Overthrow (A James Winchester Thriller Book 2) (James Winchester Series) by James Samuel (psychology books to read txt) 📗

“Xiphos,” said Sinclair.

James didn’t need to be told who Sir Richard Davenport was. Xiphos had interfered with their operations in the past. If Sir Richard weren’t so powerful, Gallagher swore he would have him killed. He knew Sir Richard likely had the same idea in mind for Gallagher.

“You know we have nothing to do with each other. Stay out of our way. We stay out of yours.”

“But you didn’t stay out of our way,” Adam snapped. “We were tailing Sambath and you killed him. You’ve made our lives difficult. Our client won’t be happy when he finds out.”

“Really?” James tilted his head in mock concern. “Then forgive me if I don’t give a shit.”

Adam and James glared at one another. Both the leaders of their respective operations, both had a lot to lose. They had so much at stake. Failure meant a loss of face, a loss of position, and, sometimes, a loss of life.

“James.” Sinclair leaned forwards. “Would you please shut up? You’re not helping us at all.”

“You too, Adam,” said Dylan. “We came here to make a deal. What’s the use in fighting with these guys?”

Adam took a deep breath. “I’ve already called Sir Richard. He spoke to your boss and authorised me to make this deal with you. We’ve got full backing to work together on this one thing. You two know as well as I do that it’s unlikely that we’ll be able to find Prak on our own without some extraordinary luck.”

Sinclair shrugged. “I can’t deny that. But even with four of us, what good would it do? We don’t know anything about this country. And we won’t be able to keep this quiet for long.”

Adam rested his arms on the table. “Sir Richard and your boss Gallagher are already aware of the situation.”

Sinclair grimaced like someone had fired a bullet into his gut. “You told them?”

James tightened his lips. “Christ on a bike.”

“You needn’t worry. We are both in the same situation,” said Adam. “We all mucked up our jobs. They’ve both agreed to give us some breathing room without telling the clients. I’m guessing you two are working for Hun Sen?”

Neither James nor Sinclair answered that.

“Anyway, the point is we have time.”

“How much time?” Sinclair breathed.

“Enough.”

James turned to Sinclair. “Did you call Blake?”

“Should be here soon.”

James nodded, his nostrils flaring. This was his fault. He’d put their lives at risk knowing that Gallagher would never apportion any of the blame to him. Blake had saved his life from the precarious cliff only to throw him into the jaws of the lion.

“Blake Harrison...” Dylan mused. “The American?”

James fixed his gaze on Dylan. “You know him?”

“Not personally, he –”

“He’s like shit on the end of a stick,” Adam finished for him. “A snake in the grass.”

James let out a genuine smile, the first real one he felt since Kampot. He thought he might start to like his rivals after all.

Adam and Dylan went on to tell the story of how they knew about Blake. A couple of years before, Blake had been on business in the Philippines and interfered with Xiphos business. Like always, he’d opted for action which led to the death of the client, his family, and a few innocent civilians. James listened in wonderment. He’d never heard that story before. Gallagher must have done a top-notch job at covering it up.

“A miracle he’s still working at all,” Adam finished. “He must have had something to blackmail your boss with. Sir Richard would have had the thumbscrews on him the minute he left the country.”

James thought about it. “Maybe he does.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Blake waited in his car, watching. The paintwork gleamed; the scratches freshly buffed out. He’d parked the car on the banks of the Mekong. He checked around him to make sure nobody had followed him.

Only a few scraggly fishermen. Their bones pressed against the tracing paper-like skin. They wore wide-brimmed straw hats to protect them from the beating of the afternoon sun. A steamer plied the chocolate waters, carving the muck aside.

Blake rested an arm on the steering wheel and dialled Gallagher’s number, ignoring the multitude of missed calls from Sinclair.

“Yes?” Gallagher answered.

“It’s Blake.”

“Put me on video. I want to see you.”

Blake obeyed and Gallagher popped up on the screen. A hard stare confronted him, his eyes flecked with shades of green. His fresh military cut accented his sharp features. Only a hint of grey threatened the sideburns. When Gallagher wanted to see Blake, he knew it meant trouble.

“I want you to carefully explain the situation,” said Gallagher, his words measured and refined. “I have had to endure the torture of speaking to Richard Davenport directly. As you know, one of my least favourite activities.”

“Prahn Sambath didn’t make it,” said Blake.

“Take off your sunglasses. I want to see your eyes when you speak to me. Show some respect.”

Blake’s pulse raced as he did what he was told. He threw them onto the passenger seat.

“I know perfectly well that Sambath is dead. What you’re going to tell me is the man who fired the shot.”

“It was Winchester, sir. I shot Sambath in the leg to subdue him. He met us with heavy resistance. Winchester shot him in the neck.”

Gallagher’s face tightened. Even on the other side of the world, his boss radiated intimidation that recognised no borders.

“Sir, I was as shocked as anyone, but I was unable to prevent it from happening. Sambath brought his men, and I managed to fight them off single-handedly.”

“Then this has confirmed my worst fears. Winchester has no control. No self-discipline.”

“I agree, sir, he’s a loose cannon.”

“Don’t interrupt me,” Gallagher snapped, folding his hands in front of him. “Something has to be done.”