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

“I already promised Davenport to allow our team and Xiphos to work together to hunt down Tep Prak. If God is with us, we can still right this. Cooperate with all involved.”

“And Winchester?”

“Skilled. Skilled but no sense of protocol. However, I am nearing the end of my tether. If he were to fall in Cambodia, Blackwind would not be the worse off for it. I can reassign Sinclair Wood without too many problems.”

Blake hid his trembling hands beneath the edge of the camera. “What are you saying, sir?”

“If the opportunity arises, do what’s right for our organisation. I have faith in you. You have, largely, been extremely reliable. You’ve merely endured a series of unreliable partners.”

“Yes, sir.”

Blake couldn’t hide his nerves. Gallagher had given him the green light to liquidate anyone from Blackwind. He would have his boss entirely within his debt. When Gallagher made a personal request, it mandated a reward of some kind. His stock within the organisation would rise exponentially.

“Your mission has been expanded. I want General Narith, Pen Thom, and Winchester in coffins by the time you leave Cambodia.”

“Yes, sir. Yes.”

“Don’t fail me, Blake.”

Gallagher disconnected the call, leaving Blake to process what had happened. He thought James might be recalled to London. Never in his darkest dreams did he think Gallagher would go this far.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Bangkok, Central Thailand, Thailand

Khao San Road shook with the bass reverberating from a hundred speakers. Bars luring budget-minded travellers to the backpacking Mecca of Southeast Asia tried to outdo one another, blaring music inside and outside their neon-strung watering holes. Young Westerners roamed the streets with their oversized bags plastered with sewn-on flags from around the world.

Cheerful Thais eager to keep up the pretence of the Land of Smiles cajoled and harassed any foreigner in sight with grand promises of visits to the floating markets of the Chao Phraya River, tailored shirts, and cheap drugs. The short one-kilometre street offered every aspect of a promised paradise.

Qiu Fu, Shao’s man of action in search of Tep Prak, drifted past a woman selling shiny black scorpions on a stick. The Khmer Rouge leader had made contact soon after Sambath’s death. He wanted help, but he was smart. Meeting in Thailand provided him with neutral ground. The Thai authorities cared nothing for Khmer Rouge criminals.

Qiu turned off Khao San Road and ventured into the side streets. He felt the looks of the locals, unused to seeing a well-dressed foreigner in these piss-stained alleys. Here, little bars sprang up. They were no more than a strip of metal with a few stools lit with colourful neon lighting. Laughter and merriment filled the air, along with the smell of freshly cooked meat and enormous vats of white rice.

He found Prak, his paranoid eyes scanning the alley, his back to the wall as he sat on a plastic chair. One hand gripped a lime and pomegranate juice, perhaps the only foreigner not drinking alcohol.

Qiu admired Prak’s wherewithal. He knew not to make himself vulnerable, even in full view of the public.

“Prak,” Qiu said in English.

“Qiu Fu.” Prak nodded. “Sit down.”

Qiu didn’t take kindly to any command, but he sat anyway. Without asking his preference, Prak signalled the waiter to bring Qiu the same juice. His masters in Beijing had given him strict instructions to play nice. Theirs were the only orders he would obey.

“So, Shao Fen has turned against me?” It was not a question but a statement of fact.

Qiu turned his head. “You should take care not to insult those who helped you for so long.”

Prak’s scarred face told the stories of his battles over the decades. He wouldn’t fall for sweet words or lies.

Qiu clenched his teeth. “We have not turned against you.”

“Don’t lie to me. You sent your foreigners to kill Prahn Sambath. I already sent my men to talk to the family. They said the assassins were hired white men.”

“Then your men should have gone to school as you did. He was killed by foreigners, but not ours. Hun Sen has also hired foreigners.”

Prak’s face remained hard, but he raised his near hairless eyebrows.

“We both want the same thing. I’m in Cambodia to protect China’s business. We both want Sen dead. It wouldn’t make good business to kill you or your men.”

“Maybe that’s true. But the facts are the facts. My second-in-command is dead. How are we supposed to make war against Sen when my successor is dead? I can’t command every battle at the same time.”

Qiu smelt blood in the water. Prak had softened. Now he could lure him back to his side and strike. He was armed. One slip and Prak would die. Shao’s foreigners had outlived their usefulness.

“I’m sure you have capable men who can be trained,” said Qiu as his juice arrived. “Shao wants you to be patient. The time will come.”

Prak’s expression lightened. “Good. Then I will meet Shao when I return to Cambodia. Please. Enjoy. The juice is very good.”

Qiu and Prak sipped their juices together. Qiu licked his lips as the sweet fruits set a pleasant flame upon his tongue.

The two men spoke of their plans. How to recover from the blow of losing Sambath. Qiu had plenty of experience in organisation and management. Like Shao, he’d risen high up in the army. Qiu spoke knowing he would betray Prak the moment he had the chance. Leaderless, the last of the Khmer Rouge would begin to fade.

“When will you go back to Cambodia?” Qiu asked with a smile.

“Soon. Within days.”

“How about a trip to Sihanoukville one week from today? It would give you an opportunity to check on the progress of our naval installations.”

“Yes. Yes. By all means.”

Qiu stood to go to the bathroom. The bar