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

Qiu’s eyes widened as he tried to talk through his gag. Shao could only stare at his compatriot in this state. He could read the words in his eyes. Qiu wanted him to save him, to reap vengeance upon Prak and the men who had done this to him.

Shao felt Prak’s eyes on him. Prak wanted to see the slightest indication of resistance. It took all of Shao’s training to show no emotion.

“Tep,” said Shao at last. “Thank you.”

Prak’s face broke out into a smile and he began to laugh. “You’re very welcome.”

Shao returned with a little half-smile. “At last. Let me speak to him. He deserves to know.”

Prak motioned to his two men to remove his gag. They ripped the gag from Qiu’s mouth. Each gave him a little slap on the cheek as they returned to their places.

Qiu’s pleading eyes were replaced by rage, hatred. His hands and feet were both bound so he could do little more than sway like a newly grown tree caught in a breeze.

“You betrayed me.” Qiu spat at Shao’s feet. “You turned against the party. Beijing will find out and then this will seem like nothing compared to what they will do to you.”

Shao digested Qiu’s words then turned back to Prak. “I hope you don’t mind if we speak in our native tongue.”

Prak nodded his head in assent as he pulled an apple from his pocket and crunched down upon it.

“Well, Qiu, my old friend,” he said in Chinese. “This may come as a surprise, but this was authorised by the party. You have become a problem.”

“What?”

“A mad dog was the term I believe they used. Too brutal. Too much of a sadist. The party has decided they had no further use for you, so you were used. Used to strengthen our relationship with the Khmer Rouge. A show of good faith.”

Qiu lunged towards Shao again. “Like a gift?”

“See it how you like,” he said coldly. “I didn’t come here to debate with you. Due to your many years of service, you deserved a direct explanation.”

Qiu’s one good eye spun in its socket, a final attempt at finding a way out. Even at the end, Qiu expressed no remorse. He made no attempt to beg. A mad dog indeed.

“You would allow a Chinese to be handed over to foreigners?” asked Qiu. “Is this the China we work for now?”

“You are not going to survive this by appealing to my nationalism.”

“Then send me to Beijing for trial.”

“Beijing?” Shao queried. “What makes you think Beijing wants to see you again?”

“I want to die by Chinese hands.”

Shao bristled. “You’re not important enough for a public trial. But if you want to die by Chinese hands, I will oblige you.” He turned to Prak. “Do you need him for anything else?”

Prak shook his head. “I will return to the Cardamom Mountains. I await your orders, Shao.”

Shao nodded and Prak departed with his two guards. He listened for the door screeching open and closed again. They were alone.

“Shao,” said Qiu. “Are you really going to kill me?”

Shao stiffened. It would be easy to release Qiu and save his life. Qiu could disappear and live out his days in exile. But his moral code prevented it. He would never put himself at risk by disobeying his masters in Beijing. The party discarded rusted tools all the time. This was nothing new.

“I’m giving you one mercy,” Shao said at last. “I will let you die by Chinese hands.”

“Son of a whore!”

Shao had had enough. He whipped out his QSZ-92 pistol and planted a bullet straight into Qiu’s heart before he could hear another word.

Qiu fell forward, his bonds catching him. His eyes stared at the floor. The mask of an unserved dish of revenge chiselled into his face forever.

Shao walked away from the scene, Beijing appeased and his plans for Cambodia still in motion.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Cardamom Mountains, Koh Kong, Cambodia

The steaming forests covering the Cardamom Mountains felt like a sweatbox. Gone were the tourists and the friendly smiles from the green hell of Cambodia. Every Khmer they saw stared, suspicion lining their faces. Most of them were farmers on foot herding their malnourished cows, bells hanging from their necks tinkling. Others passed on ancient motorbikes; their straw hats attached to their backs with a string around their throats.

Like Preap ordered, they left the air-conditioned pleasure of their car on a side road at the edge of the highway and began their walk in a long line. Five men. A fellowship of murder.

“When were you last here?” asked James, just behind Preap.

“Many years ago, now. The highway was only built in 2002, but the land hasn’t changed in a thousand years.” He gazed around him. “It’s like walking through a photo book.”

Blake stepped along behind him, followed by the Xiphos agents. Adam insisted on taking the dangerous position at the back. If anyone ambushed them from the rear, he wouldn’t have time to react.

The journey took them along a network of dirt roads, splayed out like varicose veins, into the deeper forests. Rapid inclines tested their lung power and flat roads offered some respite. The mosquitoes buzzed and bit, seemingly immune to the repellents they slathered over themselves.

James tasted the salt of his sweat dribbling from his forehead into his mouth. Already, fatigue gripped him. He focused on shifting one boot in front of the other, ignoring the bulletproof vest weighing him down.

“Get on the sides of the road,” said Adam. “It sounds like a lorry.”

Everyone jumped out of sight and got down, hands on their weapons. The roar of the truck struggling up the hill they’d just hiked curtailed the tranquillity of the mountains. It appeared and Preap stepped out into