Interdiction (A James Winchester Thriller Book 3) (James Winchester Series) James Samuel (ebook voice reader txt) 📖

James found the sudden timescale suspicious, but he couldn't imagine why. He wondered if Sinclair's injury had made him nervous about remaining in Bosnia at all.

"Darko Borisov," Sinclair announced. "has been a known associate of Sadik Kadrić for many years. He is well-known to the police in both Srpska and the Federation. There are also records on him in Serbia, Croatia, Hungary, and Montenegro. Crimes range from suspected smuggling all the way to murder."

"Our man gets around, clearly. I suppose he will be a much more difficult target than Pejakovski."

"He has served prison time before, but only on very minor charges. His maximum sentence was three-and-a-half years for stabbing a man in the leg in Sarajevo. This was when he was younger. No other charges managed to stick." Sinclair's brow furrowed. "Finch's dossier says he has connections to the Serbian and Russian mafias. He may or may not have been involved in small acts of ethnic cleansing in the immediate post-war period."

"That would put him around his mid-40s, if he was only a young man during the war."

"Yes, that's correct. You should have a physical advantage. Here, this is his picture from the police files."

Sinclair turned his laptop around to show the police mugshot of Darko. James squinted at it, imprinting the face in his mind. Time might have ravaged him since, but his facial structure wouldn't have changed him that much. His face had a darkness about it, like a rage boiled within, ready to explode at any moment. Darko's eyes bulged, as if staring him down from the past.

James nodded. "Let's get started. I think we should begin by asking around Kakanj first. It's likely someone will know –"

Sinclair's phone rang. "Hold on one moment." He placed the laptop down on the floor behind him and answered the call. "Kemal, what is it?"

James clenched his fists at the thought of Kemal daring to call Sinclair after everything that happened. He still couldn't be sure that Kemal was truly on their side. Since Mostar, James had tormented himself over what Kemal could stand to gain by seeing them dead. Could it be just about money?

The colour left Sinclair's face. "We're on our way."

"What is it?"

"They've attacked Ratko."

"Ratko? Who's attacked Ratko?"

Sinclair snapped his laptop shut. "The Bosnian-Serb nationalists. Come on, Kemal is over there now. Ratko's taken a heavy beating. Let's go find out what happened. Maybe he can tell us something."

James snapped up from his seat, grabbing his coat from the hook next to the balcony doors. So, Kadrić had retaliated at long last. Now, the advantage of anonymity had left them. Kadrić knew he had a price on his head.

Chapter Thirty-Four

The White Rose headquarters looked like a bombsite. Every screen had been smashed. The sofa rested on its side. Only the windows remained intact. James noted a chunk had even been taken out of the mantlepiece with what looked like a hammer.

James and Sinclair arrived behind Kemal and Nazifa. Kemal shook with rage as he cradled his son on the other sofa, a coiled spring poking through its side. His head rested in his lap. Ratko looked less like a human and more like a piece of meat. His face had been pulverised beyond recognition. His arm hung limp, useless off the side of the sofa. The glasses he wore rested a little way away, a drop of blood settled in the crack.

Nazifa returned to the room with a bowl of water and a bag of cotton wool. She dabbed at his cuts and bruises, for all the good it did. Both of Ratko's eyes were almost swollen completely shut. The nationalists had taken their time in torturing him.

James felt a pang of anger. They'd attacked the weakest of them all, the only man who would never fight back no matter what they did to him. This wasn't an attempted killing, it was a message, a message to him, Sinclair, Kemal, and Nazifa.

Nazifa spoke into Ratko’s ear in soft Bosnian tones.

Kemal clicked his fingers at her. She handed him a soft ball of cotton wool, which he dipped in the water. Little by little the dried blood disappeared, leaving only harsh blue-black bruises.

Nazifa stood and approached them.

"Did he say anything about the attack?" asked Sinclair.

"Nothing yet. He's awake, but he needs time."

"Kemal?" said James. "Ask him about who they were."

Kemal inclined his head. His expression softened. Lowering his head, he spoke to his son in tones barely above a whisper.

"Three of them. They ambushed him at the door. He didn't recognise them, and they didn't use their names,” said Kemal.

"Maybe I can help." Sinclair removed his shoulder bag and took out his laptop. "We found out some useful information about one of the Bosnian-Serbs. He's our next target. Very close to Kadrić. Let me show you a picture, Ratko."

Ratko didn't respond. His bloodied eyes continued to stare at the ceiling.

James took the open laptop from Sinclair, the picture of Darko filling the screen. As he approached Ratko, he saw life behind his swollen eye sockets. Whatever injuries the nationalists had inflicted, Ratko's mind remained as alert as ever. James positioned the laptop above his face.

"Was this one of them?"

Ratko' jerked forward, wincing in pain. "Yes."

"There we are," James announced. "Darko Borisov must have been leading the men who attacked. You have my word, Ratko, that we'll avenge you. He will never be able to do anything like this again."

"No." Ratko's voice came low and throaty. "Enough. This has gone on long enough. Violence creates more violence. Look what you've done." He let out a cough akin to a death rattle. "You made me a target. I don't want revenge. I don't want anything more. I'm alive, and that's what matters. No more."