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

"Then ask him."

Ivica spoke quickly with a sharp edge to his words. From the screwed-up expressions of Ismet and Kemal he sensed he hadn't given him the answer he wanted.

"Go on," said James.

He turned around again and began to count. No matter how loud he counted in his head, Ivica's grunts and yelps got through. This could go on for hours. Beating a man to death took a lot of time and effort. He didn't know if he could stand to stay the course.

James approached Ivica and crouched down in front of him, into glazed, tree bark eyes, the tell-tale signs of a concussion. He unveiled the gun and made a show of opening the cartridge to show him it wasn't a fake. He popped it back in with a click like a round from a game of Russian roulette. Releasing the safety, he pointed it directly between the beaten man’s legs.

Ivica's breathing became sharper as he cringed back against the wall and tightened his legs together.

"One last chance. The same question again. We need a lead."

Ivica responded without waiting for the translation.

"He says a man called Goran Pejakovski. A gangster who may know more," Ismet translated. "But he doesn't know where he is. He knows he's a Bosnian-Serb."

"Ask him why he thinks this Goran Pejakovski has anything to do with Kadrić."

"He knows Pejakovski works for anyone. He's known in the underworld. Sometimes he helps with weapons."

James rubbed his chin as he mulled over whether to believe him. Torture didn't always yield anything truthful. "Kemal, have you heard of him?"

"No, never."

"Ismet?"

"I've heard the name," he confirmed. "But I know nothing more than what he knows. Shoot him. Shoot him right there." A smile crept across his face. "Serbians have no balls anyway."

James took a long look at the shaking Ivica. No, he wouldn't shoot him. He never had any intention of castrating his captive. It was too cruel. Too unnecessary. James was a lot of things, but he wasn't a sadist.

"I believe him," he announced. "Well, I believe him enough to think that he doesn't have anything else that's useful to us. Kemal, can you drive me back into town?"

"Of course. What about him?" He nudged Ivica with the point of his shoe. "Let's kill him."

James shook his head. "No, I'm not going to kill him. There's no reason to. We've got what we wanted. Hasn't this country spilled enough blood?"

Kemal's lip curled upwards in disgust. "You don't understand what these people did to us. They deserve it." He spat on Ivica. "If you were Bosnian you would."

"But I'm not Bosnian," James said firmly. "And it's my gun. I won't kill him. You two can do what you want."

"Then I will stay here," said Ismet. "Kemal, you come back for me later, okay?"

Kemal nodded. "James, come on."

James hesitated in the grim cottage. His moral compass screamed at him to speak out for Ivica, to protect him, but the mercenary in him knew it would lead nowhere good. These men were necessary if he wanted to kill Kadrić. He told himself it was for the greater good of this country as he let the broken door slam its death knell in his wake.

Chapter Seventeen

A feeling of futility washed over James. A rotten taste soured in his mouth, like a glass of milk gone bad. Should he have done more to save Ivica from his ultimate fate? Yes, he needed Kemal and Ismet to guide him through this complex country. But he had the gun. He had the control. Even men as grizzled as those two wouldn’t have stood a chance if he’d forced the issue.

James and Kemal had barely spoken on the ride back to the city. They’d taken the direct route, with James leaving Kemal behind on the edge of the old town. He walked along the river and came upon the Vijećnica, the former library of Sarajevo. The pseudo-Moorish design saw the immense building covered in red-and-yellow stripes, with horseshoe arches running across the centre of the frontal façade on two floors. He stopped when he saw a plaque near the front door in English. Approaching it, the plaque read:

In this place… Serbian criminals in the night of 25th-26th August, 1992, set on fire the National and University’s Library of Bosnia and Herzegovina. Over 2 million books, periodicals and documents vanished in the flames. Do not forget, remember and warn!

James lingered under the sign, unsure of what to make of it. The presence of English jarred him. The reference to Serbian criminals unnerved him even more. Maybe Kemal was right, and the likes of Ivica had got what they deserved, albeit decades later? He needed to take his mind away from the conflict swirling in his head. He had to focus on something else.

He removed his smartphone from his pocket and sent a text message not to Sinclair but to Nazifa. After sending his message, he let out a deep breath and moved in the direction of the old town. For now, he needed a second option, or at the very least a drink.

A grey car came towards him, the window down. James stopped when his instincts flashed red. He darted behind the library’s arches as gunfire assaulted his position. The thick stone cracked and chipped away as the bullets sprayed the long-abused structure. He ignored the screams of panic and fear of bystanders fleeing for their lives. His heart raced, but as he heard the revving of the engine, he calmly stepped around the pillar in time to see the assailants flee. The car disappeared around the corner and curved away towards the other side of the old town.

James clicked his tongue as he replayed the attack in his mind. He shook