Threat Level:Red (The Disavowed Book 3)

By: David Leadbeater

(THE DISAVOWED #3)


1





The long days of fear and dread began when Blanka Davic uttered two simple words.

“Move it.”

The Serbian Mafia leader ran among his men, keeping his head low. Henry Curran’s garden sprawled all around, grand, green and verdant as befitted the head of SolDyn, one of the biggest organizations in the world. The three-story house loomed up ahead. Light glared from at least a dozen windows. Curran’s security was minimal, and not exactly the best trained or prepared. But how could they be ready for this? Nothing on this scale had been done before.

Not against Los Angeles, Davic thought, smiling wolfishly in the dark. And probably never again.

Gunshots popped in the dark, silenced to a degree. Exposed men fell to the floor, their weapons undrawn; skulls cracking as they hit concrete. One fell into the pool, causing a loud splash; a mistake but one that went unnoticed by the remainder of Curran’s expensive protective detail. Davic crouched as his men swept up. The artistry with which they murdered was rather exquisite. It fired his blood, preparing him for the brutal fun that was to come next.

The house was breached, the castle overrun. The fat-cat leader of SolDyn, once Davic’s partner in a number of shady deals, was about to wish he’d never been born.

And so were his family.

****

Davic loved all this. In death and torture he was in his element. When the disavowed CIA team had taken back Maisie Miller a week ago and destroyed his Monaco mansion he had set in motion a plan of almost instant reprisal. This was the beginning. The attack on Curran.

Then the so-called Razor’s Edge. Trent. Silk. Radford. Special Agent Collins.

Then the CIA. The FBI.

Los Angeles.

The list went on. It was without limit. The plan was adaptive. He couldn’t lose. Someone, somewhere, had once said that if a terrorist wanted to hit a place badly enough and was willing to risk all consequences, then nothing on earth could stop him.

Well, Davic passed that point about a week ago.

Waiting patiently for the all clear, he checked his watch. They had all night. The other pieces of his plan were only just starting to mobilize. The Californian air was balmy and sweet-smelling, carrying with it just the right amount of promise. The light footfalls of his running men, the professional communications echoing through his earpiece, the whisperings of I have the daughter, I have the son, all served to calm his anxious heart. When his team leader said, “Sir, we have them all,” he allowed his bloodlust to rise a full level.

This was going to be fun.

****

Inside, Davic saw several items he might like to take away. He was a rich man, but nowhere near Curran’s league. Feeling his feet begin to dawdle and his eye captured, he quickly cast the impulses aside. This wasn’t the time to get side-tracked.

“What do you want?” He heard the rat, Curran, squeaking from beyond the next door. “Please. Just take anything. Take it and go.”

Davic strode into view. “What do we want, Henry? Well, that’s not so hard to figure out, is it? This is a tale of plain, old-fashioned revenge. Take a goddamn guess at what I want.”

Curran shrunk back as if electrocuted when he saw Davic. The action only made the mafia boss’s inner sadistic glow intensify. “Tell me, Henry, how much did you earn today? Was it enough to compensate for a finger? A hand? A son?”

“I . . . I did everything you asked. Everything.”

Davic took in the scene whilst basking in the glow of his captives’ terror. They were tied to kitchen chairs, hands behind their backs. All except Curran were gagged. But it was their eyes that told the real story. The beautiful, terrified, panic-stricken story. So wide, so glassy and full of feeling. Davic drank it all in. He had created this. Him. This was all he was and all he ever wanted to be and he loved it.

“Everything I asked?” he finally repeated. “I don’t recall ordering you to get caught.”

Curran’s head went down, already defeated. A look not befitting the head of a formidable conglomerate; not at all.

“But hey, look on the bright side, Henry. You have a beautiful wife right there. And daughter too, I see.”

Curran’s head snapped up. “You don’t touch them! You don’t!”

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