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

Shao shook his head. He’d thought about using General Narith as their puppet. Some men didn’t care who was truly in control as long as they could enjoy the love and luxury of the people. After a few meetings, Shao determined General Narith unsuitable.

“Then who?”

“A man named Vang Kravaan. Commander Kravaan. He recently became the commander of Sen’s elite bodyguard after he prevented a false flag attack on the royal palace.”

“I was informed of the attempt on the King’s life.”

“General Narith thinks that Kravaan is completely loyal to him. I reached out to Kravaan and he’s more than willing to work for us when the time comes. It’s my hope that Kravaan will be able to remove Narith himself.”

Song’s face had become one of concern. “Shao, how can we trust this man who has already turned on so many? We need some sort of alternative plan if Kraavan isn’t the man he professes to be.”

Shao crossed one leg over the other. “I already have an insurance plan, Song. Keep out of sight and you’ll see in time.”

Chapter Forty-Three

Cardamom Mountains, Koh Kong, Cambodia

The sunlight streamed into James’ eyes. He emerged from the little wooden house to find himself standing at high altitude. It seemed Prak had built his own private camp atop a high crag. He pitched his head forward and caught a glimpse of the main camp below.

James performed a sweep around the house. A sheer drop greeted him on all sides, like a slip ‘n’ slide into an uncertain abyss. One steep trail would take him down to the main camp below. He heard the stream bubbling away, hidden from view. From here, the thin canopy gave him a clear view of the sky and the impressive Cardamom Mountains beyond. The green carpet appeared to stretch on forever, punctuated by the wound of a lake here and there.

Beginning to inch his way down the trail, he had only two pistols. His own Glock 19 and Prak’s fully loaded Tokarev TT-30 were not enough to take on an army of on-edge Khmer.

Remembering Preap’s words, he scooted away from the trail to use the foliage as cover. There were no clicks to fear this far from the main road. James approached the camp, high wooden fence posts towering at least seven feet high.

He saw one entrance, guarded by a Khmer sitting in a chair with his AK-47 across his legs. James carried on, shielded from view. He couldn’t take the risk of trying to sneak past him.

James soon discovered the extent of the Khmer Rouge’s building work. This was no mere camp. It was a small village. As he moved around the perimeter, he happened upon the stream again. The scene of Preap’s betrayal.

He peered up to find the remains of the fence and the buildings ripped apart by the Molotov cocktails. Black skeletal pieces of the constructions reached into the air. The dirty ashen smell of destruction still bristled in his nostrils.

James took a deep breath and approached the gutted fence, his Glock 19 drawn. He found a gap in the fence and peered through. His first glimpse of the camp shocked him. It was crawling with Khmer Rouge. Most of them were either making food, cleaning out their weapons, or laughing with friends. None seemed preoccupied with restoring their damaged home. Maybe they were waiting for Prak to give the order?

James kicked a plank of charred wood free and squeezed through the gap. He should have waited until the cover of night. He might have had a better chance. Crouching down, he weighed his odds. He had to free Dylan and Blake if they were still alive.

He flitted between the buildings. Every time a Khmer Rouge threatened to investigate, he worried it might mean the end. With nobody to ask and no clues, he took to spying through the windows. Nothing looked like a prison to him.

A tinkling bell stopped him in his tracks. Like a tone used to summon a butler. With it, the Khmer Rouge in the centre of the yard stood and followed the sound. Men stepped out of buildings with elevated wooden steps and tramped towards the insistent bell.

James watched in amazement. They all converged upon a long building at the side of the yard huddled underneath the cliff where Prak’s home stood.

He didn’t wait around to ask questions. James rushed to inspect each building up to the north end of the camp.

When James attempted to look through another window, he found black fabric on the inside shielding his view. He reached in and shifted the fabric aside. He saw a single Khmer Rouge, his back turned to him munching on a rice ball. He watched the main doorway. He’d found something.

James pressed his fingers into the window and hoisted himself up. He dangled in the air to avoid kicking the wood. Little by little, he muscled up onto the ledge and into the darkened room.

The guard, chewing away, hadn’t noticed him. He scooped up more rice from a dulled metal plate and licked his fingers each time.

James crept closer, using the shadows for cover. He advanced on his target. When he reached the corner of the room, he squatted down. He didn’t have to wait long. The guard let out a long burp and stretched his legs. He entered the room with the plate at his side. James struck.

He caught the man in the temple with the butt of his gun. The guard dropped onto his side, his head snapping against the unforgiving floor.

James swept the room. It didn’t look much different from Prak’s own home. He turned to leave when an errant breeze fingered the interior. The wall at the other end seemed to move. James approached. In the grimness