Princess_A Private Novel by James Patterson & Rees Jones

Author:James Patterson & Rees Jones [Patterson, James & Jones, Rees]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Grand Central Publishing
Published: 2018-05-14T18:30:00+00:00

Chapter 70

HOOLIGAN COULD HEAR shouting behind him and turned to see the “policeman” only meters away, the huge man violently shoving a West Ham supporter out of the way. Then he saw a knife pulled free of its hiding place. He saw it drive forward and plunge into flesh.

His pursuer’s flesh.

“Arghhh!” the man screamed as the blade pierced his stomach. “You bastard!” he growled at the football fan who had stabbed him.

No—Private’s tech guru corrected himself. Not a football fan. A football hooligan. A real one. And here came his friends, scarves pulled up over their faces as they hurried to form a barrier between him and who they assumed was an officer of the law.

“Run, you wanker!” they shouted at their friend and Hooligan’s unwitting savior, who took off quickly. “Run!” they urged.

Hooligan also decided to take their advice, as the stabbed man was getting to his feet. Hooligan cursed that he appeared mostly undamaged—his stab vest had taken most of the blow, and only a small amount of blood was leaking into his hand.

“Out of my way!” the man raged. “Out of my way or I’ll arrest you all!”

And as Hooligan pressed through the crowd, he saw the football fans slowly obey. In the near distance there was now the sound of shouts and whistles: above the heads of the West Ham supporters, Hooligan could see two mounted officers entering the horde on horseback. A quick calculation told him they would never get to him before the fake officer. Hooligan’s only chance was to keep running and to find his own safety. So he shoved, swore and sprinted his way between his fellow fans, ignoring the constant insults and occasional fists that came his way.

“I’m sorry!” he pleaded as he staggered on. The crowd began to thin as Hooligan reached the head of the exodus from London Stadium.

“Watch where you’re going, you knob!” a fan spat, instinctively kicking Hooligan’s legs from beneath him as he barged by him and the woman with him. Hooligan hit the ground hard, the tarmac peeling back the skin on his hands and bringing with it a sensation Hooligan hadn’t felt since his childhood—scraped knees and gravel burn as he dreamed of one day taking the field for West Ham.

No, he thought to himself. It can’t end here. I’m not ready.

But no amount of adrenaline or dogged determination could rouse his spent muscles and heaving lungs. Hooligan had run to the limit of his endurance—he had nothing left to give.

And then his phone began to ring.

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