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

“Pick up a few people and that should keep him quiet for a while. Don’t worry, if we get any of your guys, we’ll release them. It won’t mess with the arrest figures.”

Francisco clasped hands with Ocampo and patted him on the back. Their driver held the front door open for Ocampo.

“Who was that?” asked James.

“None of your business,” Mario hissed.

Francisco glared at his brother. “You want to ruin this deal?”

Mario wore a mask of confusion. “What?”

“You know how much we’re getting paid for their help? You know how much money we could make if this foreigner and his organization kill Quezada for us? And you want to treat him like a piece of trash?” Francisco redirected his gaze back to James. “I’m sorry, Mr. Winchester. This is why Mario is a cockroach.”

Mario’s nostrils flared with anger, but he backed down against his older brother.

“It doesn’t matter. No harm done.”

Francisco laid a hand on his shoulder. “You’ll get what you want, and we’ll win this war yet. But you understand that this is a dangerous business. We can’t just trust anyone, so we need you to complete a small test for us. Just a little thing.”

“No problem,” said James.

“Okay, come with me. Mario, you stay outside. I’ll talk to you later.”

A murderous look flashed across Mario’s dark eyes. He flung himself down on one of the leather sofas in a sulk.

Francisco led James down a corridor. Some scantily clad girls jumped from their beds and peered out of their rooms, expecting to see clients. A sharp word from Francisco forced them to slam their doors shut again. James followed Francisco to the door at the very end of the corridor, where Francisco pulled out a key. He unlocked it to reveal a set of steps delving into the basement.

“Is there a light?” said James.

“No, use your phone.”

James turned up his nose at the 1980’s décor of the brothel, noting the exotic wood panelling that gave way to bare concrete walls and stone steps as they descended. He switched on the light on his smartphone and shined it behind Francisco. The musty smell grew stronger as they descended. James wrinkled his nose as he detected the stench of human waste.

Francisco stepped to the side. As the light from the smartphone flooded the bottom of the stairs, it settled upon a man sitting on the ground. His face, marked with bulbous blue and purple bruises, pleaded for someone to put him out of his misery. Yet the captive could only make grunting sounds due to the gag in his mouth.

“Who is he?” asked James.

“A captive from the war. He’s one of Quezada’s boys. We caught him in Celaya. Shame he didn’t have anything useful to say.”

“What’s that got to do with me?”

Francisco took out his own phone and activated the light. He then used his other hand to remove a Beretta 92 pistol from inside his sports jacket. Holding the gun out to James, with the barrel pointing back at himself, he only nodded.

James inspected the prisoner. He noted the festering wound on his ankle, clearly from a gunshot. The prisoner would likely die soon enough from infection anyway.

He took the handle of the gun without question. Francisco had made it clear he trusted him. James could have shot him there and then.

“Is it cold?” asked James.

“Never been used before. You don’t have to worry about being tracked down. It’s yours. We scratched the serial number off and the police wouldn’t be able to connect it to anything.”

No more words needed to pass between them. James knew what he had to get to Quezada and complete his mission. The silence, broken only by the frantic grunts of the condemned man, gave him time to think. Too much time to think.

James levelled the weapon at the narco. He fired a single time into the head of the prisoner. He didn’t shudder or shake as the sound amplified off the walls. The body fell backwards. Now, just another dead drug dealer.

Chapter Six

Miami, Florida, United States of America

Indian Creek Island, known as Billionaire Bunker, consisted of just 0.4 square miles of prime real estate. With 40 homes, the most exclusive neighbourhood in Miami lay cut off from the rest of the world. The permanent security contingent patrolled the island on the water and on land with their intimidating jeeps and speedboats. Senator George Black crossed the bridge from Bal Harbour.

George had spent his career as a politician who squeaked through close elections, and that had given him a smug arrogance. When not facing awkward questions from journalists, he wore a half-smile upon a marble mask plumped up by little pieces of plastic surgery here and there. His grey-black hair held a permanent sheen reflecting the relentless Florida sunshine.

“This place is like Fort Knox,” remarked Jack Hewitt in the passenger seat of George’s white Lincoln Continental.

Jack scratched some of his scraggly pieces of grey hair. A lifetime of stress had prematurely aged him, leaving him with a pockmarked face and permanent five o’clock shadow.

“Sure,” said George. “Even most former presidents couldn’t afford to live in a place like this. Nearly everyone here is a celebrity or a criminal. Sometimes both.”

Jack smirked at that. “So which mansion is Roberto Romero’s?”

“Right down here.”

George steered his beloved Continental around the curved road, which traced the island’s borders until it ended at a huge black steel gate. A security guard moved out from his position beneath a palm tree flitting in the breeze.

“Senator Black?” the man said tonelessly.

George showed his ID to the security guard.

He repeated his name on the radio. The crackly response returned with an “okay” and the gates opened onto a long driveway. The mansion embraced the colonial style of old Spanish America,