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

greetings and fun facts didn’t qualify as a translator. Nevertheless, he had no other choice. Maybe he would get lucky?

Dylan followed Nhek into the crowded eatery. They jostled for space at one of the plastic tables. Khmer slurped at their breakfast soups protected their positions with sharp elbows. Yet despite the tense battle raging, nobody seemed to take any of it with bad humour.

Nhek greeted a man at the counter with warm smiles. They spoke to each other in Khmer.

At last, Nhek turned back to Dylan. “He is here. The tour guide is his brother. He takes barang all over Cambodia. You are a very lucky man, Mr. Dylan, he came back from a three-day tour last night. He is very tired, so please forgive him.”

Dylan grunted his assent.

The Khmer behind the counter wiped his hand on a soiled dishrag and gestured to them to follow along the yellowed tile floor. The Khmer sat them in a place of apparent honour at a private plastic table in the corner. Dylan felt the steam and smell of fresh food each time the kitchen door opened.

“This is a good place.” Nhek tapped his forefinger on the table as he sat. “Very good place. This is the table for the owner and his family. You are a lucky, lucky man.”

Dylan managed to raise a smile, but he didn’t feel lucky. His life had been clear only weeks ago. From the moment he landed in Cambodia that stability had been etched away and within hours he would have a price on his head from his former boss Sir Richard.

After a round of tea, a stocky, sleepy Khmer appeared from the kitchen. His bloodshot eyes contrasted with his navy-blue shirt. He appeared to be little more than thirty, but with Khmer it was near impossible to tell.

“Mr. Dylan, this my friend Sor. He will help you. He knows Chinese.”

Dylan stood to shake Sor’s hand. “Hello.”

“Mr. Dylan, a pleasure to meet you.” Sor clasped his hands together in Buddhist fashion. “I am very tired, but I can help you with your Chinese.”

“Just Dylan, please.”

Sor bowed his head again. “Yes, Mr. Dylan. Your name is very hard for us, but I have it.”

Dylan blinked and put their manner of addressing people down to a national trait. “Yes, yes, I don’t have much time, Sor, I’m sorry.” He showed Sor the sheaf of documents. “This is what I need you to read to me. I need to know what they say, and fast.”

Sor took the sheaf within his long fingers. “This will take a few hours for me to read it all. Is it all Chinese, Mr. Dylan?”

“Yes, all of it. I don’t need to know everything just the general message if you get what I mean?”

“Yes, I can do that. I have no tours today, so you are a lucky man. It should take me a few hours. I can’t go faster. There’s a lot of paper here.”

“Got it. How much do you want for it? Consider it a priority, and I’ll pay you well for it.”

Sor looked to Nhek and they conversed in Khmer again. Every so often they would look back at him and smile. Dylan already had a bad feeling about the price. He could afford it, but he knew he was spending his last paycheque.

“Five hundred dollar,” said Sor.

Dylan’s jaw almost hit the table. “Five hundred dollars?”

“Five hundred dollar,” Sor repeated. “And I read you now. I read Chinese good for you, Mr. Dylan.”

Dylan clamped his teeth on his tongue and dragged his wallet from his pocket. He counted out the money with much less grace than he had with Nhek only hours earlier. Let Sor take his pound of flesh, he didn’t have time to negotiate or go looking for someone else, and he was sure Nhek had told him that.

Sor pounced on the notes and stuffed them into his pocket. “Mr. Dylan, I start now, just for you.”

To Sor’s credit, he planted himself on one of the spare chairs and began to read the documents from cover to cover. Dylan still didn’t know how good Sor’s Chinese was, but as he watched the Khmer’s creased brow and the clear concentration on his face, he lightened a little.

He could only hope that it was five-hundred dollars well-spent.

Chapter Sixty-Two

Siem Reap, Siem Reap Province, Cambodia

 

The sky wrote a message in the clouds. A crimson morning signalled blood had fallen and more blood that would be shed by the time another perfect cloudless sky greeted Cambodia. James had fought his way to the hill and, finally, managed to claim some breathing space.

The soldiers moved into full retreat. James crawled along, swiftly, catlike, crouching low. Each time the soldiers sent a volley of bullets flying back at him, he dove to the ground and fired back. The bullet piercing his skin continued to send bolts of fire into his back. Each time he bent down or flexed, his wound reminded him of his limited movement.

He took in deep breaths. Exhaustion started to set in at the worst possible moment. He felt his mind tiring, his body growing weary with the fight to survive. And, now, he approached the true rallying point. The lookout point.

“I need to call Sinclair again,” James muttered.

At a lull in the fighting, he pulled out the phone and pressed down on speed dial. The phone rang and rang, but Sinclair didn’t pick it up. James let fly a loud curse as he lowered the phone from his ear.

He heard a battle cry, and a great weight clattered into his back. The M4A1 was strapped around his neck by a leash. He just managed to spin away before he fell on top of it. Turning over, he found a wounded soldier, the poor, foolish amateur who