Private: The Royals

He hated her.

He hated her high cheekbones. He hated her perfect smile. He hated the way her auburn hair cascaded over her shoulders like a Rocky Mountain waterfall. He hated her painted fingernails that had never known dirt. He hated her ill-deserved confidence, wealth, and station. He hated her class and what it said about his country, but most of all, he hated her because she was throwing it all away.

It was enough hate to make him want to kill her.

But not yet. Maybe never, if the price was right. For now he would watch. He would weigh his decisions. He had to think, because the stuck-up bitch had given him one more reason to hate her.

She had changed her plans. Plans that he had studied. Plans that he'd assessed. Plans that he'd used as the blueprint for his own concept of operations.

No plan survived contact with the enemy, he knew that, and this pouting loudmouth was his enemy now. A lesser enemy than he had ever faced, but the stakes were higher. So much higher.

And the moment was drawing near.

He watched from behind the living room door, opened just a crack, as she chopped the cocaine into lines on a silver plate, using a metallic business card that she kept for the purpose, and snorted it through a cut-down drinking straw taken from the kitchen of her Chelsea apartment. This was no casual Friday evening, but the streamlined consumption of an addict.

And what of that stick-thin apparition beside her? The tabloids and gossip magazines called her an "It Girl." To the watching man, she was a coked-up distraction—an enabler—and one that should have been on the other side of London.

Still, addicts were not known for their adherence to schedules, and the man had planned for distractions. In every crisis lay opportunity, and this It Girl could prove either valuable or useful. When trying to make a point of your deadly intent, it never hurt to have an extra head that you could cut from its shoulders. The man smiled sickly as he pictured his blade against her pencil-thin neck. For a moment, he wondered if her red eyes were even capable of expressing fear, then snapped himself from his daydream.

Yes, the It Girl would provide an opportunity, if only one for pleasure. But for now he cast his eyes back to his primary target, pleased to see that the ketamine he had cut into her coke was taking effect, the horse tranquilizer bringing the pair down from the rapid dialogue of their powdered high and leaving them slumped heavily on a ten-thousand-pound sofa that was stained with red wine.

It was time.

The man stood. He pushed open the door.

Her head turned slowly towards the movement. There was no hate or anger in her eyes, only drug-fueled confusion, and he wondered if she could see the malice in his.

He put a finger to her plush lips. The beautiful girl nodded her understanding, as docile as a puppy as he pulled the knife from his pocket.

A moment later the blood began to pour.

As a former US Marine, an avid traveler, and now head of the world's foremost investigation agency, Jack Morgan had set foot in some of the most grandiose buildings on the planet, and yet he was always taken aback by the majesty of London's iconic architecture.

"Do you know that Horse Guards Parade was first built in 1664?" he asked the man beside him.

"I didn't," replied Peter Knight, the wiry Englishman who was the head of Private's London office. "That's over a hundred years older than your country, isn't it?" He smiled and prodded his friend and boss.

"I'd give you a lesson in history now," Morgan replied, "but I'm a little outnumbered here."

Knight laughed as he took in their surroundings. Dozens of British servicemen and -women milled beneath the awnings erected at the edge of Horse Guards Parade, but it was champagne flutes that complemented their ceremonial uniforms, not rifles and bayonets.

"Just don't get nervous tomorrow when you see the redcoats." Knight grinned.

Both he and Morgan wore light summer suits, the June weekend shaping up to be hot and muggy. As a former serviceman himself, Morgan spared a thought for the soldiers who would be standing to attention for hours during the next day's Trooping the Color parade.

"Glad it's not going to be you on that parade square?" Knight asked, reading his friend's thoughts.

"I'm happier taking in the view, and having this in my hand." Morgan smiled, holding up his drink. "I'd be happier still if we were here to secure these events, rather than watching from the sidelines."

Private had been among a raft of security providers who'd bid for the lucrative contracts to oversee the major events for the Queen's ninetieth birthday celebrations. To Morgan's displeasure, and Knight's embarrassment, Private had not landed a single one.

"It's not on you, Peter," Morgan told his friend, seeing the slightest of slumps in the Englishman's shoulders. "This is the old boys' club, and the right school or regiment means more sometimes than service and price."

Knight nodded his understanding. As a former special investigator to the Old Bailey, he had seen first-hand how Britain's aristocratic class system could still hold sway.

"That's all well and good, Jack, but I don't want people to get hurt because we didn't know a secret handshake."

"Well, we're here," Morgan declared brightly, "so let's enjoy the champagne."

"Cheers," Knight offered as the men touched glasses.

"Enjoying the drinks, gentlemen?" they were asked in the nasal tone of the British gentry.

"Colonel De Villiers," Morgan greeted the Coldstream Guards officer.

At six foot three, Colonel Marcus De Villiers, head of security for the royal family's inner circle, made for an imposing man. He was also the reason why Private had no hand in the security for the Queen's birthday events.

"I'm surprised to see you here, Mr. Morgan." The Colonel's words were neutral, but his eyes betrayed his irritation.

"We were invited," Knight answered for them.

"Oh."

Morgan smiled, imagining how the Colonel would be kicking himself inwardly for not having scrutinized the guest list more closely.

A proud man with little time for cocky Americans, De Villiers sneered as he looked at the men's champagne flutes.

"I imagine you made full use of the hospitality provided at the Olympic Games, also? Little wonder that Cronus and his Furies did such damage." The Colonel was referring to the bloodthirsty murderers who had run amok during the 2012 London Olympics, before finally being brought down by the two men who held their tongues, refusing to take the bait. "I suppose you did catch him at the closing ceremony, at least." De Villiers shrugged.

"Peter did, yes, Colonel," Morgan replied. "He put his life at risk to save others." He eyed the thin row of medals on the Colonel's chest and saw none that would signify combat. "As a military man, I'm sure you would understand all about courage and sacrifice."

De Villiers was stung by the sarcasm. "Private investigators should stick to photographing unfaithful spouses, Mr. Morgan. Good evening."

The Colonel turned on his heel, and Knight couldn't help but smirk. "Sounds like someone's made use of that service," he said.

Morgan laughed and ran a hand through his hair to clear himself of the irritation De Villiers had caused him. As he did so, the American locked eyes with the most beautiful woman present amongst the crowd of cocktail dresses and uniforms.

And she came straight for him.