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

She raged at them like a cornered animal. "Then why is it hanging in here?"

"Protection. You stay calm, you live. You try to run, you die."

Nazifa felt the blood pounding through her head. A sharp pain pulsed around her skull. She'd just looked death in the eye, and they wanted her to stay calm. She sized the two men up. They were both bigger, stronger, and likely faster t. The room had two windows, one behind her and one next to the door. She didn't have a chance, and their relaxed demeanours said they both knew it.

"It's okay," said Zvonko. "Sit down."

Nazifa gritted her teeth. It reminded her of being commanded by thick-headed men in the military. She'd scratched and clawed to gain even a modicum of respect. It had led to a man trying to rape her and a discharge for defending herself.

"If we wanted to kill you, we wouldn't have wasted our time bringing you here. We both have guns already." Branimir flashed his pistol. "Now, sit."

Nazifa saw the logic, but she glared with pure hatred in her eyes. As she lowered herself back to the dirty floor of the cabin, she vowed to herself that all three of them would not walk out of this cabin alive. If they made her walk to the swinging noose, she wouldn't go meekly.

Chapter Sixty

Sarajevo, Sarajevo Canton, Bosnia and Herzegovina

James had a long walk home through Sarajevo’s old town district. He passed the ornate gazebo style fountain built by the Ottomans in the very heart of the old town. The Sebilj Brunnen was always a magnet for tourists. James shuddered at the crowds. After everything that had happened, he didn’t feel safe walking the streets alone, even in broad daylight.

An elderly man with a scruffy white beard threw some grains at the assembled pigeons. The birds swarmed the grains in a wall of grey and white wings. Camera shutters clicked as the tourists tried to catch the perfect angle for their computer hard drives. James skirted around them as an unruly child rushed the pigeons, sending them scattering, to the disconsolation of those who hadn’t been quick enough with their shutter buttons. The pigeon feeder acted like nothing had happened.

James’ phone buzzed in his pocket. He sighed. “What now?”

“Come quick. Gorczany Street,” said the text message from Kemal.

His heart sank. Not again. He jogged around the corner onto the main street and broke into a run. There were no cars in the old town area. He rushed to find a taxi. James threw the tourists aside with reckless abandon. He heard the curses flying his way, but most were smart enough to dodge to the side.

James reached the Sacred Heart Cathedral and raised his hand to catch a taxi. Gorczany Street was within walking distance, but the bluntness of the request bothered him. Something terrible had happened, he just knew it. He could only hope Ratko was alive when he got there.

He threw himself into the front seat of the first taxi he saw. “Gorczany Street. Double if you ignore the red lights.”

The driver didn’t balk at the request from what must have seemed like a foreigner on copious amounts of drugs. He sped through the streets, almost ploughing into a bus on the way, but luckily for James urgent errand, they came across no cruising police cars.

“Thanks,” James said, throwing him a sum of money without worrying if it was too much.

He caught the dumbfounded expression of the taxi driver as he flew out of the car and across the street. The headquarters of the White Rose looked much the same as it always did. Yet his sixth sense smelt death.

James hammered on the door. “Kemal, it’s me.”

Kemal wrenched the door open. His eyes were red and bloodshot. The happy yet brutal Kemal had been crying, and he made no attempt to hide it. Blood that resembled skid marks stained his shirt.

“He’s gone. He’s gone,” Kemal managed to get out.

James rushed into the house. The smell of death made him hold his breath. He rarely stayed around long enough to see what happened to a body in the minutes after death. The sight still unnerved him. Ratko lay at the foot of the sofa. His eyes lay open, lifeless and judgemental.

He took a tentative step forwards, feeling nauseous as the smell hit him. Ratko had long evacuated his bowels, leaving an evil odour. Slash marks rippled through his clothing. His murderer had taken his time, drawing out the process. Poor Ratko was now somewhere between rigor mortis and secondary flaccidity. It wouldn’t be long before the flesh started to decay.

“James…”

“Plemenac.” James reverberated with anger. “It could only be Plemenac.”

Now the stunted, disjointed message made sense. Plemenac had made a mistake. He’d crowed about his plan and left before Ratko expired. In his dying moments, Ratko had had the wherewithal to send Sinclair that message. James’ heart swelled with a mixture of pride and fury. Every movement to grab his phone must have been agony.

“My son…”

Kemal lumbered past him. His legs moved like that of a drunk. His eyes flooded with tears. He made no attempt at wiping them away in an attempt to preserve his warrior masculinity. Once again, he dropped to his knees, reaching out a hand to feel his son’s cold face for the final time.

James gulped, unsure of what to do. He reached out a tentative hand and squeezed Kemal’s shoulder. None of them had predicted that Plemenac would victimise Ratko. It was a message, not just a message to him but to all Bosnian nationalists who wanted to get in the way of his plans for a new civil war.

Kemal let out a primal, unrestrained roar. He punched the table with a meaty fist. When it didn’t jump