Interdiction (A James Winchester Thriller Book 3) (James Winchester Series) - James Samuel (best memoirs of all time .TXT) 📗

Interdiction

A James Winchester Thriller Book Three

Copyright © James Samuel 2021

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CONTENTS

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-Two

Chapter Fifty-Three

Chapter Fifty-Four

Chapter Fifty-Five

Chapter Fifty-Six

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Chapter Sixty

Chapter Sixty-One

Chapter Sixty-Two

Chapter Sixty-Three

Chapter Sixty-Four

Chapter Sixty-Five

Chapter Sixty-Six

Chapter Sixty-Seven

Chapter Sixty-Eight

Chapter One

Sarajevo, Sarajevo Canton, Bosnia and Herzegovina

Night fell over Sarajevo. Death moved within the traumatised capital of Bosnia and Herzegovina. On the outskirts of the city, overgrown trees masked the rickety houses. Some had been rebuilt after the Yugoslav Wars, others still had the holes from shrapnel bursts as a grim reminder of what had been lost.

Darko Borisov and Goran Pejakovski sat in an idling grey Honda Civic. The model from the 1990s blended in on a street like this. Few residents on the fringes of town owned a car made after 2000.

Darko scratched at his heavily gelled hair. "Almost midnight. He still has his lights on in the house."

"I told you, he stays up late," Goran replied in his native Bosnian. "He's a soldier. Maybe he knows something is wrong."

Darko withdrew a Marlboro from the packet in the glove compartment and lit it. "Soldiers are paranoid. We always had to be during the war. If you're not paranoid, you die. Bosnian soldiers are weak but not stupid."

"Then he knows how to fire a gun." Goran gripped the steering wheel. "Maybe we should come back in a few hours."

"No. This is a war. In war, people fire guns."

Goran drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and kept pushing his glasses up onto the bridge of his nose. Darko noted his friend's nervousness. He'd always been like this, jumpy and anxious, yet when the fighting started, Goran always did what was necessary.

"You are lucky," Darko continued. "You just never die."

Goran turned to him. "Don't tempt fate. Only God decides when my time has come."

Darko held the cigarette between his tobacco-stained teeth and reached down into the footwell of the vehicle. He removed his semi-automatic Browning Hi-Power 9mm pistol. Darko had chosen the model himself. His contacts could get him anything he wanted, but he preferred smaller weapons. They made less noise. He affixed an AAC TiRant Suppressor to the end of it.

"Let's go, Goran."

"Darko, not now."

"Out of the car," he said calmly.

Darko waited for Goran to sigh and turn off the ignition. Like Darko, Goran wielded the same suppressed pistol.

"Kadrić only wants the soldier to die. Nothing more. The war hasn't started yet," Goran said as he turned to open the door.

"Kadrić is not here. This is my operation, Goran, don't forget that."

Darko didn't wait for more of Goran’s protests and climbed into the cool evening air. The old streetlights did little more than cast small pools of light on the street. Gaping cracks and full puddles pockmarked the shattered concrete.

He scanned the street for anyone watching from their windows. Nearly every home had overgrown trees and bushes, making it near impossible for residents to see the street. In the low orange lights of Sarajevo's outskirts, Darko stepped into the shadows.

They moved along the street for another look at the two-storey home. Two wooden chairs sat on a neglected patio. The low chain-link fence surrounding the garden had no gate. Many of the chains were rusted and twisted into pretzel-like shapes.

"He lives with no one?"

"Yes," said Goran. "I saw nobody go in and out in the last week. Maybe his elderly mother or father?"

Darko shrugged. "No threat. I will go first. Check your weapon."

Goran clicked his ammunition into place and removed the safety.

Satisfied, Darko led the way across the uneven street and advanced on the garden. A light burned in the living room, casting a weak glow over the tufts of scraggly grass. It illuminated a rusted children's tricycle, flakes of red paint clinging to the metal.

He leapt up the three steps to the front door. One of the brass numbers nailed to the door had disappeared, leaving only the number four. Darko took a deep breath and planted his foot into the door. The aged door gave way, the lock snapping. It flung open and crashed against the wall.

Darko rushed through to the living room on his left. A young man jumped up from his slumber to meet him. His eyes went wild with fear as Darko fired his weapon at the soldier’s leg. The soldier went down screaming and writhing on the stained carpet.

"Good evening," said Darko through gritted teeth. "Goran, check the house. No witnesses."

Goran ran off to sift through the house. Poorer Bosnians had large families. A visiting relative could ruin their plans.

"Benjamin Alić?"

The soldier screamed in pain at the foot of the sunken sofa clutching his leg. Blood spilled from his thigh and he mewled like a wounded animal.

"Benjamin Alić?" Darko repeated, levelling the gun at his target.

"Yes," he cried.

"Good."

Darko sighed and sat on the adjacent armchair covered in cigarette burns. He planted his feet only inches from Benjamin's face.

Goran's feet thundered back down the stairs, and he