Interdiction (A James Winchester Thriller Book 3) (James Winchester Series) by James Samuel (best novels to read for beginners TXT) 📕

The target's slippers slowed him down. He slid and stumbled over the cobblestones, the slippers threatening to leave his feet at any moment. The curve in the road came up on him fast. James came within a metre. He pumped his arms and legs for speed. One final push. They came to the pools. James was so close he could almost hear Goran’s heartbeat. He threw out his foot.

Pejakovski's ankle collided with the toe of James’ boot. The slipper went flying and he lost his footing. The man hit the ground hard and rolled for a few feet. James stopped next to him. He took in deep breaths as he took Pejakovski by the shirt lapels and pulled him to his feet, then launched him hard against the wall of the pool. The timer had begun. They only had minutes before help would arrive.

"Goran Pejakovski?" James said, holding onto his captive by his shirt.

"Da. Da." Pejakovski replied.

James knew enough Bosnian to know it meant he had his man. He pushed Pejakovski ahead of him, forcing him to walk at gunpoint across the side of the pool. They faced the boulders at the head of the frothing cascades.

"I need you to translate," James ordered Nazifa, throwing Pejakovski up against the rocks.

Nazifa joined them, climbing across the narrow walkway with the agility of a cat.

"You work for Kadrić and his men, yes?" James began.

"Da," said Pejakovski.

James nodded. Pejakovski had landed hard when he fell, and one long bloody scuff ran down his cheek. He lifted his bare foot to keep it off the cold ground.

"Tell him I'll let him live if he tells me about the men he works for. I want names and where I can find them. If he messes me around, he dies."

"No, James. I want him dead."

He raised his voice. "Do it."

Nazifa quickly translated his words, or so he hoped.

Pejakovski responded rapidly. James caught only two names. That of Sadik Kadrić and Darko Borisov. He spoke for a long time, too long.

"He says he's only an associate. Not a full member, so he only ever works with Darko Borisov," Nazifa translated. "He says he doesn't know where Kadrić lives, but Darko is close to him."

"Ask him where Darko lives. Where can I find Darko?"

Nazifa translated and Pejakovski responded.

"He says he was born in Banja Luka, but his family moved to Kakanj. That's all he knows, or so he says. I don't believe him."

James looked straight at the terrified man and immediately got his measure. This was an opportunist, someone who did what he did for the money. He didn't have a courageous bone in his body. That could only mean one thing: he was telling the truth.

He leaned in close and whispered into his ear, "You know, I'd like to let you go, Pejakovski, but I know your type. You would sell your own mother for a couple of dollars. That's why I can't afford to let you go and tell Kadrić what happened."

Pejakovski didn't understand the words. Nazifa didn't move to translate. For a moment, James saw the light of hope flicker in his eyes. The abject terror dropped from his expression.

James took a quarter-step backwards. He thrust both hands into his chest. Pejakovski toppled backwards into the blackness. His screams echoed through Jajce. One splash spelled the end of Goran Pejakovski.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Kakanj, Zenica-Doboj, Bosnia and Herzegovina

Kadrić gripped the steering wheel of his red Skoda Octavia. He'd left Banja Luka without alerting his bodyguards, or anyone else for that matter. It hadn't taken long for news of Goran Pejakovski's death to spread across the Internet, and a few pictures to appear. As usual, the police announced they had made no arrests and had no suspects. Kadrić knew he had to visit Darko in person before his second in command did something stupid.

The town of Kakanj was built into the slopes of the wide hills flanking the Zgošća River. The town itself had little more than 14,000 souls. Kadrić had visited before, but not for long. The only reason anyone knew Kakanj was its football team, a single coal mine, and a cement factory. The war had decimated what little economy it had, leaving the populace impoverished.

Kadrić at the side of the train tracks. Trains trundled across the nearby rails, thick with rust, just a few times per day. He left the car and walked down the grass verge towards the silent coal bridge above the road.

Darko had reached the appointed meeting place first. Kadrić spotted him as he crossed the dirty snow, a cigarette clutched between his teeth. The array of cigarette butts around the smoker’s feet testified to how long he'd waited. Kadrić sensed the rage barely contained under Darko’s thin skin.

"Darko. I'm sorry." Kadrić embraced Darko, kissing him three times on alternating cheeks. "I was shocked to hear about Goran. He was a good man."

"A good man, yes." Darko clenched his jaw. "They kill a man who did nothing. Cowards. This is how Bosnians conduct business. They attack the weak. I want them found. When I find them, I kill them."

Kadrić nodded. He knew what Darko could do when he lost control. Like a rabid dog, he would fire indiscriminately and never ask questions. As much as he wanted his men to hold off until the time was right, he couldn't deny Darko this time.

"Only the people responsible," said Kadrić. "No one else. The time is coming when we make war on every Bosnian. When we reclaim our freedom from Sarajevo."

Darko didn't respond. He stared at the ground, his eyes bulging from their sockets. The powder keg was about to blow.

"Darko, look at me, my brother." He grabbed the back of Darko's head and forced him to look him in the eyes. "I don't know who