Overthrow (A James Winchester Thriller Book 2) (James Winchester Series) James Samuel (reading tree TXT) 📖

Sinclair?” asked Blake brusquely. “This better be good. You’ve already had two days to look around for this Sambath guy and so far, nothing.”

Sinclair perched himself on the austere wooden chair, the only one in the room. “I haven’t managed to find him yet.”

Blake threw his hands up in despair. “You’ve got to be kidding me. What did you call me here for? At least he only has to walk down the hall. I had to come all the way across town to get here.”

“Only because you refused to stay here,” said James.

“I have some standards, my man.”

“Enough,” Sinclair snapped. “I’m not in the mood to listen to this again. I called you here not because I found Sambath. We would never manage to find his location here without some luck. Besides, he appears to be a man who moves around a lot. Instead, I did some digging into his background and found where his family lives.”

Blake whooped and slapped Sinclair hard on the back. “Good job. Finally, you’ve come up with something good. That’ll be great.”

“It’s about five or six hours from here south, just outside of Kampot. It’s a riverside town. Used to be a quiet place but you get a lot of tourists there now. That shouldn’t be a problem because the family lives on a small farm outside of town.”

James ran his tongue around the sides of his mouth as he considered it. He knew what Sinclair was getting at. They would need to use Sambath’s relatives to shake him from hiding. It reminded him of the incident in Mexico all over again. He’d taken a narco’s mother hostage to bring him out of hiding. It had worked, but it had come with tragic consequences.

“What do you know about Sambath’s family?” asked Blake.

“Nothing much, only that the family acquired the farm in the fifties. That was just after Cambodia became independent from France.”

“That’s not much help.”

“We don’t need to know anything more. These are farmers. I doubt they pay taxes or file any forms with the government. The point is, if you understand rural Cambodian culture, you will know that people who grow up on the farm tend not to go far from the farm.”

“Yeah, but who’s to say Sambath will do anything if we take his family hostage? I could shoot them, and he probably wouldn’t know about it.”

Sinclair folded his arms and leaned back in his chair. “Khmer families are very close. They’ll know how to contact him, I’m sure of it. Either way, we have no other choice, Blake. This is all we have for now and we lose nothing by trying, right?”

James had remained quiet throughout the whole exchange. He sat on the edge of the bed. Sinclair knew what could happen in the field, but he didn’t understand. The man who sat behind a computer didn’t know the feeling of taking women and children hostage to get to someone. He also didn’t have to endure the lengths their targets would go to free their family members.

“James?” Sinclair swivelled around in his seat. “What do you think?”

“If it’s the only way to bring Sambath out of hiding, then we’ll do it.” James looked up at Blake. “Just don’t hurt any of them. They have nothing to do with this.”

Blake scoffed at the idea. “As long as they don’t try anything, I’m cool with it. But if Sambath wants to play hardball, I’m going to start shooting.”

James nodded, knowing it was about as much ground as he could hope to extract from Blake. His detestable partner wasn’t a psychopath revelling in suffering, but, in his mind, he was justified in committing any number of atrocities if it meant he could achieve a goal.

“Come here, both of you. I need to show you some maps of the area,” said Sinclair.

The two men gathered around Sinclair and honed in on the computer screens in front of them. The trap had almost been set.

Chapter Eighteen

Kampot, Kampot Province, Cambodia 

Kampot once served as the principal seaport of Cambodia. Only three miles from the Gulf of Thailand, the more adventurous tourists trooped through this quaint riverside town free of touts and bar crawls. Despite the paved roads, vicious orange dust kicked up with every passing bus and tuk-tuk, coating the ankles of pedestrians.

James and Blake pulled into town in a rented black saloon car. He felt awkwardly distinctive in this overpriced behemoth. The Khmer turned under their plastic awnings and children stopped to gawp as the car passed.

“God damn it.” Blake slammed on the horn. “I’ll have to take this to the car wash.”

James moved the hand he’d been using to cover his embarrassment. Their car found itself trapped behind a bulky dump truck. Brown speckles covered the once dark, shining dumper at the back. It belched toxic black smoke into their windscreen.

“This is only drawing attention to us,” said James. “Everyone living here is going to know who we are.”

“I really don’t give a damn.”

James forced down his burning retort. During the four-hour journey out of Phnom Penh, he’d successfully avoided speaking to Blake. He didn’t want to get drawn into yet another conflict with the American.

“So, here’s what we’re going to do.” Blake revved the engine as the truck took a right turn, cleaving the dust swirling in the air. “First we check-in. I’m going to take a shower, and then we’ll scope the place out.”

“Fine,” said James. “I’ll ring Sinclair. Maybe he has something we can use.”

“Do you need him to hold your hand all the way?”

“There’s no harm in finding out if he has anything new. It’s not like I have anything better to do whilst you trim your nails and gel your hair.”

“Your choice, but I already have a plan. Sambath should enjoy his last days of