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

“I’m fine though. They stopped following us after a while. We almost had to run down the mountains. Just tell Thom and Gallagher that it’s done.”

“Will do.”

Sinclair wanted to know more. He wanted to sample every juicy detail. But he only had eyes for Nhek. It was his friend who had betrayed them. Could he trust the smiling tuk-tuk driver at all now?

“Nhek,” Sinclair said when he ended the call. “Who are you working for?”

“I don’t understand, Mr. Sinclair.”

He placed his phone on the table and stared into Nhek’s eyes. “Your friend Preap was a traitor. He was working for the Khmer Rouge the whole time.”

“Oh no, no, no, that’s not possible. Preap is a good, good man now.”

“He’s dead.”

The words hit Nhek like a hammer bashing away against an anvil. His eyes filled with tears.

“He turned James and the others over to Prak. Now he’s dead and what’s left of them are coming back here. I want to know why you’re doing this. What are you looking to get out of it?”

Sinclair observed the impact of his words. He knew psychology. He knew the signs of a liar.

Nhek struggled to hold himself together as tears flowed down his cheek. He wiped them away with a veiny hand.

“Mr. Sinclair, please —”

“You better start talking. James is on his way back and he’ll want an explanation. Men were shot because of Preap.”

“I... I didn’t know.” Nhek sniffed. “I didn’t know anything. He was my good friend.”

Sinclair paused. He saw no lies in Nhek’s face, only a man grieving.

“I don’t want to hurt Mr. James or you.”

“Nhek, why did you get into this business when you had no reason to. Tell me the truth. What do you want from this? Is it money?”

Nhek blubbered. “No money. No money, Mr. Sinclair. It is for my family.”

“Start talking. Now’s the time. James isn’t happy,” Sinclair warned.

Nhek wiped his snot and tears away with the back of his sleeve. “My brother, Mr. Sinclair. He was a policeman. One day he was taken away. They never found the body.”

“What does that have to do with this?”

“Mr. Sinclair, I know it was Pen Thom. I want justice for him and my family.”

Sinclair leaned back in the chair. The plastic shifted under his overweight frame.

“He was a good friend of Mr. Thom. A good friend. Then something happened – my brother never said why – then he disappeared. It was Mr. Thom. There is no coincidence.”

“How do you know your brother is dead?”

“I know, Mr. Sinclair, I know. When people disappear in Cambodia they are gone.” Nhek hung his head. “They are dead.”

“Then if you know who did it, why didn’t you do anything about it?” asked Sinclair. “You even drove him here to meet me.”

“I am not good with violence. I only want peace. I hoped you and Mr. James would help me.”

“That’s why you wanted to help so much?”

“Yes, Mr. Sinclair. I am sorry. I am sorry to keep secrets. You are my friends, Mr. Sinclair.”

Sinclair weighed up Nhek’s story. Now it all made sense. It had always bothered him as to why Nhek always seemed to hang around them like a lost mosquito. But how could he give justice to Nhek, even if he believed him? Thom was the client. They were mercenaries, not Samaritans.

“Nhek,” Sinclair sighed. “This is a lot of information to take in. I’ll need to talk to James about it.”

“You will speak to Mr. James?”

“Yes, Nhek, I’ll speak with Mr. James.”

Nhek brightened at that and bull-rushed Sinclair with thank yous and renewed pledges of allegiance to James and himself.

Sinclair could only raise a brief half-smile. As much as Nhek appeared like one of life’s nice guys, he didn’t know if he could do anything to give him justice. After all, his industry didn’t deal in justice.

Chapter Forty-Five

James kept a low profile after returning to Phnom Penh. After leaving Blake and Dylan at the local hospital, he allowed a day to pass to allow time to meet with Sinclair to sift through the pieces. So much had happened during his time away in the Cardamom Mountains; he needed Sinclair to fill in the blanks.

James and Sinclair left the guesthouse and ventured into a Cambodian restaurant close to the Tonle Sap inlet that linked up with the Mekong. The simple restaurant consisted of little more than tables, chairs, and photographs of Cambodian landscapes. James sat with his back to the obligatory picture of Angkor Wat at sunrise.

He polished off the remainder of his fish amok. The sweet curry came in a bowl of banana leaf and held a strange consistency James compared to custard. He licked his lips of the subtle flavour of lemongrass before leaning back in his chair. A strange mixture of local Khmer pop music and Western hits blared over the speakers affixed to the walls.

“So, where do we go from here?” asked James.

Sinclair flicked his eyebrows. They’d spent most of the meal discussing the current field of play. Prak was dead; another name crossed off the list. The Khmer Rouge were out of commission as a viable threat and they’d struck a blow against General Narith. Now, though, they had Kraavan to deal with and the mysterious power of Shao Fen.

“That depends on what Thom wants. He’s the client; he gets to decide.”

James rolled his eyes. “What does Thom know about conducting an operation like this?”

“Nothing,” Sinclair confirmed. “He’s a politician’s bootlicker. But he’s still the client, and Gallagher will be on our backs if we exceed our mandate. We were lucky not to get pulled out of Cambodia completely after that Prahn Sambath business in Kampot.”

James folded his arms. He preferred clients who listed