by James Samuel
Interdiction
A James Winchester Thriller Book Three
Copyright © James Samuel 2021
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CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Four
Chapter Sixty-Five
Chapter Sixty-Six
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Chapter One
Sarajevo, Sarajevo Canton, Bosnia and Herzegovina
Night fell over Sarajevo. Death moved within the traumatised capital of Bosnia and Herzegovina. On the outskirts of the city, overgrown trees masked the rickety houses. Some had been rebuilt after the Yugoslav Wars, others still had the holes from shrapnel bursts as a grim reminder of what had been lost.
Darko Borisov and Goran Pejakovski sat in an idling grey Honda Civic. The model from the 1990s blended in on a street like this. Few residents on the fringes of town owned a car made after 2000.
Darko scratched at his heavily gelled hair. "Almost midnight. He still has his lights on in the house."
"I told you, he stays up late," Goran replied in his native Bosnian. "He's a soldier. Maybe he knows something is wrong."
Darko withdrew a Marlboro from the packet in the glove compartment and lit it. "Soldiers are paranoid. We always had to be during the war. If you're not paranoid, you die. Bosnian soldiers are weak but not stupid."
"Then he knows how to fire a gun." Goran gripped the steering wheel. "Maybe we should come back in a few hours."
"No. This is a war. In war, people fire guns."
Goran drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and kept pushing his glasses up onto the bridge of his nose. Darko noted his friend's nervousness. He'd always been like this, jumpy and anxious, yet when the fighting started, Goran always did what was necessary.
"You are lucky," Darko continued. "You just never die."
Goran turned to him. "Don't tempt fate. Only God decides when my time has come."
Darko held the cigarette between his tobacco-stained teeth and reached down into the footwell of the vehicle. He removed his semi-automatic Browning Hi-Power 9mm pistol. Darko had chosen the model himself. His contacts could get him anything he wanted, but he preferred smaller weapons. They made less noise. He affixed an AAC TiRant Suppressor to the end of it.
"Let's go, Goran."
"Darko, not now."
"Out of the car," he said calmly.
Darko waited for Goran to sigh and turn off the ignition. Like Darko, Goran wielded the same suppressed pistol.
"Kadrić only wants the soldier to die. Nothing more. The war hasn't started yet," Goran said as he turned to open the door.
"Kadrić is not here. This is my operation, Goran, don't forget that."
Darko didn't wait for more of Goran’s protests and climbed into the cool evening air. The old streetlights did little more than cast small pools of light on the street. Gaping cracks and full puddles pockmarked the shattered concrete.
He scanned the street for anyone watching from their windows. Nearly every home had overgrown trees and bushes, making it near impossible for residents to see the street. In the low orange lights of Sarajevo's outskirts, Darko stepped into the shadows.
They moved along the street for another look at the two-storey home. Two wooden chairs sat on a neglected patio. The low chain-link fence surrounding the garden had no gate. Many of the chains were rusted and twisted into pretzel-like shapes.
"He lives with no one?"
"Yes," said Goran. "I saw nobody go in and out in the last week. Maybe his elderly mother or father?"
Darko shrugged. "No threat. I will go first. Check your weapon."
Goran clicked his ammunition into place and removed the safety.
Satisfied, Darko led the way across the uneven street and advanced on the garden. A light burned in the living room, casting a weak glow over the tufts of scraggly grass. It illuminated a rusted children's tricycle, flakes of red paint clinging to the metal.
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.
Chapter Two
The winds of winter bit into the frozen fabric of Sarajevo. A cloudy smog drifted over the mountains and into the valley of the scar tissue of Sarajevo. James Winchester peered towards the valley’s peaks and found only clouds, tainted a toxic grey.
“Well, what do you think?” asked Sinclair Wood.
“You’ve been here before, haven’t you?”
“Many years ago. When it was still Yugoslavia. Before the war. But I doubt it’s changed that much since I left. You never visited Bosnia?”
“Mercifully, no, if it’s always this cold. Go use your intelligence skills to find us a taxi.”
Sinclair waddled away, his chubby figure made larger by the thick woollen coat he held tight around him. James smoked his cigarette at the entrance to the Sarajevo International Airport. His friend’s lightening-red hair stood out against the concrete towers of the distant downtown.
Only a month after their adventures in Cambodia, the boss of Blackwind, Joseph Cecil Gallagher, had ordered them back into the field. This time to a smoky, freezing city that looked to James like all the joy had been drained from this corner of the world.
Sinclair returned jabbing his thumb. “Over there. He’ll take us into town for a good price.”
“Did he tell you that?”
Sinclair shrugged. “Let’s just go before we freeze to death.”
