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

If you want any chance of Plemenac getting what he deserves, you have to give me something."

"Call Darko... Darko Borisov. My phone. The code is 1341."

James flew to Kadrić's pockets, removing everything until he found the phone. He pocketed everything to avoid leaving any fingerprints behind. The phone was a Samsung smartphone with a cracked screen and a cover displaying a graphic design of the Serbian flag. James gripped it, leaving a bloody smear on the back.

"What else can you tell me? What should I say to him?"

Kadrić spoke no more.

James paused. He didn't bother shaking the dead man or repeating his questions. Kadrić had died like a deer on the receiving end of a gut shot. In agony. Knowing that he would die but not when his last breath would come. He had too much time to think about his life, the people he'd left behind, the man who had slain him before his time. James couldn't imagine having that much time with his thoughts when his end came.

He stood, sighed, and left Kadrić for the public to find when day broke. Plemenac had unwittingly revealed his position to him. Kadrić was dead, but now the Balkans had a greater enemy to peace. James could no longer walk away.

Chapter Forty-One

 

Sarajevo, Sarajevo Canton, Bosnia and Herzegovina

Kadrić was dead. His obligations in Bosnia were over. Yet James felt empty. The euphoria of a completed contract never came. Was it because his bloodlust hadn't been sated? He'd never had a contract where someone else had done his job for him. A gnawing emptiness ravaged him, like he’d stolen a wage.

"I can't wait to go somewhere warm," said Sinclair as they celebrated in a bar in the old town of Sarajevo.

James didn't reply. He sipped at the Sarajevski beer under the eaves of the low building. Tracing his finger along the knotted wooden table, he observed the people filing past. It didn't sit right with him. Nothing seemed to make sense.

"I hope Miran hurries up so we can confirm everything," Sinclair continued. "I'm sure the Serbian police won't release the name to the papers for a couple of days."

"Doesn't it bother you?" James said at last.

"Bother me? What would bother me?"

"That Plemenac was working with the nationalists all along, yet he still killed their leader in cold blood?"

"No, why should it?"

"It's wrong. The problem we came to solve is still there. It just shows Kadrić was a pawn. We haven't brought the country back from the brink. The situation looks like it won't change at all now he's gone."

Sinclair rolled his eyes. "It's not our country, James. This has nothing to do with us. Remember who we are and what our jobs are. The terms of our contract have been fulfilled. Kadrić is dead. We are getting our rewards. Even Gallagher won't be able to complain this time."

James understood Sinclair’s point of view, but he just couldn't walk away knowing everything they did was essentially for nothing. He felt like a fool, like his actions hadn't influenced the situation in the slightest.

"Where is that Miran?" Sinclair pulled his coat sleeve up to check his silver Versace chronograph watch.

"My job here isn't finished yet. Remember, I still have Mlakar to finish."

Sinclair's face dropped. "I admire that you want revenge, but not everything has to have a conclusion. Forget it. My leg is healing quickly. This is business, not personal, I understand that. I'm not especially resentful. I would prefer to leave and put it down to a rather bad day at the office."

James' nostrils flared, but he returned to his drink in silence.

"Ah, here he is now."

Miran shuffled down the narrow street towards them. The crowd made a space as he tapped his stick left and right. Nemanja bore a scowl. He stuffed his hands into his pockets and tilted his head as he said something to Miran.

"Mr. Heranda.” Sinclair rose to greet him. "Thank you for coming so quickly."

"Your journey to Belgrade was successful." He reached his hand out to find the corner of the table and eased himself next to Sinclair. "Good, good, I will send confirmation to your boss. Very impressive."

Nemanja huffed and dropped onto the bench next to James. He fished out a cigarette and something that looked like a miniature doorknob. Popping the end into his mouth, he affixed the cigarette and lit it.

"It's good for my fingers." Nemanja caught James' eye. "No stink."

James watched him suck away on the cigarette through the strange holder. In less than thirty seconds, nearly half of the cigarette burned away. A long stack of ash continued to cling on, despite gravity working against it.

"Mr. Heranda, could I ask you something?" asked James.

Miran turned his head towards him and nodded. Behind the dark glasses, his eyes were completely invisible.

"Could you delay the confirmation to Gallagher?"

"James, no," Sinclair turned back to Miran. "Ignore him."

Miran licked his lips. "Delay? Why? Is Kadrić still alive?"

"No, he's dead. But I don't want to leave yet. I want to stay. Unfinished business."

"Ignore him," Sinclair intervened again. "Let me tell you what happened in Belgrade. Things didn't go as we expected."

James fumed, but he allowed Sinclair to speak. The intelligence agent ran through the whole story of Plemenac and his involvement with Kadrić. He continued with how he'd stabbed Kadrić to death with a pen, leaving him to die in James' arms. What Sinclair didn't know was James still had the bloodstained phone Kadrić had given him in his final moments.

"Strange. Very strange," Miran breathed.

"Money," said Nemanja. "Always money. I was born in Belgrade in Yugoslavia. I am communist. All they want is money now. Maybe Kadrić owes money to him?"

"I think it's more than that," said James.

"Why?" Nemanja turned his ire on him.