Failed State (A James Winchester Thriller Book 1) (James Winchester Series) by James Samuel (best selling autobiographies TXT) 📕

“Rosher was bought by Quezada, remember? He admitted that himself. It’s why he stopped taking my calls. Politicians always sell themselves out to the highest bidder. If he escaped, it wouldn’t be difficult for him to find a phone to call Quezada.”

James tapped his foot on the ground.

“We should have butchered him like a pig there and then and we might have got to Parejo. He probably ran away when Rosher told him that we were coming for him at his favourite restaurant. Sent a few of his foot soldiers down to the restaurant to take us out.”

“I’m beginning to think you’re right. He’ll know who we are now. He already knows your name and it won’t be difficult to pick out a white man hanging around away from the tourist sites. At the very least, he’ll have a description of me.”

“Told you we should have killed him.”

“Alright.” James raised his voice. “You don’t need to keep going on at me about it.”

Diego’s shoulders rose up and down as he shook with rage. The doctor struggled to hold him still.

“I recommend two weeks and you should be in well enough condition to continue your work,” said Dr. Silva. “Well, you’ll be able to fire a gun, at least.”

Diego nodded.

“So, what now, Diego? We’re no closer to finding Jessi, our cover has been blown, and Rosher tried to have us murdered. Where do we go from here? This contract has turned into one big mess.”

“It wasn’t my contract until you called me into it. Now I can’t get out of it because I’m a target,” Diego snarled. “Thanks to you, I’m in this to the end.”

James pulled out his pack of cigarettes as he seethed. His breaths came short and sharp. Diego’s dodgy domestic dealings were quickly becoming more of a liability than a help.

“We need to decide where to go next,” said Diego. “Rosher should be our priority. As long as he remains alive, he’s a threat to us. He controls the police in Guanajuato. If he starts trying to track us, he could cause us a lot of problems.”

James nodded in agreement.

“The issue we have is Rosher is going to go underground. We won’t find him attending many events or working in his office for a while. He will have an armed guard surrounding him.”

James tossed his head. “Not that it matters. He had an armed guard when we kidnapped him. Those police can barely shoot.”

Diego scoffed. “That’s because Mexican police have to pay for their own bullets. That’s why they almost never practice. On their salaries, they can’t afford regular practice.”

Dr. Silva grunted as he continued to stitch up Diego, never taking his eyes off his work. “He may have recruited the Federal police after this incident. They get plenty of practice. Mexico City will have authorised it, in light of the situation. This is national news not local.”

“You’re right. Rosher may be protected by people who can actually shoot,” said Diego. “Well, I can always call some guys in again.”

James folded his arms. The two of them may be well-trained, but even they couldn’t fight off an army. And Gallagher wouldn’t authorise drafting in any additional field agents to complete the contract. If anything, he would chastise James for letting things get out of hand.

“Maybe we don’t need to get to him, after all,” said James.

“What do you mean?”

“He might have an elite squad of guards around him, but can we say the same for his wife?”

Diego opened his mouth to speak. Then his face broke out into a wicked smile. They had a way to get to Rosher.

Chapter Nineteen

Los Angeles, California, United States of America

The smog of Los Angeles tinged the air with the stench of gasoline. Romero wrinkled his nose as his car arrived in Korea Town. He got out on a street full of art deco buildings with terra cotta facades. Instead of moving towards them, he went in the opposite direction, towards a selection of white-faced bungalows.

Romero peered over his shoulder to make sure nobody had followed him then hammered on the front door of one. He stepped back and put his hand on the gun inside his suit jacket. The door opened an inch, held by a chain, and a single brown eye looked back at him.

“Mr. Romero,” said Davarius Hawkins, the leader of the local drug ring. “Welcome, please come in.”

Hawkins was a beefy African American with a barrel chest and a face that meant business. Romero barely came up to his shoulder. A native of Los Angeles, Hawkins had spent the last two years handling Romero’s dealings in the city. In exchange, Romero diverted some of his imports and exports to the west coast. Like most shipments in the west, they came through Baja California or the state of Sonora.

Romero clasped Hawkins’ hand. “How are you?”

“I’m good.”

“Nothing special to tell me?”

“Nothing, Mr. Romero.”

Hawkins didn’t talk much. In many ways, Romero got the impression that Hawkins both worshipped and feared him. Just the way he liked it.

The inside of the bungalow was a drug depot ready to go, drug runners waiting to deliver, and cash in used notes. Romero eyed a table filled with thick wads of US dollars wrapped in plastic.

“The police?”

“Nothing, Mr. Romero.”

Romero nodded. “Look, I came here to tell you that it’s time to expand our operations. Street dealing is a thing of the past for us. It’s, as you Americans say, small change. I will start rolling our operations out on an industrial scale.”

“That sounds good, sir.”

Romero nodded and smiled at him. “Is there anyone else here?”

“Just two. They’re in the back.”

He followed Hawkins’ directions and checked the back room. Soiled mattresses covered the floor of the