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

shouts echoing through the centuries' old alleyways. James got to his feet, advancing towards the crossroads. His ears pricked up, monitoring every sound, and pinpointing its rough location, like a vampire bat scouting for its next meal.

A voice called out. It was close, very close. They were trying to flank him, to tighten the noose around his location. Too cowardly to face him head on. Too scared of confronting the real possibility of death. James held his gun in one hand, clicking open a flick knife from his pocket. He could hear the voice, the scraping of a shoe against the wall closest to him.

James kept his breathing steady, coming within inches of the man he knew waited around the corner. Dodging to one side, he fell upon the hapless mafia man. His target flinched at his movement. Too late. He drove the flick knife into the Adam's apple. Blood erupted from the wound, and the air left him like a popped balloon.

James threw himself behind the dead man, gripping him around the neck like a human shield. Gunfire followed from the other side, clipping the mafia man's side. James fired back from over his shield's shoulder, taking the attacker’s legs out from under him. Dropping the dead man, he rushed over to the wounded man.

The Croatian groaned and clutched his legs. The shots had taken him in the right knee and left thigh.

"Get up," James growled.

He hauled the man to his feet, throwing him headfirst against the wall. Spinning him around, he held him close, an arm around his neck, the gun to his temple.

"Where are the rest of them? How many men did you bring?"

The man babbled in Croatian.

"English?"

He continued to plead in Croatian.

"Fine. You're coming with me."

James frog marched the Croatian into the open. He continued to scan the scene for targets. By his calculations, they were three blocks from the main road. A mere five-minute run from the safety of the bus station. Law enforcement would protect them there, assuming they hadn’t been bribed to take a walk.

Some of Jakov's men appeared at the street adjacent to the shop where he'd stored Sinclair.

"Stop!" James yelled. "English. Who speaks English?"

The men looked at each other. It wasn't until another man, much like the rest, appeared, with a raised hand. All three levelled their guns at him and his hostage. James redoubled his grip on the man, like a lifeboat in the eye of a storm.

"You speak English?" said James.

"Yes, yes, English."

"What do you want from us?"

"Orders. The boss said so."

"You let us go or I'll kill your man."

The three men went into conference with each other.

"Okay, okay. Let him go."

James didn't believe them for a second. He edged forwards until he came to the door of the shop. Kicking it open with the back of his foot, he ordered the shopkeeper to summon Sinclair from wherever he’d secreted himself.

"Don't come any closer, Sinclair. They're going to let us go, if I let him go."

"What?" Sinclair exclaimed.

James lowered his voice. "Get ready to run. We're only three streets from the main road. We can make it there. Get behind me and stay behind me."

He moved forwards, allowing Sinclair to hide behind him. They continued to back up slowly until they reached the crossroads again. Jakov's men shadowed them the whole way, their guns pointed directly at them.

"I'm going to let him go in a second," said James. "We have a deal?"

"Yes, yes, my friend. We have a deal. Let him go."

He lowered his voice again. "Okay, Sinclair. Get into cover on my right. From there, we run, okay?"

"Confirmed, James."

James let the tense seconds pass as Sinclair dodged behind the wall of the building. He let his breathing slow, contemplating the hell that was about to break loose. The man in his vice screwed his eyes closed, mouthing what seemed like a prayer.

He squeezed the trigger, firing the bullet through the man's temple in an explosion of blood. James let the man drop. Jakov's men unleashed a wild storm of fire in his direction.

They tore for the main street. The way was clear. Anyone with sense had already hidden somewhere. He never thought about anything but another ambush. The main road lay directly ahead. Cars continued to cruise past like nothing had happened.

"Stop there," said James. "Don't go any further."

Sinclair leaned against the mouth of the alley, clutching his chest, his gun hanging uselessly by his side.

"Watch my back. I'll check the station."

"No." Sinclair grabbed at his arm. "There's no police, think about it. They've bribed them to stay away. It's obvious. The bus station will be a trap."

"What do you want me to do, then?" James snapped.

"I don't know."

"Fuck’s sake."

James ran into the street. The slow-moving traffic beeped at him as he weaved between cars. He headed for the back of the line, searching for an out. Only the sound of Sinclair firing again, the rush of cars, the mad flights of terrified bystanders spurred him into a rash decision.

A wide-eyed man in the car closest to him raised his hands when he glimpsed James' gun and his blood-covered shirt.

"Get the fuck out of the car," James pointed the gun directly through the windscreen. "Out."

Sinclair flew from into the street. He stumbled over the curb, almost losing his footing.

James ripped the car door open and dragged the unfortunate driver into the road, tossing him to the ground.

"Sinclair, get over here."

Jakov's men emerged in pursuit. They fired at the vulnerable Sinclair. He screamed. He'd been hit.

James spent the last shells in the cartridge returning fire. He hauled Sinclair forwards, throwing him into the car like a bag of shopping. Blood dripped from an unseen wound. James threw himself behind the