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

Everyone agreed. Blake couldn’t get away from them fast enough. Only Preap, Adam, and James remained behind.

“Preap, could you give us a few minutes please?” said James.

“No problem.”

The former Khmer Rouge seized the papers and piled them together before shuffling inside the guesthouse.

“What do you want?” Adam steepled his fingers in front of him.

“Nothing. But I could tell by the way you were looking at me that you wanted something.”

Adam smirked. “Can’t get much past you, can I?”

“You made it quite obvious.”

“Fine. I don’t think we should take Harrison. He’s a liability to us. His heart isn’t in it, and he’ll betray us if he thinks it’ll save his own skin.”

James took a deep breath. He felt the same way, but justice demanded he make amends. Letting Blake get away with not cleaning up his mess was out of the question. For an outsider like Adam, he would never be able to understand that.

“Blake stays. This is his fight too.”

Adam’s mouth dropped open slightly. “Really? I’m surprised that of all people you’d be the one fighting his corner.”

“He’s part of this mission whether I like it or not. He got us into this mess, and he has a part to play in getting us out of it. It’s not like we’re taking a civilian. He knows how to fight.”

“You have a very black and white sense of justice. One day it’s going to get you seriously hurt.”

James could do no more than flick his eyebrows in agreement. Black and white made life easier. It made his life easier. His brief told him who was to be sentenced and he was the instrument of that justice. Musing on matters made life more complicated.

“I’ll watch him. He won’t betray us,” said James. “Doing something reckless, possibly, but he wouldn’t stab us in the back.”

Adam didn’t look convinced. “I don’t have the same professional ties. If he puts this mission in trouble, I’ll shoot him myself.”

James nodded. He wouldn’t stop him.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Bangkok, Central Thailand, Thailand

Shao arrived in Bangkok. He came alone. The lack of security felt uncomfortable, like a pair of new leather shoes pinching at sensitive feet. He was used to bodyguards and servants tripping over each other to please him. This time, he couldn’t afford to draw attention to himself. In Bangkok, people didn’t know his name. He had to keep it that way.

The pristine yellow-and-green taxi fought its way through traffic. The highway soared above the city, with slums and new office buildings positioned in perfect chaotic harmony.

They soon pulled off the highway and descended towards an older business district. The modern glass and metal buildings were replaced by vast warehouses with rusted doors and crumbling brickwork. Shao had arrived in the part of the city nobody wanted to see.

“You sure you want to come here?” asked his taxi driver.

“Yes. Stop here.”

The taxi driver said no more as Shao gave him a hard stare and handed him a stack of Thai Baht, each worth about three cents in US currency. He noted the driver shaking his head as he climbed out and the car began its journey back to Don Muang Airport.

Shao called the number on his phone. It rang three times before Tep Prak picked up on his Thai number.

“It’s Shao. I’m on the street you mentioned. Where are you?”

“Good. Good. Do you see a dark green door?”

Shao stood on the edge of the curb and looked up and down the street. He tried to decipher which door had once been green.

“I think I see one,” he said, picking out a shade faded by sun and time.

“Knock and I’ll be there.”

“Give me a few seconds.”

Shao had come armed, but he knew he wouldn’t need it. Prak believed he was still his steadfast ally. He would deal with the Khmer Rouge soon enough. For now, he needed to find out what Qiu knew.

He made his way to the warehouse door. Slamming his fist against it, the whole door shook on rickety hinges. Shao listened to the footsteps approaching from inside. The door screeched open with the effort of two of Prak’s men to reveal the Khmer Rouge leader himself.

“Tep,” said Shao without any warmth. “Where is Qiu?”

“He is here. Waiting for you. Please, come inside.”

Shao stepped into the warehouse and the two Khmer strained as they rolled the door shut again. Holes in the roof allowed daylight to slide in. The derelict warehouse appeared to have been abandoned for twenty years or more. Flaking metal and swirling dust obscured the failure of what had once been a thriving business.

“He’s waiting at the back, said Prak. “Follow me.”

Prak led the way, with Shao a step behind. He became acutely aware of the two Khmer following him. If they wanted to ambush him, he wouldn’t be able to react in time. His heart felt like it was teetering on the precipice of a cliff. Had he walked into a trap?

Around some rusted production lines, in a small space, he found Qiu. He’d survived the drugged juice prepared by Prak only to have his torturers tie his hands to an overhanging pipe with a shiny pair of new chains like Jesus Christ. His eyes and the chains glinted like the full moon in the warehouse’s gloom.

Shao stood in silence. He felt neither sadness nor shock, regarding the scene before him as just one of life’s twists. He noted Qiu’s purplish bruises around his eyes. One had been swollen shut like a beaten boxer. Some blood seeped through his sweat-soaked shirt. They’d battered him with an expertise possessed by few.

“Not as smart as he thought,” said Prak. “I know he wanted to lure me into a trap. I wonder what it’s like for him to be on