Knight bit again, this time lower, his teeth sinking into neck muscles as a lion might try to cripple a buffalo.
Lancer went berserk.
He swung and bucked, bellowing in blind primal fury and throwing meaty fists over his shoulder, hitting Knight in the head before pummelling his torso with elbow blows again, left and right, blows so hard that several of the Private agent’s ribs cracked and broke.
It was too much for him.
Knight’s breath was knocked out of him and the pain in his side erupted with such force that he grunted, releasing both his bite and the chokehold that he’d had on Lancer’s neck. He fell to the platform in the rain, groaning and fighting for air and a relief from the agony that now consumed him.
Blood dripping from his bite wounds, Lancer turned and glared down at Knight in triumph and in loathing.
‘You had no chance, Knight,’ he gloated, backing away and raising the mobile phone towards the sky again. ‘You were up against an infinitely superior being. You had no—’
Knight flung the Leatherman at Lancer.
It flew end over end before the narrow prongs of the pliers struck Lancer and pierced deep into his right eye.
Staggering backwards, still clutching the mobile, reaching futilely for the tool that had sealed his fate, Lancer let out a series of blood-curdling screams worthy of some mythical creature of doom, like Cronus after Zeus threw him deep into the darkest and deepest pit in Tartarus.
For a second, Knight feared Lancer would find his balance and manage to trigger the bomb.
But then thunder exploded directly over the Orbit, throwing a single white-hot jagged bolt that ignored the lightning rods fixed high above the observation deck and struck the butt end of the Leatherman tool protruding from Lancer’s eye, electrocuting the self-described instrument of the gods and hurling him back and over into the cauldron where he was engulfed and consumed by the roaring Olympic flame.
Epilogue
Monday, 13 August 2012
ON THE THIRD floor of St Thomas’s Hospital, sitting in a wheelchair, Knight smiled stiffly at the people gathered around the beds that held Luke and Isabel. While the effects of what turned out to be a concussion had mellowed to a dull thumping in his head, his broken and bruised ribs were killing him, making each breath feel like saws working in his chest.
But he was alive. His kids were alive. The Olympics had been saved and avenged by forces far beyond Knight’s understanding. And Inspector Elaine Pottersfield had just entered the room carrying two small chocolate cakes, each adorned with three lit birthday candles.
Never one to miss the chance to sing, Hooligan broke into ‘Happy Birthday’ and was joined by the twins’ nurses and doctors, and by Jack Morgan, Karen Pope, and Knight’s mother. Even Gary Boss, who’d arrived early to decorate the hospital room with bright balloons and bunting, joined in.
‘Close your eyes and make a wish,’ the twins’ aunt said.
‘Dream big!’ their grandmother cried.
Isabel and Luke closed their eyes for a second, and then opened them, took deep breaths and blew out every one of the candles. Everyone cheered and clapped. Pottersfield cut the cakes.
Ever the journalist, Pope asked, ‘What did you wish for?’
Knight’s son got annoyed. ‘Lukey not telling you. It’s secret.’
But Isabel looked at Pope matter-of-factly and said, ‘I wished we could have a new mummy.’
Her brother’s face clouded. ‘No fair. That’s what Lukey wished for.’
There were soothing sounds of sympathy all around and Knight felt his heart break once again.
His daughter was staring at him. ‘No more nannies, Daddy.’
‘No more nannies,’ he promised, glancing at his mother. ‘Right, Amanda?’
‘Only if they are under my direct and constant supervision,’ she said.
‘Or mine,’ Boss said.
Cake and ice cream were served. After several bites, Pope said, ‘You know what threw me about Lancer, kept me from ever considering him as a suspect?’
‘What’s that?’ Hooligan asked.
‘He had one of his Furies try to run him down on day one,’ she said. ‘Right?’
‘Definitely,’ Knight said. ‘I’ll bet he had that planned from the beginning. I just happened to be there.’
‘There was another clue if you think about it,’ Hooligan said. ‘Cronus never sent you a letter detailing the reasons why Lancer should die.’
‘I never thought of that,’ Knight said.
‘Neither did I,’ Jack said, getting up from his chair and dumping his paper plate into the wastebasket.
After they had finished eating and had unwrapped the presents that everyone seemed to have brought, Knight’s children were soon drowsy. When Isabel’s eyes closed, and Luke started to rock and suck his thumb, Amanda and Boss left with whispered promises to return in the morning to help see home Knight and the twins.
His sister-in-law was next to depart, saying, ‘Hiring a war criminal as your nanny was not your finest hour, Peter, but ultimately you were brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. Kate would have been so proud of how hard your fought for your children, for the Olympics, for London, for everyone.’
