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

He held the pistol in front of him. With his left hand, he swept the fabric aside. His trigger finger twitched in retreat. The broken figures of Blake and Dylan.

Both men showed the extent of their beatings. They’d been stripped to the waist. Angry welts and vicious cuts crisscrossed their flesh. Dylan had been tied to a chair. Blake had it worse. They’d tied him to a wooden structure resembling a crucifix and affixed it to the wall.

James removed the gag from Dylan’s mouth. “Come on. Are you alright?”

Dylan responded with great gulps of air. “What happened to you?”

“Later.”

James busied himself with untying Dylan’s arms and feet. To his credit, James thought, he didn’t flop forwards like most hostages. Dylan grimaced as his joints cried out in relief, but he still managed to rise to his feet.

“We thought you were dead when we didn’t see you,” said Dylan. “Wait, what about the guard?”

“Out like a light. There was a bell and the lot of them went into a building.”

“Meals,” Dylan confirmed. “I’ve heard it three times.”

“Are you sure you’re alright?”

“These?” Dylan rotated his arms. “Just superficial. Hurts like hell though, but they’ll heal. Blake got it hard. They took a disliking to him.”

James turned to Blake on the crucifix. His face bore the grey mark of hopelessness. One of his eyes had swollen shut. He was a mess.

He released Blake from his torture device. He managed to stand for a moment only to drop to his knees.

“How... how did you get out?” Blake said between desperate gasps.

“I’ll tell you later.”

Blake sat back on his haunches. His body trembled in pain.

“Can you walk? We don’t have much time.”

“I can walk. Just give me a minute. You look like you haven’t got a scratch on you.”

“It was a setup. I never even got inside,” said James. “Preap and Prak were together.”

“Dirty bastards,” Blake growled.

“Prak’s dead. They’re both dead. Come on.”

Blake wobbled to his feet. He’d never seen the American look so weak. A few tentative steps and James wondered whether he could get Blake out of the Cardamom Mountains at all.

“Here.” James handed Dylan the Tokarev pistol. “This was Prak’s. It’s all we got.”

“They took our weapons.” Dylan turned the pistol over in his hand. “We won’t get them back. How are we going to get back without Preap?”

“Slowly.” James threw the piece of black fabric aside. “We’ll stick to the trail... if we can get out of the camp.”

The three men left the torture chamber. The guard continued to sleep softly. James attempted to calculate how long it would take the rest of them to finish their lunch. He didn’t like the answer.

“Out the window. We’ll take the stream.”

Nobody argued as they climbed out of the building. Blake had to be helped down, shaking with every step, his breathing heavy.

James knew they wouldn’t last if the Khmer Rouge pinned them down in the camp. They had to get onto the trail, where they could use stealth and strategy to negate the Khmer Rouge’s superior numbers.

The three mercenaries hopped from building to building. By the time they made it around to the broken fence, the first guerrillas emerged from the building patting their bellies.

“Shit.” James shoved Dylan forwards. “Take Blake. Hurry. Where the fence has burned away.”

James held his pistol with a two-handed grip. He kept his eyes on the small army leaving their mess hall. A shout gripped him. He didn’t know what it was for a moment, then it hit him. The guard had come to.

“Move!” James shouted and began running. It didn’t if they saw him now. “Get as far down the trail as you can. We need a chokepoint.”

James crashed through the fence, bruising his shoulder as he charged and splintered a piece of scorched timber. The first shot came whizzing in their general direction.

He hurled himself towards the stream. Dylan had managed to force Blake away from the camp. The shots kept coming and coming.

He searched for a place to return fire. There was nowhere safe. James jumped and vaulted over fallen logs, ducked under hanging vines, and tumbled through the undergrowth. The shots didn’t come close, but he wasn’t losing their pursuers either.

He reunited with Dylan and Blake close to the side of a cliff jutting out onto the path.

“They’re coming.” James wiped the sweat from his forehead. “Blake, how’s it going?”

“I’m fine. But I don’t have a gun. I’m going to go get me one.”

“Just sit down. You’re no good to us like this.”

“We don’t have time. I can hear them,” said Dylan.

The chokepoint wasn’t the best and wasn’t the worst. The ancient rocks provided them with little cover. James just hoped they wouldn’t get flanked.

The first Khmer Rouge sprinted down the trail. James raised his weapon and fired with Dylan in tandem. Two men dropped and fell, rolling to a halt twenty feet away.

James pressed himself against the wall. The lethal rattle of an AK-47 sprayed the forest.

He returned fire, managing to catch the guerrilla in the leg. The Kalashnikov released another burst as he fell. Birds for miles around shrieked and yelled as they scrambled to get away.

“We can’t hold them off forever,” said James as more fire peppered their position. “We’ll run out of bullets before they run out of men.”

“Just let them know the cost is too high for them to keep coming,” said Blake.

“Does anyone remember what’s down the trail?” asked Dylan as he fired another shot.

“Only the outpost, but it’s not close,” replied James.

“Give me some covering fire,” said Blake. “I’m getting that gun.”

“Blake —”

James cursed as Blake broke cover and ran towards the nearest Khmer