Threat Level:Red (The Disavowed Book 3)

By: David Leadbeater



Davic nodded to one of the guards. The man produced a military blade with one serrated edge and handed it over. “You want to know what I recently lost? Do you care?”

Davic paused.

Curran nodded profusely, suddenly interested.

“My home.” Davic held the knife in front of him, closing the gap between himself and Curran. “My home. You hear? My staff. My country. And more importantly, three cars. That Ferrari . . .” he paused wistfully, “she was beautiful, no? More beautiful than your wife, Henry, but not . . . what’s your name, pretty one?”

Curran struggled as Davic stepped sideways to confront his daughter and pulled down her gag.

“Yvette.”

“Ah, a good, strong, fearless voice. At last. Not shaking with the prissy tremors of your father’s, no? But then maybe he has good reason to fear. He knows what I’m going to do next.”

Davic gave Curran a snake’s grin.

“Please,” the CEO of SolDyn whispered. “Anything. Please don’t hurt her. Us.”

Davic stepped back. The room was silent except for the heavy breathing of his captives. The walls were dotted by expensive canvases and a humongous TV, the floors covered by thick Persian rugs. All the trappings of luxury lay about him, useless now to the multi-millionaire.

Davic checked his watch. “Let’s begin.”

****

Immediately one of his men reached over and pinched Yvette’s nose. With the gag replaced in her mouth, she could no longer breathe. The chair bucked under her, its legs rapping a desperate tattoo on the floor. Her head whipped but she couldn’t break free of the guard’s grip. Her mother gave muffled shouts, trying to throw herself, chair and all, at the guard. Henry Curran pleaded at Blanka Davic with hopeless eyes.

Davic grinned widely. “All right. That’s more like it. So what I want from you, Henry, is this—”

He paused to watch Yvette struggle. Curran exploded. “Tell me! Please!”

Davic waved him off. “Soon.”

The mother’s chair finally got to within reach of the daughter’s. As the woman leaned over, trying to push Yvette’s attacker away, one of Davic’s guards strode in and push-kicked her in the center of the stomach. Her eyes bulged, the breath exploding from her nose, and the chair toppled over with a crash. Yvette’s face was turning purple, her struggles weakening. Now the brother looked like he wanted to get in on the action, perhaps finally realizing this wasn’t going to end well.

Davic ended it all with a raised hand. “Enough. For now.”

Curran exhaled. His daughter gulped air. His wife struggled feebly. Davic directed a guard to walk over and place a foot against her bound hands.

“See that, Henry? One stomp from that big bastard’s boot and those fingers won’t be used for anything ever again.”

He turned and gave Yvette a look of mock apology, placing a hand over his mouth. “Oh, I’m sorry, my dear. You are over seventeen, yes? Wouldn’t want to go all red-band certificate in front of a minor.”

“Eighteen,” Yvette gasped through the gag before Curran stopped her.

“Don’t talk to this filth, darling. He knows our ages. He knows everything about us. The man is a criminal and wanted by the FBI. Why the hell are you here? What do you want from me, Davic?”

“Tonight? A little fun. A little revenge. Maybe a spicy pizza. But do you know what I want most of all, Henry?”

“What?”

“I want to hear you scream, you son of a bitch!”

With that, suddenly, shockingly, Blank Davic whirled, whipped out a handgun and shot Curran’s son between the eyes. Blood and bone exploded across the wall and the masterpieces behind him. The force of the bullet smashed his head back and made the chair topple. It took a moment for the Currans to process what had happened but when they did the screaming began in earnest.

Davic laughed.





2





Vince Hadleigh had been called many things in his time: Cheryl Cole of Girls Aloud; Prime Thruster. If he was being honest, those were probably the nicer nicknames. He could be a gung-ho, irrational son-of-a-bitch. His CIA strike team, the Thrusters—even he had come to think of them by that sardonic title—had at times been sidelined, jailed, sent home in disgrace, tortured, beaten and once almost gang-raped, but there was one thing they had never been.

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