“How many marks do you have?”
Sinclair unbuttoned the top few buttons of his coat and stuck his stubby fingers inside. He brought out a small leather wallet and began counting through the greys, oranges, and reds of the post-war Bosnian Mark.
“A few hundred Euros worth,” said Sinclair.
“Your father would be so disappointed. His only son with so little money in his pocket.”
Sinclair smirked and replaced the wallet back in his coat. “Don’t worry, Bosnia has never been an expensive country. Now, get in.”
The silver sedan idled at the side of the road. James tossed away the remains of his cigarette and approached the rear door.
Their driver wore a flat cap and unkempt stubble. He didn’t move to take their bags until Sinclair dropped them by the back wheel of the silver sedan.
The driver, who spoke in broken English and a thick accent, threw the bags inside and slammed the trunk.
“So, where are we going?” asked James over the roof of the car.
Sinclair ducked inside. “Hotel Old Town.”
James arched an eyebrow as he climbed in and the taxi pulled off. “Creative name.”
The intelligence agent ignored the snide comment as he pulled out his phone and began typing away with stubby fingers. Sinclair handled intelligence on their assignments but also planning, which meant James had no say in their accommodations.
Warm air slammed into their faces, mixed with the smell of dust and decay from the filthy heating vents. Bosnian pop blared from the radio. The driver kept one hand on the wheel and puffed out his cheeks in irritation every time they stopped at the traffic lights.
“So, what do you know about Sarajevo?” asked James. “You were here years ago.”
Sinclair waved a hand through his rapidly thinning hairline. Like most sons of the rich, he had travelled widely before joining Blackwind. On daddy’s unlimited budget, he could go where others couldn’t, a luxury James never had. He joined the Coldstream Guards at the age of 16, a decision that came to a bad end.
“I’m sure it’s changed a lot since I came here,” Sinclair said, looking up from his phone. “In all seriousness. It was a different country then. When we check into the hotel, you can have the history lesson.”
“I hope it has heating for a start. I bet Gallagher posted us here out of spite.”
Sinclair rolled his eyes. “Don’t be silly.”
“This goes against the regulations. Our contracts state that all field agents are entitled to a specific period of leave before they are reassigned. A point I made very clear to Gallagher the last time I spoke to him.”
Sinclair looked through the dirty windows of the cab. The drab buildings coming into view signalled the main part of the city. Brutalist architecture reigned supreme, with government and media buildings becoming lost in the low-lying smog.
“I suppose you’re not wrong. The timing of this assignment is unorthodox,, but we could have turned it down.”
James bit his tongue. He knew Gallagher had had it in for him for a long time. Yet he continued to complete every kill the boss assigned to him. The more he succeeded, the more
Blackwind’s reputation grew. The more lucrative the contracts, the harder the targets. Gallagher had to keep him if he wanted to stay on top of the game.
“Well, I didn’t, did I?” said James. The veiled snicker conveyed his resentment for the discomforts Sarajevo promised.
“I know. I was there. You argued with him for twenty minutes and then you said you’d do it anyway. I always admire you when you take a stand.”
“Yes, yes, thank you, Sinclair.” He didn’t want to start off the job on the wrong foot, but he couldn’t let his partner’s digs go unnoticed.
But then James let the pettiness with Sinclair go and mulled over the argument with Gallagher. It was true he had bent and agreed to this Bosnian contract, but he had no choice. James knew nothing else. His career choice had prepared him for a life in dealing death.
The driver began weaving his way through downtown Sarajevo. They approached the high, crumbling apartment blocks. For the first time, James saw the scars of the war that made this city famous. Jagged starbursts from shrapnel and bullet holes crawled along the walls. Sarajevo had made little effort to obscure them, instead embracing them as a tourist attraction.
They crossed a polluted river and began winding their way to the historical part of town. High on a hill above the city was a centuries’ old fortress, its limestone ruins partly obscured by the smog. When they came to a halt, they did so in front of a grey building with high windows and peeling frames. Faded band posters and business cards were stuck to the window of its heavy wooden front door.
James climbed out of the sedan without waiting for Sinclair to pay the driver. His instincts forced him to sweep the area for threats. He faced a three-corner junction with the Hotel Old Town bifurcating the modern downtown stretching in one direction, the historical old town heading down the other, and, finally, behind them, the toxic river. Nothing out of the ordinary.
Sinclair slammed the passenger door shut. “Are you going to help or are you waiting for a porter? This isn’t the Hilton.”
“Seems secure enough,” said James.
“Of course, it’s secure. Don’t you think I’d make sure our accommodations are secure? This is not the Royal Shakespeare Company, but security is part of my job, you know.”
