Failed State (A James Winchester Thriller Book 1) (James Winchester Series), James Samuel [most read books in the world of all time TXT] 📗

right, he found a Dunkin’ Donuts, its exterior, trimmed with pink, sticking out against the dull concrete and the distant green fields. Scott drove into the Dunkin’ Donuts parking lot and killed the engine.

Scott picked up his phone and hit speed dial for Romero.

“Where are you?” asked Romero.

“In the parking lot of the Dunkin’ Donuts, you told me about. What do you want me to do now?”

“Alright, I want you to drive out of the parking lot onto the main road. Take a left and keep driving. You’ll see a small stream on your right. When you see a hut, you’ll find a narrow dirt road. Drive down there until you hit the canal lock. Park the car and walk across the bridge and I’ll be waiting for you there.”

“Yes, sir. Can I ask what this is about?”

The line went dead. Scott clicked his tongue as all the possibilities ran through his mind. Romero had never acted with such secrecy before. Whenever Scott had a job to do, he received details. He clenched his fists to stop his hands from shaking. His rational mind told him to run. Did Romero know the truth?

Scott knew if he backed out now he would find himself in a Federal prison after everything he’d done. How many months had he spent doing Romero’s bidding, acting as a slave as he helped him carry out his crimes? He balanced the phone back in the dashboard holder and turned back onto the freeway.

As vague as Romero’s instructions were, he didn’t have any difficulty finding the road he described. The overgrown grass on the sloping banks fought for prominence with the reeds poking through the still water. His car bumped along as he tried his best to manoeuvre it around the waterfilled potholes. About a half-mile later, he came to the end of the road.

He found Romero’s car angled towards the bridge. Scott pulled up next to it. Not a sign of humanity. The wind tickled the tops of the trees far across the stream. Scott checked to make sure his pocket-sized Colt 380 Mustang was loaded before stepping out of the car onto the dusty road.

He peered into Romero’s car to check for an ambush. Nothing. Scott tried to maintain his confidence as he passed Romero’s empty car and strode towards the bridge. His leather soles clanged against the metal. At the crest of the bridge, he saw Romero smoking a cigarette, still wearing his sunglasses in the fading light.

“Sir?” Scott raised a hand.

Romero beckoned to him with his free hand. “Good. You made it. Come on, I think I’ve solved our problem.”

“What do you mean, sir?”

“You got your gun?”

“Always.”

“Then follow me.”

Romero led him down a tiny dirt road between the fields. His soles sank in the soft ground. The thin line of trees on his left helped shield the road from the remaining sunlight. In less than an hour, they wouldn’t be able to see without flashlights.

“There.” Romero pointed down a dirt track leading into the overgrown field. “We’ll get our answers now.”

Scott squinted and, to his horror, he found Senator George Black and his ally Jack Hewitt kneeling in the dirt. Two of Romero’s nameless, faceless thugs stood guard behind them.

“How?”

“We got lucky. I found them in Pompano Beach drinking coffee. I would have called you to help, but we took an opportunity. Now, I want answers. I want to know how we can get to Phelps and anything else he might know.” Romero chuckled. “The senator has already had a little accident.”

Scott let out a maniacal laugh. He thought Romero had rumbled him. He straightened himself up as his confidence flooded back to him. In Romero’s eyes, he remained his most loyal companion.

“Kill them afterwards. We can’t let them get back to Miami alive. Come back to the house and we’ll plan our next move.” Romero gritted his teeth. “Make the senator suffer for thinking he could play us.”

“Yes, sir.”

Romero called to his thugs in Spanish. They left their captives to Scott and departed with their boss. Neither of the thugs acknowledged him as they passed. As Scott approached the two men, he found their hands bound with heavy-duty zip ties. They wouldn’t pose a threat to him. Besides, he had a gun.

He watched as Romero disappeared back over the bridge. Scott took a deep breath as he inspected the bruised faces of the two men now in his charge. Rags were stuffed into the mouths.

“Jack Hewitt?” said Scott.

Jack made an anguished grunt.

Scott pulled the rag from his mouth. “What happened?”

His captive coughed, spluttered, and spat out the taste of the oily rag. “Can you take these things off?”

Scott complied and freed Jack. His wrists bled from the plastic slicing into the skin with every slight movement. Jack climbed to his feet on unsteady legs.

“He took us out of Pompano Beach. We didn’t have a chance to fight back or run away. He just came down on us.”

“Then we need to move quickly,” said Scott. “We can’t continue with the current arrangement.” He put his hands on his hips. “This is where he wants you to disappear.”

Jack looked past Scott and tried to arch his head above the high reeds. The sound of a powerful engine fading into the distance signalled Romero’s departure.

“Should we call the Bureau before we start moving?” asked Jack.

George’s eyes swivelled in their sockets at Jack’s mention of the Bureau.

Scott couldn’t help but smirk at his new revelation. “The Bureau can wait until later. This is our only advantage. We need to make it count.”

Jack rubbed his bloody wrists. “Bastard tightened them as much as he could. I thought I was going to lose my hands if I kept those on much longer. Take them off the senator.”

He moved to