Failed State (A James Winchester Thriller Book 1) (James Winchester Series) by James Samuel (best selling autobiographies TXT) 📕

trudged off the dock and into the trees again. If the FBI wanted to find him, they would only have to follow the drips now.

“Sinclair?”

No answer. The water must have disabled the radio.

James tried to remember the location of the road. The FBI would soon start to fan out into Miami, determined not to let their designated terrorist escape.

He thrashed his way through the thick foliage, the city lights beckoning him forwards. Sinclair had never specified which part of the road they’d meet on. Once again, doubt crept into his mind as he emerged from the trees.

“Freeze!”

James halted. The gun levelled at him came from just a few feet away now. At the last hurdle, he’d stumbled. How could he have made it this far only for someone to catch up with him now? Slowly, he turned to the man holding the gun.

“Get in the car,” said Sinclair. “I’ve put it in a driveway down the hill.”

James didn’t move. He vibrated with a cocktail of rage and adrenaline.

“What?” Sinclair shrugged. “What’s wrong?”

“Fuck off, Sinclair.”

James stalked away to the car, his mission completed, his word intact.

Chapter Sixty-One

A long art deco pier jutted out into the Atlantic just north of Miami in the shadow of the sunset. James sat atop a large hill overlooking the beach below. The locals strolled along the sands as the sun glowed a vibrant red behind him, sending a devilish array of colour to the east.

James puffed on a cigarette as he imagined what it would have been like to enjoy this sort of view with Jessi. A week had passed since the incident at Romero’s mansion. In that time, he’d probed his contacts and managed to come up with nothing. He didn’t know if she was alive or dead. It still bothered him in his dreams.

No matter how many times he asked Sinclair to find her, he said he couldn’t do anything. James didn’t believe him for a second. Sinclair had a knack for tracking anyone down if he tried hard enough.

He groaned as Sinclair materialised behind him and jabbed him in the ribs.

“Another week, I would say, and we can leave. It should have died down enough by then.”

James refused to give Sinclair the satisfaction of getting a complaint out of him. The bullet he’d taken hadn’t managed to penetrate his body armour, but the blunt impact had broken a rib and cracked two others. Every breath came with a twinge. His injuries woke him every few hours with a sharp throb in his torso.

Still, the underground doctor Sinclair sourced had done well. A few weeks and he would be prepared to go back into the field again.

“Good. We are wasting time here. I’m half expecting Gallagher to show up. You heard anything from him yet?” asked James.

Sinclair sat down on the hill next to him. “No, not yet. I suppose he thinks we left Miami immediately. I’ve tried to keep total radio silence, so it doesn’t give us away.”

James grinned. “You’re scared of him, aren’t you?”

“Course I am. You’re a field agent. I work mainly in intelligence. You can take care of yourself. I’m in as much trouble as you are.”

“You shouldn’t worry about Gallagher. He’ll tell us how naughty we’ve been, and then we’ll be back on the next operation. It’s happened before. Whatever he thinks, we know he kept us in the dark about all this. He doesn’t have a leg to stand on, and he knows it.”

“Yes, but haven’t we dealt with enough trouble the last few weeks?”

James thought back to some of their previous operations, where they’d broken the rules and had to face their boss. No, this was far worse. They’d never gone rogue and murdered the client. They’d also never left behind a gutted skyscraper and a pile of dead FBI agents in their wake. Things would take a little longer to blow over this time.

“You’re right,” said James.

“We’re lucky that they haven’t managed to find any suspects in the news. They’re blaming a rival drug cartel and claiming it’s a terrorist attack. Bad news for them. Good news for us. We have nothing to worry about.”

James pinged the remainder of his cigarette off the top of the hill. He picked out another cigarette and lit it, before reclining on his back. If the FBI didn’t know who he was, it didn’t matter. He’d kept his word and he could sleep soundly.

“That agent, did he know your name? Your real name?”

“I told him, but he didn’t name me over his radio. Wouldn’t matter, would it?”

“Don’t be so sure.”

“James Winchester has been legally dead for the last five years, remember?”

“Let’s keep it that way. We don’t want anyone to think about looking into your record.”

Sinclair took out his phone and scrolled through his bursting email inbox. He shoved the screen in James’ face.

James removed his cigarette and read the email. He scratched his temple in confusion.

“Flight tickets,” said Sinclair. “Back to Europe. We shouldn’t stay in America too long. The Americans will be investigating what happened, no matter what they say in front of the news cameras. Even with our identities, I don’t want to take the risk. If we’re found here, nobody will be able to get us out.”

James sighed. Sinclair never could relax. Throughout their week off, he’d done nothing but follow the news and type away on his computer. He seemed determined to dig up any bad news he could.

“Why Europe?”

Sinclair took his phone back and pocketed it again. “I don’t know. Seems like the safest place. The moment we get inside the Schengen Zone, we can move around without having to show our passports. Should be easier to lay low if we need to. Also, we might need to meet Gallagher.”

James couldn’t argue