Knight’s heart broke yet again. ‘I’d hug you, Elaine, but—’
She blew him a kiss, said she was going to check up on Selena Farrell and James Daring, and walked out the door.
‘I’ve got a present for you before I leave, Peter,’ Jack said. ‘I want you to have an obscene raise, and I want you to take your kids to somewhere tropical for a few weeks. It’s on Private. We’ll work out the details after I get back to LA. Speaking of which, I’ve got a jet to catch.’
After Private’s owner had gone, Pope and Hooligan got up to leave as well. ‘We are off to the pub, then,’ Hooligan said. ‘Highlights of the entire Olympic football tournament to watch.’
‘We?’ Knight said, arching his eyebrow at Pope.
The reporter slipped her arm around Hooligan’s waist and smiled. ‘Turns out we share a lot in common, Knight. My brothers are all football-mad lads as well.’
Knight smiled. ‘There’s a certain symmetry there.’
Hooligan grinned and threw his arm around Pope’s shoulder. ‘Think you’re right about that, Peter.’
‘Bloody right,’ Pope said and they departed, laughing.
The nurses followed and Knight was left alone in the hospital room with his children. He looked up at the television for a moment and saw a shot of the Olympic flame still burning over London. After Lancer’s death, Jacques Rogge had asked that the flame should burn on a while longer, and the government had immediately agreed.
It was, Knight decided, a good thing.
Then he let his attention dwell on Luke and Isabel, thinking how beautiful they were, and thanking the gods for saving them from a cruel ending.
He sighed, thinking of how his heart had fallen apart when Isabel and Luke had both wished for a new mother, and again when Elaine had told him how proud Kate would have been of him.
Kate. He missed her still and thought morosely that maybe she had been his singular mate, the one and only love that fate had in store for him. Maybe it was his destiny to go on alone. To raise the children and …
A knock came at the door and an American woman’s cheery voice called softly from out in the hall, ‘Mr Knight? Are you in there?’
Knight looked towards the door. ‘Yes?’
A very beautiful and athletic woman slipped in. He knew her immediately and tried to get to his feet, whispering, ‘You’re Hunter Pierce.’
‘I am,’ the diver said, smiling brightly now and studying him closely. ‘Don’t get up. I heard you were injured.’
‘Only a bit,’ he said. ‘I was lucky. We were all lucky.’
Pierce nodded, and Knight could not help but think that she was dazzling up close and in person.
He said, ‘I was there at the Aquatics Centre. When you won gold.’
 
; ‘Were you?’ she said, pressing her fingers to the small of her neck.
Knight’s eyes were watering and he did not know why. ‘I reckon it was the finest example of grace under pressure that I’ve ever had the honour of witnessing. And the way you spoke out against Cronus, forcefully, consistently. It was … well, simply remarkable, and I hope people have told you that.’
The diving champion smiled. ‘Thank you. But all of us – Shaw, Mundaho, all of the athletes – they sent me here to tell you that we thought your performance last night outshone us all.’
‘No, I …’
‘No, really,’ Pierce said emphatically. ‘I was there in the stadium. So were my children. We saw you fight him. You risked your life to save ours, and the Olympics, and we, I … I wanted to thank you in person from the bottom of my heart.’
Knight felt emotion welling up in his throat. ‘I … don’t know what to say.’
The American diver looked over at his children. ‘And these are the brave twins we read about in the Sun this morning?’
‘Luke and Isabel,’ Knight says. ‘The lights of my life.’
‘They’re beautiful. I’d say you’re a blessed man, Mr Knight.’
‘Call me Peter,’ he said. ‘And, honestly, you can’t know how grateful I am to be here and to have them here. What a blessing it all is. And, well, to have you here too.’
There was a long moment when they were both looking at each other as if they’d just recognised something both familiar and long forgotten.
Pierce cocked her head, and said, ‘I’d only meant to pop in for a bit, Peter, but I just had a better thought.’
‘What’s that?’ he asked.
The American diver smiled again, and then affected a corny British accent, saying: ‘Would you fancy me wheeling you out of here down to the café? We can have a spot of tea and catch up while your little lovelies are off sailing in the Land of Nod?’
Knight felt flooded with happiness.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, I believe I’d like that very much.’
I’M PROUD TO support the National Literacy Trust, an independent charity that changes lives through literacy.
Did you know that millions of people in the UK struggle to read and write? This means children are less likely to succeed at school and less likely to develop into confident and happy teenagers. Literacy difficulties will limit their opportunities throughout adult life.
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James Patterson
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Copyright © James Patterson, 2012
James Patterson has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work
This novel is a work of fiction. In some cases true life figures appear but their actions and conversations are entirely fictitious. All other characters and descriptions of events are the products of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons is entirely coincidental
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James Patterson, Private Games
(Series: Private # 3)
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