The Disavowed Book 3 - Threat Level: Red

by David Leadbeater

  Give the little bastard something else to worry about.

  The Moose threw him against the side of the rental car. When Victoria rose, face bloody, eyes shocked, the Moose smiled at her distress.

  “This is the end of your self-centered, private, egotistical world,” he said. “How does it feel to know real fear for the first time?”

  “My son! Michael!” The woman jumped at him. The Moose backhanded her as hard as he could. The Porsche shuddered as she impacted against it. Even then, she didn’t go down. Self-preservation had nothing to do with it. This was a mother fighting for her child and there was no greater adversary.

  The Moose stepped in before she could catch her breath, delivering solid blows to her kidneys and then a rabbit-punch to the back of her neck. She slid to the floor. The Moose bent down to make sure she was still breathing. Even now she kicked out, gasping for breath, bruising his shins.

  His lips bushed her ear. “Don’t worry,” he whispered. “The C4 I strap to his body will keep him warm.”

  Then the Moose bundled an unconscious Mikey into the trunk and drove away.

  13

  Radford sat on the floor with his back against the couch. Amanda sat beside him. Both their hands were secured behind them with zip ties. Men roamed the house. Men he knew worked for Blanka Davic.

  Radford knew exactly what was going to happen here. The certainty had seeped through his bones like slow-acting poison during the last day. And yet still they waited for Davic. The men with the guns were growing restless. Never a good sign. It showed they were either unprofessional or that plans had changed. Probably the latter.

  Through bathroom breaks and other wiles, Radford had finally managed to position himself against the sofa less than two feet away from where Amanda had stashed her cell. The moment of truth was approaching. In five minutes he would either be dead or closer to rescue. His only regret would be leaving Amanda alone if he failed.

  Only regret? He almost snorted aloud. What about the last six months? All that time wasted, dithering over the decision to come clean with her. Collins had been right. He was one fuckin’ huge pussy. And then there was yesterday, and last night. Not long before their home had been invaded the Radfords had ordered pizza. Later, when the guy came, Radford had seen a chance. He could have shouted, broken something, done anything. But fear for the kid’s life and Amanda’s had held him back.

  What had he become? Ineffective. Broken. Or, as Collins would say, dickless.

  Radford was the Edge’s geek, the tech wizard, graduating with awards from MIT and initiated quickly into the CIA. Trained, focused and directed in a six-week period. Ready for action and world travel. The true agency-made agent. The reality had almost unhinged him. The long cruel nights of waiting combined with the six- to ten-minute terrifying bursts of action, took his breath and sanity away, causing panic attacks and worse. At first, he was close to quitting, a dropout. But the agency never knew. Bit by bit, Trent and Silk had saved his sanity, making the new hard reality a little more bearable. Radford had wanted out so badly back then, but again had been too much of a weed to stand up and go through with it.

  He turned furtively to Amanda, tapped her bound fingers with his own. “Get ready.”

  The corner of her mouth moved slightly. “What you said earlier. Is it true?”

  Radford swallowed. “Sure. But this isn’t the right—”

  Now Amanda turned toward him. “Y’know, Dan, that’s the trouble with you. It’s never the right time. I’ve been waiting ten years for this. Ten . . . goddamn . . . years.” Water filled her eyes.

  Radford closed his own. Of all the things he’d been expecting this wasn’t it.

  Then he felt a nudge against his shins. He opened his eyes to see the leader of Davic’s men sneering down at him. “This is no time for a family heart-to-heart. When Davic comes . . .” he let the sentence hang for effect.

  One of his men leaned forward. “When is the boss coming, Josif? What have you heard?”

  The leader, Josif, pulled a face. “I have heard nothing. Nothing. Maybe we should just shoot this scum and leave their bodies to rot.”

  “The boss might not like that.”

  Josif considered this. “True. Okay, then the next best thing. We play poker for the woman. The winner gets to try her first, then the rest.”

