Threat Level:Red (The Disavowed Book 3)

By: David Leadbeater


Not counting a few Edge moments, he thought. But why would we? How could he include Trent’s boys in his deliberations? A team who’d fucked up badly enough to be kicked out of the agency didn’t even deserve a mention. Not in his book. And Christ Almighty, he thought, didn’t we save their goddamn asses yet again less than a week ago? Dumb fucks always need some kind o’ extraction.

That Claire Collins, though. She was one tough baby-faced bitch. He remembered her still on her feet and shouting orders with blood streaming down her back and her flesh in tatters. Still feisty. Still hard as nails. Most of the guys found it hot, but Hadleigh preferred his women a little calmer. Bitch like that might chew your johnson off and spit it down your throat in a heartbeat.

Thinking of his men, he cast a searching gaze around. The Thrusters were making themselves right at home on this latest piece of hostile foreign soil. This time the party was in Europe, a little wild hole of a place where the intelligence boys believed Blanka Davic might be planning something new. Something big. It was Hadleigh’s mission to bag that jumped-up little fuck and get him back to the States by any and all means.

Job already done, Hadleigh thought smugly. Aloud, he said, “You boys ready?”

Four hard faces turned toward him. Repp, Stills, Grady and Duggan. Good men. Always up for the explosive breach and the ensuing kill. No fucking finesse here and none needed. The Thrusters hit big and they hit hard, leaving nothing and no one behind to tell the tale. They didn’t question orders. They didn’t think too hard.

They just did it.

Hadleigh nodded, gratified. They were ready. He ran through the plan one last time.

“A’right, boys listen up. Y’know the CAF boys back at Langley pulled some suspect chatter from this here Waldorf Street. Y’know it used to be one o’ Davic’s places. Still might be after he got ran outta that ponce’s paradise in Monaco. By us.” He paused, waiting for the appropriate cheer.

“Anyways. Falls to us again. Y’know why that is?”

“We’re the best, boss.”

“Ain’t it so? Anyhoo, the man in charge wants that place lit up. We’re the boys for the job, so let’s do it.”

A final cheer and they were ready, falling in line and crouching at the back doors of the black van. When the first man in line pushed the door handle the op was a go. Grady jumped out, followed in fast succession by the others. Hadleigh rode at the back, the anchor, always evaluating his team. Like a determined black snake they wound across the deserted road and approached the rear of the high-walled warehouse on Waldorf Street. As one, they flattened against it.

Grady glanced down the line. “All good?”

Hadleigh tapped the comms. “Go.”

“Excuse me!”

The shout froze the whole team. It had come from across the opposite side of the car park where a large, rusting, old dumpster sat. Hadleigh switched his gaze and instantly gaped.

What the fu—?

The dumpster was huge and high, covered in blotches of blue-and-green paint, flaked by age. It sat forlornly across two parking spaces; a lost relic, forgotten by its owner and probably long since given up for lost. That’s what Hadleigh had thought.

But that wasn’t the case.

The front of the dumpster clanged down loudly against the hard ground, the racket making even Hadleigh wince. If the leader of the premier CIA strike team had been given a hundred guesses he would never have deduced what was inside.

Grady spoke first. “Is that a—”

Duggan interrupted, “Shit! It’s a 50cal!”

Hadleigh screamed, “Move! Fuckin’ move!”

Deep, resounding booms split the air. Shells big enough to cut a man almost in half erupted from the gun’s encrusted muzzle. Bullets stitched a line along the wall and through the Thrusters. Grady folded first, doubling over like a piece of red card. Stills went next, dead before he knew it, still trying to run as his legs parted from the rest of his body. Repp followed a split-second later, blasted to pieces as he screamed.

That left Duggan and Hadleigh, still in the line of fire. Duggan got off a quick burst, ducking, but didn’t go down far enough and lost the top of his head to another shell. Hadleigh had time to wonder how long the bastards had been hidden inside that dumpster—they hadn’t shown movement for thirty hours on satellite or any localized sweeps—before the creeping line of lethal lead grazed his thigh. Like Duggan, he got off a quick burst. Unlike his colleague, Hadleigh had time to properly hit the deck and heard the devastating hail pound by above him.

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