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

Sinclair shrugged. “If you say so.”

“And you’re going to call that bastard and get him over here. I want him working on this with us.”

Sinclair sighed and slowly rose from his chair. He patted his belly and gave him a weak smile. “My phone’s inside.”

James watched the disillusioned Sinclair shuffle back to his room. He shook his head. If Gallagher wanted to kill him for his failure, he wouldn’t make it easy.

He decided to leave Sinclair be for a while. James faced death on every assignment, while Sinclair supported him from afar. His intelligence agent wasn’t used to these situations. He still feared dying. He took a walk around the block, counting the minutes in his mind. They had to move quickly, and they had to move now. He couldn’t allow Sinclair to mope.

James returned to the Riverside Guesthouse a couple of hours later, his confidence renewed. He found Sinclair beavering away on his computer. Sinclair hadn’t showered since they’d departed for Kampot. The stench of stale sweat decorated the room. Sinclair brushed some fragmented chips from his greasy keyboard.

“Nothing. Prak appears in the news from time to time, but nobody knows where he is. Just meaningless speculation on online message boards. Some of these idiots believe it’s an alias of Hun Sen himself.”

James laughed. He didn’t use any form of social media himself but based on what Sinclair told him, the conspiracy theorists were as close to the truth as London was close to Phnom Penh.

“What are you laughing for? This is serious and you want to start making jokes? Come on. You said it yourself. If Gallagher finds out, we’re dead.”

He puffed his cheeks out. “Oh, come on, Sinclair, stop it. We’re going to find Prak and Gallagher and Thom are going to be none-the-wiser. We’ve come through worse in the past.”

“Have we?” Sinclair asked resignedly.

“Of course, we have. Hong Kong, Mexico, and now this.”

He shoved his chair away from his keyboard. “None of those times involved us maybe getting killed by our own boss.”

A knock on the door interrupted James’ response. He answered it to find the cheerful guesthouse owner, Mr. Arun. The wide smile didn’t fade, even in the face of his guests’ obvious despair.

“Hello, sirs, you are still very welcome. You make many friends in Cambodia, yes?”

James cast a confused look back at Sinclair. “Have we?”

“Yes, sirs. Many friends. You are very welcome in my country. I am very happy for you.” Mr. Arun reached out and seized him by the hand.

“You’re welcome.” James managed to extract his hand from infectiously delightful Mr. Arun. “You were talking about our friends?”

“Ah, yes, sirs. They ask if there are two barang here with names James and Sinclair. I ask if they know you well. You see,” Mr. Arun’s face became very serious all of a sudden. “There are many bad people here. Bad people. They lie and steal from my guests. I see them first before I let them in. Anyway, they are here. They are much like you. Very good people.”

James narrowed his eyes at Mr. Arun. “Sinclair, do we have two good friends here?”

“Apparently.”

“Where are they?”

“You come. You come.” The smile returned. “Yes. I get you beer. Beer for you all. Very cold.”

“It’s only midday.”

“Yes.” Mr. Arun gestured at them again. “I can get you more than one if you are feeling like it.”

Mr. Arun took them through the guesthouse. There were few foreigners awake at this early hour. Most of them would have only returned from defiling and debasing the Khmer capital a couple of hours before. Whether in the company of a woman or drugged out of their minds, most visitors remained horizontal, at least until mid-afternoon.

“There. Your friends there, sirs. I get you beers. Four beers. Yes.”

James, exasperated, turned his attention to the table outside. Two men sat at the table talking to each other. He spotted the natural paranoia a mile off. They weren’t a pair of guys on holiday. They were here on business.

“Who are you?” James demanded as he approached the table.

“You must be James Winchester, I suppose? Adam Kendall.”

“How do you know my name?” James folded his arms as he towered over Adam. “Don’t tell me, you’re here to help as well.”

“They always said you were grouchy. Come on, sit down. I’m not here to cause any trouble. This must be Sinclair Wood.” Adam nodded his head at Sinclair, standing slightly behind him. “Good. This is my colleague Dylan Howser.”

“Pleased to meet you,” said Dylan with a nod.

“I got your beers, sirs.” Mr. Arun bounded towards them, hugging four bottles of Klang beer. “Please, sirs. You sit. A happy time with your friends, yes.”

“But it’s only midday,” Dylan protested as Mr. Arun put the bottles down with a clink and began popping off the bottle caps.

“Yes, you enjoy. You very welcome here, sirs.”

James and Sinclair sat down as the beers sweated onto the table, leaving little pools of water.

“He’s an odd one, isn’t he?” said Adam.

“Get to the point. Why are you here and what do you want?”

Adam smiled and picked up his beer. “Cheers?”

He held the bottle in the air as everyone else hesitated. Only when Dylan and Sinclair raised their bottles did James relent and lift his own.

“Now, it seems we have a mission in common,” Adam explained. “We’re both looking for Tep Prak. But we both have a problem. Prahn Sambath is dead, so there’s no way for us to find him. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“I would. Do you know how to find him?”

“No, or we wouldn’t be here.”

“Who are you?” James took another swig from his bottle. “I want to know.”

“We’re in the same line of work as you. We were assigned to Cambodia by Sir Richard