  Amanda stiffened. Radford saw the fear take root in her face though she tried to hide it. He spoke fast. “C’mon, guys. We’re not animals here. Surely we can work something else out.”

  Josif assessed him. “Like I told you before we know her. And you. We know she doesn’t mind a cockatoo.” He guffawed like a bully in a schoolyard who’d just tripped up the resident fatty and stolen all his food.

  Radford grinned with them, made it seem like he shared the joke, and then made his move. Using his legs as a fulcrum he pushed against the floor and the couch. He rose, confronting the armed men, still with his hands tied behind his back.

  Josif spluttered angrily, raising his weapon and waving at his men. “Well don’t just stand there, get him!”

  Radford twisted as they came, negating the force of their blows. He took what he had to, falling back against the couch. Then, as they pummeled blows into his defenseless abdomen, his hands scrabbled down the back of the couch for Amanda’s cell. His fingers brushed the hard plastic. A blow smashed into his solar plexus. Radford flinched, momentarily blinded with pain. The phone slipped away and was lost. Another roundhouse punch thumped into his chest, forcing him back into the couch. He bit his lip hard to keep from screaming

  “That all you got, asshole?” he grunted.

  The black plastic fell back into his cupped hand.

  His chin fell to his chest. Josif called a halt to the beating. “Try anything again, geek, and I’ll cut your fingers off. And then feed them to your whore of a wife.” He turned away without waiting for an answer.

  “Men, get the cards out. We’re gonna get started on that round of poker.”

  Radford stayed slumped, working the phone furiously behind his back. All he needed now from Amanda was the number of Silk’s speed dial designation. If all was as it should be and Silk was following his usual pattern, he should be relatively close by.

  Don’t count on it.

  When the men with the guns were occupied, playing for Amanda’s future, Radford nudged her hard.

  14

  Silk rolled over onto his back, letting Brewster climb atop him. Sweat coated both their bodies. Her gentle panting was like an aphrodisiac burning through his ear to his brain and shooting down to his loins. Her teeth nibbling at his mouth and tongue made him thrust deeper inside her. She grunted in pleasure, her black hair falling across his face. Her eyes were inches from his own: wide, lustful and totally focused. This was their time, when no outside or past influences could harm them.

  “Now,” she whispered sweetly. “Now!”

  Afterward, they lay in splendid entanglement, both waiting for the next go round. Silk decided he needed a bottle of water and rolled away to reach for the minibar. Brewster propped herself up on one elbow to watch.

  “Just how I imagined it.”

  Silk twisted the bottle top off. “Not better?”

  “Nah. Maybe next time.”

  “Next time?” Silk sat on the bed beside her. “I’ve got what I wanted. What makes you think there’ll be a next time?”

  “This.” Brewster drew his head down toward her, kissing him in a way that perked him right up. Before things progressed too much further he pulled away. “I need food,” he said seriously. “Sustenance. Does this place give room service?”

  Brewster laughed naughtily. “What kind of a question is that to ask the naked woman in your bed?”

  Silk stroked her gently, from her neck to her thighs. He loved the way she shivered. His eyes fell on a menu on the opposite side of the room.

  “Aha!” He leapt for it.

  Brewster sighed loudly. “Bastard.”

  “Keep
it warm, Susie. This won’t take a minute.”

  He glanced over the laminated card. The choice was limited, but he wasn’t feeling picky. When the phone was answered he hesitated.

  “Hello? Hello?” the receptionist hustled him. “Sir? Can I help?”

  “Sorry,” Silk at last found his voice and quickly ordered a pizza. The receptionist told him to give it forty minutes.

  “Not a problem.”

  He jumped onto the bed. Brewster put up a finger to stop him. “Let’s eat first.”

  “Bitch.”

  She laughed and scooted away from him. “Anticipation,” she said, “is a wonderful stimulus. You’ll see.”

  Silk shook his head and tried to quell his desire. When his eyes fell on the remote control he found the perfect way. Quickly, he thumbed the TV on and blasted quickly through the channels.

  “No. Nope. Nah.” TV didn’t have quite the same appeal as it used to.

