Overthrow (A James Winchester Thriller Book 2) (James Winchester Series) by James Samuel (the gingerbread man read aloud .TXT) 📕

to approach the Sambath farm in the saloon car. They rode silently in a tuk-tuk from the hotel. Across the rickety grey and black iron bridge that had become Kampot’s symbol, they drove a little way out of town.

Within ten minutes, James and Blake reached the open country, where emaciated cows lingered on the sloping banks of the dirt roads.

“Let’s keep it calm,” said James. “There’s no need to hurt anyone. They’re only farmers.”

“If they cooperate,” Blake replied.

James clamped his mouth shut. He tried to put what he’d heard from Blake’s room to one side and focus on the job at hand, but it was useless. Should he call Blake out? Was it time to raise the issue with Gallagher? He didn’t know what was right and what was wrong.

James paid the tuk-tuk driver his fare and an exorbitant sum to wait around until they said otherwise.

“Alright,” James sighed. “Act like tourists. Boupha said it’s not uncommon for backpackers to visit the farmers around the town. Foreigners often pay the farmers for tours.”

“Whatever you say.”

James and Blake followed the little dirt path up towards a collection of ramshackle huts sagging to one side. The verdant green fields on either side of them glowed in the midday sunshine. As they came closer, the fields turned into rows of ploughed earth, little green shoots starting to spring from the soil.

“Blake.” James stopped. “We need to take Sambath alive when he comes, okay? Without him, we won’t have a way of finding his leader Prak. If we can’t take out the Khmer Rouge leadership, Narith still has too many cards to play.”

“Sure, sure, just don’t be too nice to these people. We need them to cooperate.”

“Cooperation doesn’t mean pulling your gun out, though.”

Blake didn’t reply.

They carried on trudging towards the huts. When they arrived, they found children sitting on the dirty ground, some young, some almost ready to start ploughing the fields alongside their relatives. A Khmer woman in a long pink dress sat at the threshold of a hut scrubbing clothes against a washboard. She looked up with warm yet suspicious eyes.

“Hello,” said James.

“Hello,” she replied without offering anything more.

“Do you speak English?” Blake snapped.

She shook her head but climbed up from her work, letting the washboard and a pair of jeans fall into the grey, soapy water. The woman shouted something into the hut in Khmer whilst drying her hands on the front of her dress.

A boy who couldn’t have been no older than sixteen emerged. His long, lanky limbs covered the distance in a couple of steps.

“Hello, you tourists, yah?” said the boy.

“We are.” James gripped the boy’s hand. “We can come back if you’re busy.”

“No, no, my name Rith. You stay. It’s no problem.”

“Thank you, Rith. I’m James and this is my... friend, Blake.”

Blake managed to raise a close-lipped smile as he greeted Rith.

“You want tour of farm? I show you, my family. Come.”

Rith introduced them to each member of his family in turn. The woman they’d spoken to earlier was in fact his mother, the young sister of Prahn. None of them spoke any English. Rith himself had learned English through the tuk-tuk drivers who had taken him under their wing when he was young.

After their little tour of the farmstead, James handed him a small number of bills. Rith never asked for a fee, and he showed no displeasure at the amount he’d received. He insisted they sit down and relax next to the empty fire pit.

“You’d make a good tour guide in the city,” said James.

“I never visit the city.”

“Don’t you want to see what’s outside of Kampot?” asked James.

Rith’s smile drooped like a dying daffodil. “I do. There are many things. I want to go to America.”

“That’s great,” said Blake. “Real great.”

“Maybe one day you will, or at least to Phnom Penh.”

“Yah.” The smile reappeared on his face. “One day.”

The dreams of Rith were like the dreams of so many Cambodians. They wouldn’t come true. Like the rest of them, he had to keep the farm running, so leaving Kampot for even a few days was out of the question.

Blake jabbed him lightly in the side. James knew what that meant. They had to get down to business.

“Rith, one of the tuk-tuk drivers told me you had an uncle. Prahn.”

Rith’s eyes lit up. “Uncle Prahn, yah, he is very famous in Cambodia. Very famous.”

The mere mention of Uncle Prahn brought the children and the women around them. Rith spoke of Prahn like a master propagandist. In Rith’s mind, Prahn was a hero fighting to keep the revolution alive. It was as if they’d never heard of the crimes of the Khmer Rouge.

James and Blake nodded along to Rith’s reverie with polite, tense smiles. He wondered how many of the tales of heroism espoused by Rith were real and how many were pulled directly from storybooks.

“Where is Prahn now?” James ventured after Rith paused for breath.

“He not here.” He moved his hands in jagged lines. “He in mountains. Far away.”

“Would it be possible to meet him?”

“No, no, he is very busy. Very busy.”

James couldn’t hide his look of disappointment. “We would really like to meet him.”

Rith’s smile never wavered as he shrugged.

James glanced over at Blake. He saw the tinder lighting up and his eyes burning into the family from behind his sunglasses. He knew they had only one course of action open to them.

“Blake,” said James.

Blake tore his eyes away from the family. “What?”

“You know.”

Rith turned his head to the side like a curious puppy. But it was too late. Blake stood and drew his Glock 19. He pointed it directly at Rith’s head. The whole family screamed and cowered, but none dared make a