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

“Oh, he will be.”

James didn’t like the surety in Preap’s voice. The thoughts of betrayal he’d shut out of his mind during the skirmish at the outpost returned. This time, James lingered and allowed Blake and Dylan to pass him. If Preap was going to betray them, he would do it in the next few minutes.

The walk through the stream brought its own set of difficulties. The water flowed slowly, but the uneven rocks under their feet on the riverbed made them slip and slide.

Preap stopped. He turned to them as the night sky grew lighter and the moon lost some of its lustre. He placed a single finger over his lips and pointed to the left side of the stream. He forced Blake and Dylan to get in front of him, and with more hand gestures, encouraged them to light their Molotov cocktails.

He then melted back towards James.

“Is that the base?” asked James.

“The corner of it. This is the place.”

James squinted at the place where Preap pointed. “It doesn’t look like much.”

“We built high walls and fortified it. This is as close as we should get, or they might see us first. The stream starts to rise again there.” He pointed at the stream arching upwards next to the camp. “You see?”

James nodded.

“Let them throw first. I told them when they throw, they should run up the hill next to the wall and go in through the main entrance. There are no mines this close to the camp.”

James held back for the two Americans to use Blake’s lighter to ignite the rags sticking out of the bottles. The long rags caught fire and soon the men held two fiery stars in their right hands.

Blake nodded at Dylan and they unleashed their loads. The bottles hurled through the air like fireworks. Two sounds of smashing glass led to a whoosh of fire and the screams of the Khmer Rouge inside the camps.

As Blake and Dylan charged into the burning camp, James readied his AK-47 and jogged after them. He clambered free of the stream as the desperate struggle between life and death began.

A sharp blow struck him in the temple. He registered the strike reverberating throughout his mind. There was no pain. But he knew. He should have heeded his gut. He should have noticed the signs. All this he knew as he fell into a dreamless sleep.

Chapter Forty-One

Like a deep thrum of a war drum, James’ head throbbed. When he opened his eyes, he made out two figures shrouded by a blur, like a washed-out photograph. He blinked but it didn’t help his vision, still unfocused.

“James,” said Preap. “James. Do you hear me?”

James squinted. His vision started to clear, and he could see his surroundings for the first time.

He sat in a wooden house lit by two paraffin lamps. The open windows showed the early light of the morning. Preap had propped him up against the back wall opposite the door. James felt the rough touch of a reed mat underneath him.

Shifting his arms and legs to check himself for injuries, he realised Preap and the Khmer Rouge hadn’t damaged him. The raging headache still sent pulses through his skull. He lifted a hand and pressed it to his temple. They hadn’t bound him. Was he a prisoner or a guest?

He reached for his holster only to find they’d taken his gun.

“Where am I?” asked James.

“In the Cardamom Mountains. You weren’t hit hard. Just enough to knock you out. I’d like to introduce you to someone.” Preap flung a hand towards the other man in the room.

It took a couple of seconds for James to process the face staring him down. Tep Prak, leader of the Khmer Rouge.

“It was you,” James said through gritted teeth. “After all that, you were just leading us to him.”

Preap’s calm expression didn’t shift under the accusation levelled at him. “Yes, James, I did. I brought you here. To him.”

“Why? I took you away from living on the side of the river. I cleaned up your business with Mr. Chea.”

“For that, I’ll always be grateful. That’s why you’re a guest of the Khmer Rouge, not a prisoner. We haven’t treated you badly and have no intention of doing you any harm.”

The mention of ‘harm’ and ‘prisoner’ sent his foggy mind spinning back towards their line of attack from the stream. The last thing he remembered. The burning buildings and two Americans charging into the fray.

“Blake, Dylan, where are they? Are they dead? What have you done to them?”

“They’re alive for now. Comrade Tep assured me that they’re being interrogated and nothing more.”

James recoiled at Preap using Prak’s first name as if they were roommates at university.

“He’s torturing them,” James cried.

Preap sat on a reed mat to his right. He crossed his legs and rocked back on his haunches for a moment.

“If you’re going to kill me just do it. Do it or I’ll kill you… and the rest of them.”

Prak looked upon him with a curious expression, as if he didn’t know what to make of the barang who had managed to climb so high into the mountains. The look of a man in total control, and of a man who knew it.

“Where am I?” James said at last.

“So many questions,” Preap lamented. “Comrade Tep doesn’t speak English so well. The main camp you saw isn’t where he lives. You’re not in the main camp with the rest of them. As I said, you’re a guest of the Khmer Rouge. You should consider this an honour.”

James’ head spun. He couldn’t see Preap and Prak’s purpose in separating him from the Americans. It didn’t make sense for them not to torture him. He couldn’t imagine they would allow him to peacefully hike back