  “Wait.” Brewster suddenly sat up, pointing. “Go back.”

  Silk tapped more slowly. When the correct channel came back up his face fell. “Holy shit.”

  The newscaster’s voice filled the room. “We’re being told that the FBI building on Wilshire Boulevard has just been targeted by unknown forces. We don’t have details yet but there has been some kind of explosion at the front.” The picture cut to a weaving close-up of flames and wreckage, obviously taken from a helicopter. “This comes fast on the heels of further attacks in Washington DC and several CIA satellite offices this afternoon. Other buildings have been targeted in a similar way, but the authorities are refusing to comment.”

  Brewster was suddenly up on her feet, getting dressed. “Attacks?” she mumbled. “Goddamn attacks? Why hasn’t anyone contacted me?”

  Silk waited, watching as the footage of the earlier violence was replayed. The big concrete fronted J. Edgar Hoover building in DC had come under assault about half an hour ago. Someone, it seemed, had driven a motorcycle packed with explosives right across the sidewalk and into the main doors. The resulting explosion had hurt and maimed people, but the casualties would have been worse if not for the building’s special protection. More than anything, it had caused terror and confusion.

  Silk watched what he knew were smaller CIA offices being hit. Only two were shown on the news, both filmed by passers-by after the event, but the MOs looked the same.

  “Shit.” He pointed to the red ticker at the bottom of the screen. Nation on terror alert.

  “It’s threat level Red.” Brewster said. “They’re thinking this is the prelude to something bigger.”

  “You can pretty much guarantee some of those ‘unspecified’ hits the newscaster mentioned were secret houses,” Silk said downheartedly. “Safe houses.”

  “CIA. FBI. Yeah, you can be sure of that.”

  They kept watching, not surprised to hear no one had yet owned up to the attacks. Silk grabbed his own cell just as Brewster threw hers frustratedly on the bed. “No one’s home at the station. Christ, I need to get my ass in there.”

  Silk stabbed Trent’s number. “Yeah, I’ll—”

  He started as the phone in his hand rang. Radford’s smiling face flashed up on the small screen.

  “Here we go.” He pressed the accept button. “Dan?”

  Silence for a moment . . .

  Then Radford’s distinct voice could be heard, talking to someone else.

  “Please don’t hurt my wife. Don’t kill us. We’ve done nothing to you. Haven’t you heard, Blanka Davic is a madman?”

  Silk felt the hairs rise all over his body as if he’d been electrocuted and then almost dropped the phone in shock.

  15

  Trent rolled away from the explosion, the reverberating boom making him think the entire building was coming down. Fire splashed like red and yellow paint across the windows before his eyes; a madman’s perverse canvas. Debris pelted the glass and the sidewalk, falling from below. Bodies twisted out there, people screamed. Trent struggled up to his knees, disoriented, hanging his head to help clear it.

  Did this just really happen?

  Disbelief was another type of denial, and caused fatalities if not immediately compartmentalized. In this case, innocent fatalities. Trent locked it away and rose unsteadily to his feet. He could hear people screaming out there, he could see blood. Something burned, smoke roiled, and flames furiously reached far and wide. The shrill alarms inside the building were enough to make a deaf man wince. Crawling forms were everywhere; some in suits, others in skirts, dresses and jeans. Men and women sat with their hands clasped firmly over their ears, most likely trying to rid themselves of the utter disorientation caused by the explosion.

  Trent wavered as he reached a side door. Pushing his weight against it he fell through into the daylight. A scene of terrible chaos met his eyes. It looked like some kind of motorcycle had exploded outside the building, probably carrying C4 or something similar. The resulting explosion had killed at least four people and injured more. The scorch mark extended above window level and up the white-faced, poured-concrete building, an exclamation mark of terror.

  Trent walked through the dead, stunned that the peaceful scene could be turned into chaos and mayhem so quickly. It was obvious at first glance that there was nothing he could do for most of them. He thought about calling Collins. Despite the destruction this attack appeared relatively small. Might there be another planned?

