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

roads to avoid getting lost. Even in safe Guanajuato City, cholos, dealers, and other unsavoury characters lurked in the maze of back streets after sunset.

At the bus stop, he fought his way through the crowds trying to get on the rickety local bus that would take him to the meeting. The bus growled like a powerlifter as it pulled away from the curb. Its long shot suspension bounced and jarred with every corner and bump as it made its way to the station. The sheer number of people crammed into the bus made it impossible for him to observe everyone, which added to his uneasy feelings about the job.

Mercifully, the bus began to empty as they closed on their destination. James had enough breathing room to inspect the people before him and scan his surroundings for threats. None of the passengers gave him a second look.

By the time they pulled into the intercity bus station on the edge of town, night had almost fallen, and the streetlights blazed into life. Shadows covered the niches of the station and the surrounding fields grew in menace.

James climbed off the bus with a great puff of his cheeks and settled into a shady nook next to the main doors. He lit a cigarette and kept checking the time on his phone. He had timed it, so he’d arrive only minutes before Mario. That old familiar nervous beating of his heart surfaced, as it always did during the minutes and seconds before a mission officially began. During the mission, he felt nothing. He became cold, merciless, an ambassador of death itself.

Down the road, a car turned the corner. The gaudy S550 Mercedes-Benz cruised down the road, standing out against all others. The waiting taxi drivers turned their heads at its exquisitely polished rims and blacked-out windows. James didn’t need a signal to tell him the narcos had arrived. He approached the car with as much confidence as he could manage.

The window of the rear seat rolled down and Mario stuck his head out. “Get in the other side.”

James rounded the car and climbed into the back. He sank into black leather seating, as soft as a cloud.

“Were you followed?” asked Mario.

“No. I came by bus to make sure.”

“Good.”

Next to the driver, a narco sat in the front in designer jeans and a sports jacket. The passenger, Mario’s lieutenant brother never looked around at him.

“Where are we going?”

“You’ll see,” said Mario.

Banda music boomed from the car’s stereo system. Nobody spoke. They cruised away from the station and through the tollbooth marking the boundary of Guanajuato City. The driver put his foot down and the S500 sped up. The narcos didn’t care for the rules of the road as they passed vehicle after vehicle, even if it meant weaving across the oncoming lane. Each time they committed a traffic offence they smirked.

James gazed through the dark-tinted window. He wondered if he’d made the correct decision after all. Would they try to execute him when they got far enough away from civilisation? The prospect of death didn’t scare him, having faced it so many times. He approached the thought like some people approached a crossword puzzle.

After about twenty minutes of speeding down the highway towards the city of León, the car slowed. The empty, featureless landscape made James wonder as the S500 turned onto a dirt road. A brick building soon appeared out of the darkness, illuminated only by a small lamp hanging from the front door.

“Get out,” said Mario.

James did so and found himself standing in a small, dusty patch of land. He gazed up at the building. It had no signs indicating what it was, but heavy curtains blacked all the windows. Based on his experience of Mexico, he figured it must be one of the Mexican brothels that lined the road from Guanajuato to León.

The narcos got out and Mario sauntered up to him with a click of his tongue.

“What do you want me to do?” said James.

“All in good time. This is one of our businesses. Go in. We’ll show you what you have to do. It won’t take long.”

James entered the building and came into what looked like a reception room, where a seemingly ordinary woman in a t-shirt and ripped jeans sat at a desk.

The passenger issued a waterfall of orders to the woman. He spoke in such fast Spanish James couldn’t pick up any of the words. His voice rose and fell like the crest of a whitecap. The man gestured at the door as he shouted.

“These women are lazy,” the man declared.

“Francisco, are they here?” asked Mario of his brother.

Francisco Seco nodded. “In the back. Come, take your friend.”

Mario beckoned James to follow him. They entered the room characteristic to every brothel in the world. It contained a few sofas, where girls would issue forth from a room opposite to parade themselves in front of potential clients.

A man emerged from one of the backrooms. His rotund belly threatened to burst his belt. The man’s grey hair stuck out at all angles and a great big smile covered his face from sideburn to sideburn.

“Francisco, Mario, how are you?” The man took his coat from over his arm and slung it around his shoulders. “I haven’t seen you since last year.”

“Ocampo,” Francisco grinned. “How’s the police?”

James’ eyes widened. It didn’t surprise him to know about a corrupt police officer using a brothel owned by the narcos, but he’d never witnessed it for himself. So, the stories were true, after all.

“Same as always. The state governor is up for re-election this year, so he’s pressing us to cut down on crime. You tapped a few too many fuel pipes this year in the state.” He wagged a finger at them. “He wants action.”

Francisco nodded. “What are you going to