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

“What do you want from me?” asked James.

“I’ll translate for you if you want to speak to Comrade Tep. Remember, I’m just a courier. Unless you speak Khmer, of course.”

James looked Prak up and down. He seemed like he might have some years in the tank. The Khmer Rouge leader just glared at him. In his hand, he held a pistol, with James’ own weapon sitting on a scrubbed table covered with papers.

He switched to French. “Do you speak French?”

Prak and Preap eyed him in surprise.

“I do,” Preap replied in French. “How does an Englishman speak fluent French?”

“I spent a few years as part of the French Foreign Legion. Everyone has to learn to speak French fluently.”

The two men nodded. Although the Khmer Rouge was largely comprised of the peasantry during the days of Kampuchea, many of its leaders spoke French. During the days of colonialism in Cambodia, the upper classes always spoke French. The Khmer language was considered uncouth. The older, better educated Khmer could still speak French, although it was seldom heard on the streets.

“This doesn’t make any sense,” said James. “Why not just torture me like you’re doing to my friends now?”

“Preap insisted on it as part of the bargain. You are lucky that Preap has shown mercy to you. He is my brother and for that I allow him to have that one thing. For now, we will speak.”

Prak crossed the floor and sat cross-legged on a mat directly in front of him. He still cradled his pistol in front of him. The gap between the mats wouldn’t give James enough time to grab the weapon, and Prak likely knew it.

“You wanted to kill me.” Prak’s brown eyes shined. “Preap already told me much of your story. Who do you work for?”

“Hun Sen,” answered James.

Prak nodded. “Soon, he will be dead. General Narith will control Cambodia. My advice to you is to leave. Leave as soon as you can, barang. In the new Cambodia, tolerance for foreigners will be low.”

“And you’re going to let me walk away as if nothing happened?”

“Perhaps.”

Preap butted in. “You cooperate and I’ll take you down the mountains again, we drive back to Phnom Penh, and you get on a flight out of Cambodia. If you don’t –”

“I can imagine.” James stretched his legs out to the side and flexed them. “What do you want to know?”

Prak took a long time to just look at him. It didn’t intimidate James. He’d gone through interrogations before. His experience in the armed forces taught him how to hold out under interrogation. This time he wouldn’t endure torture. He would tell them what they wanted to know until an opportunity arose.

“We will begin. Preap, please make some tea.”

Preap busied himself with making tea in some chipped porcelain. Soon, the sweet smell of jasmine filled the house. Prak didn’t ask any questions whilst Preap served them tea. There was little ceremony about the process. He plonked a cup in front of each mat.

“Mr. Winchester,” said Prak with an air of formality. “You work for Hun Sen, a man who makes this country weak. Who employs you?”

James explained everything about Blackwind and the mission they’d assigned to him. It went against every lesson of training he’d received in standing up to interrogation. With every truth he gave them, their shoulders sank. They were relaxing. The mild, free-flowing jasmine tea aided lessened the tension.

“Mr. Winchester,” Prak said at last. “You’ve been helpful and cooperative. It’s also been a long time since I’ve been able to speak French.”

“The same,” James agreed. “More tea?”

“An Englishman and his tea,” Preap joked as he went to fetch the pot.

Even Prak managed to raise something that passed for a smile.

James readjusted himself against the wall. As he patted his trousers, he felt the small canisters inside his pocket. They’d taken his weapons but failed to check his pockets. The mercy remained where it was. Preap’s mercy. Now he understood why the Khmer hadn’t shared the drug with the Americans. Preap wanted them for torture.

Preap refilled each of their cups from a beaten-down metal kettle. Once again, the essence of jasmine rose and crept into every crevice of the house. Outside, day sprung to life and dampened the effect of the paraffin lamps.

“That’s everything I know,” said James. “Everything I was assigned to do. I’m only a field agent. A soldier. They only give me what I need to know and nothing else.”

“We understand.” Prak blew on his cup and lapped at the tea. “You’ve helped us. This information will be useful.”

“And what about you? Whose side are you on?”

Prak’s lips became a thin line, as sharp as the edge of a knife. “Excuse us.”

He gestured to Preap to follow him. Gripping his pistol and making a show of taking James’ gun from the table, he led Preap outside to speak in confidence.

James’ first instinct made him perform a visual sweep of the house. Despite lulling them into a false sense of security, he grimaced at the lack of anything he could use. Prak had lived in these mountains and fought his war for many years. He took no risks.

He couldn’t see the two men outside the house, only their voices in hurried Khmer. This was his chance.

James retrieved the cyanide from his pocket and popped the rubber cap off with the edge of his dirty thumb. He noted the bitter smell of almonds leaving the canister. James cracked open the cyanide pills, which split from their plastic holding in the middle. A few grams of powder soon swam in the jasmine.

He snapped back into position and tried to look casual as Prak and Preap returned.

“Mr. Winchester,” said Prak. “We’ve discussed it at length. I’ll allow Preap to