Interdiction A James Winchester Thriller Book Three Copyright © James Samuel 2021 James Samuel’s Newsletter Click HERE …and get an email when my next book comes out. Connect with me on www.jamessamuelbooks.com 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