  Then his own phone rang.

  Turning away, he pulled it out, hoping it would be Silk, Radford or even Doug. They could do with getting their sensible heads together about now. If they could help in any way, the Razor’s Edge would be readily available.

  Trent was surprised to see the caller was Victoria. It was unusual for his ex to ring him, but he had to admit her timing was as perfect as ever.

  “Vic? I can’t really—”

  “Trent.” Her voice stopped him. It was raw, stunned; shredded through with terror.

  “What is it?”

  “Mikey.” Sobbing punctuated her words. “He took him. He took Mikey, Trent, and I couldn’t stop him.”

  He felt his knees begin to tremble, suddenly very vulnerable. “Who took him? Which man?”

  “I don’t know. I’m hurt. Broken. I tried, but I lost him. I lost my boy.”

  “Where are you?” His whole body was shaking.

  She told him.

  “On my way. And call the cops, Victoria. Do it now.”

  16

  Collins pushed back into the assistant CEO’s office and slammed the door. Quickly, she turned to Walker, pinning him with her authoritative gaze.

  “Do you have a CCTV monitor in here?”

  “No. Down the hall. We have one on the secretary’s desk, but it’s not fully functional. You’d have to go to the control room for that.”

  “Let’s go.” Collins waved at the door. Walker hesitated and glanced toward his lawyer.

  “Are you fuckin’ kiddin’ me?” Collins stared. “Get your asses moving. Now.”

  The suits complied, both trying to assume a brave face. London led the way down the hall until they reached an alcove. The secretary still sat at her desk, but looked up at them with wide, uncertain eyes. Collins forced herself to smile at the woman. Her initial reaction was to shout, to ask them if they were always this slow, but these people were only civilians, not used to war and calamity.

  “Move.”

  Collins pushed her out of the way and flopped in front of the monitor. She quickly found the toggle switch and set about locating the lobby. London moved to her shoulder, fiddling with his sidearm.

  “Careful you don’t shoot me with that thing, Billy the Kid,” she said as she worked. “They teach you how to shoot properly at the range yet?”

  London bit very predictably. “Of course! I passed in the top five of my class.”

  Collins grunted. “Here we are.” She touched the monitor. “What the hell?”

  The grainy picture showed dozens of men, unmasked
, armed to the teeth, and carrying their weapons in the manner of professionals. They all carried rucksacks full of extra mags and other surprises. As Collins watched she saw them execute three defenseless people who were simply sitting on the floor. Head shots all.

  She turned to Walker. “Talk, man. What do you guys have in here that would make a trained army kill innocent people just to get near it?”

  Walker shrugged with concern. “Get me an A4 pad and I’ll start on a list.”

  “Shit. That much?”

  “I’m afraid so. SolDyn is at the leading edge of many technologies. Not all of them . . . family friendly.”

  Collins snorted softly as she watched the mayhem. “I guess that’s one way of putting it. Where are all the sensitive materials kept?”

  To his credit, Walker ignored a look from his lawyer. “Basement levels. The lab is down there, of course. Anything highly sensitive would be kept under lock and key so to speak.” His lips went thin and white with stress. “Even with firearms they couldn’t force their way in, though. They would need codes.”

  “That’s a pretty determined-looking group.” London said. “I think they found a way.”

  Collins squinted hard, unable to make out individuals in the melee. “One of the biggest companies in the world, huh? Next time don’t skimp on the local CCTV. What kind of security does the building have?”

  “Lobby guards. Lab guards. All armed. The main control room is equipped with Hi-Def monitors and even facial recognition software. We’re also hardwired to the police. They should already be en route.”

  “Good.” Collins pushed away from the desk. She stood up too quickly and a ripple of pain flashed through the healing wounds crisscrossing her back. But she was used to pain. She’d lived with it for many years now. The grimace that most normal people would offer the world was quelled before it made an appearance.

  “But for now,” she said. “It’s just me and Billy the Kid.” She pulled out her Glock, checking for spare mags.