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

"You don't need the gun. Don't fire," Ismet ordered. "It's too dangerous."

James took his hand away from his hidden weapon and followed. The two sides began to clash. A few punches and kicks were thrown here and there before the offenders retreated back to their respective sides. He scanned the scene before him. Ultras from both sides were trying to pick people off, like lions searching for vulnerable buffalo.

He coughed as the smoke from the still burning flares choked him. The acrid stench spurred him on faster until he reached the frontlines. Ivica stood only a few metres away from him.

"We charge them," said Ismet. "We charge them good. We will get him for you. Kemal will be outside the gates we came through. We are ready. Don't worry."

James just nodded, never taking his eyes away from Ivica. He couldn’t afford to lose him in the crowd.

Ismet raised his voice above the din and yelled a battle cry in Bosnian. In an instant, Horde Sla charged the visiting fans. The battle was on.

He felt Ismet's men carry him forwards. The football fans clashed. James lashed out at the nearest one, his fist colliding with the man's windpipe and he went down clutching his throat. A man grabbed James by the shoulder of his coat, before Ismet smashed him in the side of the head.

"James, here. Come."

Ismet and James retreated slightly and forced their way through Ismet's men. They reached the side of the pitch. James' fist throbbed; the skin slightly torn by the force of the blow to the windpipe. He caught a glimpse of Ivica again. The Bosnian-Serb fought like an animal, lunging with his fingers, aiming for the eyes of his opponents.

James broke free from the crowd and charged forwards. He threw a bone-crunching punch at Ivica that landed on the side of the skull. Ivica staggered but recovered, turning to James with rage in his eyes. James raised his fists in a defensive position when Ivica advanced on him, coming within range. A Horde Sla member appeared out of nowhere, giving Ivica a kick to the thigh. Ismet burst through the maul, putting Ivica on the defensive.

James saw his chance. He charged with him, forcing Ivica to run for the stands, isolated from his friends. They had him. Every time he tried to slow down and dodge, he received a meaty fist from Ismet.

"Go, go," Ismet called to James.

A few of Ismet’s friends rushed to further cut off Ivica's escape routes and force him towards the gates. Small groupings of Banja Luka fans were alerted to the scene unfolding before them. Yet every time they tried to make up some ground, bands of Horde Sla threw them back. Ismet had organized his men well.

In the chaos, the riot police finally moved. They advanced slowly towards the pitch, their riot shields lined up like the makings of a Greek phalanx.

Ivica broke into a run and headed for the gates, apparently hoping to find refuge with the three riot officers lingering there.

James reached for his gun and held it at his hip. The riot police saw the flash of metal and stiffened up, adopting a defensive stance. Were they in on the deal Ismet had made? Would they reach for their own guns and fire back? Ismet kept racing towards Ivica regardless. Ismet and Ivica vaulted the low fence into the neutral stands, followed by James.

Ivica started to slow as each steep step drained his energy reserves little by little. Ismet, too, had slowed, sweat pouring from his face. Only James, his superior training telling, made up the ground and soon managed to squeeze alongside Ismet.

In that moment, Ismet called out something in Bosnian. To James' amazement, the riot police lowered their shields and stood aside, the door clear.

"Ivica!" Ismet screamed as the desperate man reached the top of the steps and dashed through the open gates. "Shoot him, James." Ismet slowed up, his lungs finally giving out when he reached the top. "Shoot him now."

James sprinted past Ismet without a word. He raised his weapon as Ivica fled for his life into the car park. He took deep breaths as he steadied his shot, his target well within range below him. His finger twitched when a car came out of nowhere and slammed into Ivica. The Bosnian-Serb flew over the hood and landed with a sickening thud near the passenger-side door. James lowered his weapon with a grin on his face as Ivica rolled around, defeated.

Kemal rushed out of the car and launched a kick into Ivica lying prone on the ground. He lifted him with ease, throwing him against the battered Ford.

"I got him, James. I got him."

James laughed. "That you did. I suppose I didn't need a gun, after all."

"Where's Ismet?" asked Kemal as he drove a fist into the stunned man's ribs.

Ignoring the beating, James gazed back at the stadium. Ismet staggered down the steps. Sweat spread out across his t-shirt like a wound and he clutched his chest.

"Ismet, hurry up," said James. "We need to get out of here."

"We have time. Ivica is okay... for now." Kemal drove another fist into Ivica.

Ismet managed to reach the car and fell against it. The exertion had nearly killed him, his face flushed red like a strawberry. "I'm here. Go, go, I sit in the front."

Kemal folded the front seat forwards and stuffed Ivica into the back. James followed with his gun jammed into the base of Ivica's skull. As the two rotund men filled the small space left in the Fiesta, James looked over the battered and bleeding man. He would live long enough, whatever happened.

Chapter Sixteen

The ride to the safehouse took more than forty-five minutes. Considering it too risky to drive directly through the heart of Sarajevo,