank you for inviting me here,” Morgan said to the Colonel. “It really is a beautiful day, and a beautiful country.”
“It is.” The Colonel nodded. “But don’t let it fool you. At this time of year, you can get the four seasons in a day.”
The Range Rover left the main road and entered a long driveway flanked by woodland. It would have been hard for anyone to spot the two armed men camouflaged among the trees, but Jack Morgan was not just anyone.
“Relax.” De Villiers smiled, seeing Morgan tense. “They’re ours.”
As the Range Rover came to a stop and crunched the gravel, Morgan took in the exquisite Georgian farmhouse of ivy-covered red brick that stood before him.
“It looks like something out of a fairy tale.” He smiled, allowing himself to relax.
But then, as the house’s green door opened, Morgan’s pulse began to quicken. It was not the sight of more armed men that caused it, but the figure that walked by them and into the dappled sunshine.
Morgan stood straight as he was approached by one of the most famous women in the world.
Her name was Princess Caroline.
THE PRINCESS PUT out her hand, offering it to Jack Morgan as he stepped away from the Range Rover.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Morgan,” she said.
“Please, call me Jack, Your Highness,” Morgan answered, feeling himself bow on instinct.
“Let’s take a walk, Jack. De Villiers tells me that you’re the person I need to speak to.”
Morgan looked to De Villiers, surprised that such praise would come from the Colonel. De Villiers’ face gave nothing away, nor did he move to follow as Princess Caroline led Morgan away from the courtyard.
“It’s too nice a day to be inside,” she explained as they entered a walled garden. Bright red strawberries clung to the planters. “Try one,” she insisted.
Morgan raised his eyebrows as he bit down on the fruit and the juice hit his tongue. With food in his mouth, he had the excuse he needed to keep it shut—introductions to a mission always worked better when he let the client do the talking. Nothing brought out the little details as well as just keeping quiet and allowing the other person to fill the dead space.
“This place belongs to a friend of mine,” Caroline offered up against the silence. “Aside from my security detail, there aren’t many people who know that I come here. I like it. It’s quiet and it’s close enough to London that I can sneak off here for some peace without it being noticed. I hope you know how to keep a secret, Jack.”
Morgan nodded, but said nothing.
Princess Caroline smiled. “You don’t say much.”
“It’s not every day I meet a princess, Your Highness.”
Her smile grew, but from insight, not flattery. “I think it’s more that you like to let your clients do the talking, to see what they may let slip.”
Morgan couldn’t help but grin. She was smart.
“I like to read about crime, and detectives,” the Princess admitted, her smile then falling. “I didn’t ever think that I’d be needing one.”
Morgan held his tongue and waited. She gathered herself, and he noticed the briefest trace of sadness pass across her face, and something else: fear.
“I need you to find someone for me, Jack. A dear friend of mine. She’s missing, and I need her found. Her name is Sophie Edwards.”
“Are the police looking for her?” Morgan asked, knowing the answer before her reply.
“No,” Caroline said.
Morgan knew that he would not be standing here if they were. More than that, he was certain that Princess Caroline’s fear was an indication that this was more than a simple missing-person case. Where there are complications, people tend to want to avoid the shining beam of the law.
“De Villiers said there’s a scandal to avoid,” he said bluntly. “It’s easier to avoid if I know what it is.”
“He shouldn’t have told you that,” she whispered after a moment.
“I’d have been back on the jet if he hadn’t.”
Princess Caroline nodded, but instead of talking, she walked toward the far door of the walled garden. Morgan followed, and they stepped out into the woodland that butted against the house. Shafts of warm sunlight cut their way through the canopy.
“Do you believe in second chances, Jack?” she asked, her eyes on the path that wound ahead through the trees.
“I do,” he answered, his eyes to the trail’s flanks—some fifty meters away, armed men moved parallel to the royal who was third in line to the British throne. They were her deadly shadow. The guardians who protected her at all times.
“There are things in Sophie’s past—things in her life—that should not be public knowledge,” she explained. “I live life under a microscope, Jack, because I was born into it. I wouldn’t change that. But for Sophie? She hasn’t lived with it. She hasn’t trained for it.”
“And what are these things in Sophie’s past?” Morgan asked.
She walked on in silence for a few moments before giving her answer. “Sophie is a young woman who’s lived her life, and in doing so—like all people—she’s made some bad decisions.”
Suddenly she stopped. She turned to face Morgan, her expression earnest. “She doesn’t deserve to have those bad decisions made public as a consequence of being my friend. Do you understand, Jack?”
Morgan did. He also understood that those under the closest scrutiny became guilty of the sins of their company, and guilt by association was never more magnified than in the scandal-hungry media of the twenty-first century. Morgan knew that Princess Caroline was a reflection of the time she had been born into—a people’s royal who connected to the country on all levels, leading a life that seemed as close to their own as was possible, given her position—but the same machine that had built her reputation could savage her overnight.
Caroline read his thoughts. “It’s in the country’s interest that the monarchy avoids scandal, Jack. We’re the benchmark. The example. I should be someone whom people look up to.”
“And you’re not?” Morgan asked directly.
It was a long time before she replied.
“I’m human, Mr. Morgan. De Villiers will give you everything you need. I hope to see you again soon.”
She turned away from him then and continued to walk further into the woodland. Out in the trees, her armed shadows moved with her.
“I didn’t say I’d take the job,” Morgan said to her back.
“You didn’t need to,” Princess Caroline replied without breaking step. “Your eyes did. You should learn to be a better liar, Jack.”
Morgan said nothing, because she was right.
He would take the job.
He would find Sophie Edwards.
ALONE IN THE woodland, Morgan pulled his phone from his pocket. He was surprised to see he had such good reception, but then reasoned that residents of one of the wealthiest regions of England would be unlikely to put up with poor service.
His call was picked up on the first ring.
“Hello, Jack,” Peter Knight answered in his London office. The head of Private London, Knight had been side by side with Morgan through some of their toughest scrapes. He was also the American’s friend. “The office told me you diverted here. Business or pleasure?”
“Business, Peter. Let’s get together and talk about it. I’m going to send you my location.”
“What’s the case?” Knight asked, knowing that their calls were encrypted to government levels and stood no chance of being monitored.
“Missing person with connections.”
“I might need to send you a team in my place, Jack. I had a case come in a few days ago. A man named Sir Tony Lightwood was found hanged in his home a few days ago, and his daughter wants us to take a look into it.”
“What have the police found?” Morgan asked, disappointed that it appeared he would be working without his British right hand.
“Said it looks like a straight-up suicide. Daughter wants a second opinion.”
“Why?”
“Says suicide doesn’t fit her dad.”
“Everyone says that. The truth’s hard to accept.”
“True,” Knight mused, “but the Sunday Times did list him at number fifty-two on their Rich List.”
“You’d better run with that case,” Morgan agreed. “Money doesn’t buy happiness, but…”
“It does give people a good reason to w. . .
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