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

He leapt up the three steps to the front door. One of the brass numbers nailed to the door had disappeared, leaving only the number four. Darko took a deep breath and planted his foot into the door. The aged door gave way, the lock snapping. It flung open and crashed against the wall.

Darko rushed through to the living room on his left. A young man jumped up from his slumber to meet him. His eyes went wild with fear as Darko fired his weapon at the soldier’s leg. The soldier went down screaming and writhing on the stained carpet.

"Good evening," said Darko through gritted teeth. "Goran, check the house. No witnesses."

Goran ran off to sift through the house. Poorer Bosnians had large families. A visiting relative could ruin their plans.

"Benjamin Alić?"

The soldier screamed in pain at the foot of the sunken sofa clutching his leg. Blood spilled from his thigh and he mewled like a wounded animal.

"Benjamin Alić?" Darko repeated, levelling the gun at his target.

"Yes," he cried.

"Good."

Darko sighed and sat on the adjacent armchair covered in cigarette burns. He planted his feet only inches from Benjamin's face.

Goran's feet thundered back down the stairs, and he returned, breathing heavily. "Nobody here."

"Excellent. Sit down." Darko gestured at an armchair on the other side of the glowing electric fire.

Goran hesitated for a moment, then obeyed his boss. He kept both hands on his weapon, as if the soldier might stop spurting blood across the stained floral-patterned carpet and spring into action.

"You are a soldier?" asked Darko.

Benjamin had managed to shuffle across the carpet with great effort to put his back up against the sofa. Pain etched across his face as he sat in a pool of his own blood.

"Yes."

"How long?"

"Five years. What do you want from me? I don't know you."

Darko left his weapon unattended on the arm of the armchair. Benjamin's eyes darted to it, a ray of hope for the soldier. Darko ignored the crippled man and stretched himself out in the armchair.

"You don't need to know me." He eased his arms behind his head as if he were in his own home. "You are a soldier, and that's enough for us. What do you fight for?"

Goran's shoulders moved up and down as his breathing grew more rapid.

"What?"

"What do you fight for?" Darko snapped.

"For Bosnia."

"For Bosnia, eh?" Darko turned to Goran. "What –"

Benjamin jumped for Darko's weapon. He saw it coming and swiped it away, leaving the soldier flailing at the side of the armchair, his stricken leg collapsing beneath him.

Darko smirked. He'd set the whole thing up. A little game of his to give his victims hope, only to snatch it away. The agony on Benjamin's face was like pornography for him.

"What a shame." Darko shot a bullet into Benjamin's other leg.

Benjamin screamed as his hands grasped for the new wound. Once again, blood spurted onto the carpet as Darko stood and ventured to the mantlepiece. He paid no mind to his writhing victim as he inspected the family photos. Some were in colour, the rest in black-and-white. He picked out a photo of the whole family and turned back to Benjamin.

"Are these your relatives?" he asked.

Benjamin yelped as the blood continued to pour unabated. Greasy red smears dirtied the carpet.

"You fight for Bosnia, then. Are they alive? Nod or shake your head."

Through the agony, Benjamin nodded.

Darko held the photo away from him and then hurled it across the room. The frame and the glass shattered before skittering away into the darkened kitchen.

"Then I send them my condolences," said Darko. "Goodbye, Benjamin."

Darko raised the weapon. Benjamin's mouth opened to shout something, but the suppressed weapon soon put an end to the youthful soldier. His body went limp, the projectile blazing a streak of hot metal through his flesh.

"Was that necessary?" asked Goran.

"No, but sometimes you have to take some time to enjoy life."

Goran's face remained impassive, but his mannerisms told the story. His jittery friend had always disapproved of his slow, methodical way of dismantling his victims. Not that it mattered, it had never compromised them.

"Are we done?" Goran snapped to his feet. "Someone may have heard. These weapons are quiet, not silent."

"The flag, like Kadrić said."

Goran rooted around in his pocket and removed a flag pin. He handed it to Darko. The red, white, and blue horizontal stripes of Republika Srpska caught the light for a moment before he tossed it at Benjamin's body. It rested on his belly, a depressing marker of what this meant.

Srpska wanted war. Srpska wanted its freedom from the yoke of Bosnian oppression. Srpska would have it, soon.