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

"Excellent. Sit down." Darko gestured at an armchair on the other side of the glowing electric fire.

Goran hesitated for a moment, then obeyed his boss. He kept both hands on his weapon, as if the soldier might stop spurting blood across the stained floral-patterned carpet and spring into action.

"You are a soldier?" asked Darko.

Benjamin had managed to shuffle across the carpet with great effort to put his back up against the sofa. Pain etched across his face as he sat in a pool of his own blood.

"Yes."

"How long?"

"Five years. What do you want from me? I don't know you."

Darko left his weapon unattended on the arm of the armchair. Benjamin's eyes darted to it, a ray of hope for the soldier. Darko ignored the crippled man and stretched himself out in the armchair.

"You don't need to know me." He eased his arms behind his head as if he were in his own home. "You are a soldier, and that's enough for us. What do you fight for?"

Goran's shoulders moved up and down as his breathing grew more rapid.

"What?"

"What do you fight for?" Darko snapped.

"For Bosnia."

"For Bosnia, eh?" Darko turned to Goran. "What –"

Benjamin jumped for Darko's weapon. He saw it coming and swiped it away, leaving the soldier flailing at the side of the armchair, his stricken leg collapsing beneath him.

Darko smirked. He'd set the whole thing up. A little game of his to give his victims hope, only to snatch it away. The agony on Benjamin's face was like pornography for him.

"What a shame." Darko shot a bullet into Benjamin's other leg.

Benjamin screamed as his hands grasped for the new wound. Once again, blood spurted onto the carpet as Darko stood and ventured to the mantlepiece. He paid no mind to his writhing victim as he inspected the family photos. Some were in colour, the rest in black-and-white. He picked out a photo of the whole family and turned back to Benjamin.

"Are these your relatives?" he asked.

Benjamin yelped as the blood continued to pour unabated. Greasy red smears dirtied the carpet.

"You fight for Bosnia, then. Are they alive? Nod or shake your head."

Through the agony, Benjamin nodded.

Darko held the photo away from him and then hurled it across the room. The frame and the glass shattered before skittering away into the darkened kitchen.

"Then I send them my condolences," said Darko. "Goodbye, Benjamin."

Darko raised the weapon. Benjamin's mouth opened to shout something, but the suppressed weapon soon put an end to the youthful soldier. His body went limp, the projectile blazing a streak of hot metal through his flesh.

"Was that necessary?" asked Goran.

"No, but sometimes you have to take some time to enjoy life."

Goran's face remained impassive, but his mannerisms told the story. His jittery friend had always disapproved of his slow, methodical way of dismantling his victims. Not that it mattered, it had never compromised them.

"Are we done?" Goran snapped to his feet. "Someone may have heard. These weapons are quiet, not silent."

"The flag, like Kadrić said."

Goran rooted around in his pocket and removed a flag pin. He handed it to Darko. The red, white, and blue horizontal stripes of Republika Srpska caught the light for a moment before he tossed it at Benjamin's body. It rested on his belly, a depressing marker of what this meant.

Srpska wanted war. Srpska wanted its freedom from the yoke of Bosnian oppression. Srpska would have it, soon.

Chapter Two

The winds of winter bit into the frozen fabric of Sarajevo. A cloudy smog drifted over the mountains and into the valley of the scar tissue of Sarajevo. James Winchester peered towards the valley’s peaks and found only clouds, tainted a toxic grey.

“Well, what do you think?” asked Sinclair Wood.

“You’ve been here before, haven’t you?”

“Many years ago. When it was still Yugoslavia. Before the war. But I doubt it’s changed that much since I left. You never visited Bosnia?”

“Mercifully, no, if it’s always this cold. Go use your intelligence skills to find us a taxi.”

Sinclair waddled away, his chubby figure made larger by the thick woollen coat he held tight around him. James smoked his cigarette at the entrance to the Sarajevo International Airport. His friend’s lightening-red hair stood out against the concrete towers of the distant downtown.

Only a month after their adventures in Cambodia, the boss of Blackwind, Joseph Cecil Gallagher, had ordered them back into the field. This time to a smoky, freezing city that looked to James like all the joy had been drained from this corner of the world.

Sinclair returned jabbing his thumb. “Over there. He’ll take us into town for a good price.”

“Did he tell you that?”

Sinclair shrugged. “Let’s just go before we freeze to death.”

“How many marks do you have?”

Sinclair unbuttoned the top few buttons of his coat and stuck his stubby fingers inside. He brought out a small leather wallet and began counting through the greys, oranges, and reds of the post-war Bosnian Mark.

“A few hundred Euros worth,” said Sinclair.

“Your father would be so disappointed. His only son with so little money in his pocket.”

Sinclair smirked and replaced the wallet back in his coat. “Don’t worry, Bosnia has never been an expensive country. Now, get in.”

The silver sedan idled at the side of the road. James tossed away the remains of his cigarette and approached the rear door.

Their driver wore a flat cap and unkempt stubble. He didn’t move to take their bags until Sinclair dropped them by the back wheel of the silver sedan.

The driver, who spoke in broken English and a thick accent, threw the bags inside and slammed the trunk.

“So, where are we going?” asked James over the roof of the car.

Sinclair ducked inside. “Hotel Old