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

I’m flying to Thailand first. Better make the flight. Thanks for everything. The both of you. I wouldn’t have made it out of here alive if it weren’t for you.”

Both James and Sinclair exchanged hugs with Dylan. None of the men were particularly emotive. It was the best sort of goodbye they could manage. James assumed he would never lay his eyes on Dylan again, a man who’d owed a life debt to him, but a man he still barely knew.

The American walked into the airport with his suitcase trundling behind him. When he rounded the corner, his life began again. Dylan was now a freelancer and a freelancer with a price on his head.

“You think he’ll survive?” James lit a cigarette.

Sinclair waved the smoke away from his face. “He’s more talented than he gives himself credit for. He just needs more confidence, that’s all.”

“I hope you’re right. Sometimes I wonder if I should stop working for Gallagher and go freelance myself. It might suit me.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Sinclair warned. “It’s a much harder life than you have now. People like that are always looking over their shoulders. At least with Gallagher, you can take a break and relax.”

“It was only a joke.” James shook his head. “Where are we going anyway?”

“Europe. We’ve got a new contract. Now put that cig out and come on.” Sinclair entered the airport.

James watched Sinclair fade into the crowded terminal, too, and then lingered on the forecourt of the airport. Maybe quitting his job with Blackwind would free him like it had freed Dylan?

James mulled over his position and how the world would react if they ever released those documents. He took in the stifling humidity of Cambodia for the final time. He finally turned away and entered the airport, hoping he could put aside the scars Cambodia had left on him.

End of Book Two

 

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Interdiction Chapter One

 

Sarajevo, Sarajevo Canton, Bosnia and Herzegovina

Night fell over Sarajevo. Death moved within the traumatised capital of Bosnia and Herzegovina. On the outskirts of the city, overgrown trees masked the rickety houses. Some had been rebuilt after the Yugoslav Wars, others still had the holes from shrapnel bursts as a grim reminder of what had been lost.

Darko Borisov and Goran Pejakovski sat in an idling grey Honda Civic. The model from the 1990s blended in on a street like this. Few residents on the fringes of town owned a car made after 2000.

Darko scratched at his heavily gelled hair. "Almost midnight. He still has his lights on in the house."

"I told you, he stays up late," Goran replied in his native Bosnian. "He's a soldier. Maybe he knows something is wrong."

Darko withdrew a Marlboro from the packet in the glove compartment and lit it. "Soldiers are paranoid. We always had to be during the war. If you're not paranoid, you die. Bosnian soldiers are weak but not stupid."

"Then he knows how to fire a gun." Goran gripped the steering wheel. "Maybe we should come back in a few hours."

"No. This is a war. In war, people fire guns."

Goran drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and kept pushing his glasses up onto the bridge of his nose. Darko noted his friend's nervousness. He'd always been like this, jumpy and anxious, yet when the fighting started, Goran always did what was necessary.

"You are lucky," Darko continued. "You just never die."

Goran turned to him. "Don't tempt fate. Only God decides when my time has come."

Darko held the cigarette between his tobacco-stained teeth and reached down into the footwell of the vehicle. He removed his semi-automatic Browning Hi-Power 9mm pistol. Darko had chosen the model himself. His contacts could get him anything he wanted, but he preferred smaller weapons. They made less noise. He affixed an AAC TiRant Suppressor to the end of it.

"Let's go, Goran."

"Darko, not now."

"Out of the car," he said calmly.

Darko waited for Goran to sigh and turn off the ignition. Like Darko, Goran wielded the same suppressed pistol.

"Kadrić only wants the soldier to die. Nothing more. The war hasn't started yet," Goran said as he turned to open the door.

"Kadrić is not here. This is my operation, Goran, don't forget that."

Darko didn't wait for more of Goran’s protests and climbed into the cool evening air. The old streetlights did little more than cast small pools of light on the street. Gaping cracks and full puddles pockmarked the shattered concrete.

He scanned the street for anyone watching from their windows. Nearly every home had overgrown trees and bushes, making it near impossible for residents to see the street. In the low orange lights of Sarajevo's outskirts, Darko stepped into the shadows.

They moved along the street for another look at the two-storey home. Two wooden chairs sat on a neglected patio. The low chain-link fence surrounding the garden had no gate. Many of the chains were rusted and twisted into pretzel-like shapes.

"He lives with no one?"

"Yes," said Goran. "I saw nobody go in and out in the last week. Maybe his elderly mother or father?"

Darko shrugged. "No threat. I will go first. Check your weapon."

Goran clicked his ammunition into place and removed the safety.

Satisfied, Darko led the way across the uneven street and advanced on the garden. A light burned in the living room, casting a weak glow over the tufts of scraggly grass. It illuminated a rusted