Chapters (96)
- Cover
- Berkley titles by David Ricciardi
- Dedication
- Epigraph
- CHARACTER LIST
- PROLOGUE
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- THIRTY-EIGHT
- THIRTY-NINE
- FORTY
- FORTY-ONE
- FORTY-TWO
- FORTY-THREE
- FORTY-FOUR
- FORTY-FIVE
- FORTY-SIX
- FORTY-SEVEN
- FORTY-EIGHT
- FORTY-NINE
- FIFTY
- FIFTY-ONE
- FIFTY-TWO
- FIFTY-THREE
- FIFTY-FOUR
- FIFTY-FIVE
- FIFTY-SIX
- FIFTY-SEVEN
- FIFTY-EIGHT
- FIFTY-NINE
- SIXTY
- SIXTY-ONE
- SIXTY-TWO
- SIXTY-THREE
- SIXTY-FOUR
- SIXTY-FIVE
- SIXTY-SIX
- SIXTY-SEVEN
- SIXTY-EIGHT
- SIXTY-NINE
- SEVENTY
- SEVENTY-ONE
- SEVENTY-TWO
- SEVENTY-THREE
- SEVENTY-FOUR
- SEVENTY-FIVE
- SEVENTY-SIX
- SEVENTY-SEVEN
- SEVENTY-EIGHT
- SEVENTY-NINE
- EIGHTY
- EIGHTY-ONE
- EIGHTY-TWO
- EIGHTY-THREE
- EIGHTY-FOUR
- EIGHTY-FIVE
- EIGHTY-SIX
- EIGHTY-SEVEN
- Children of Fallen Patriots Foundation
- ABOUT THE AUTHOR
- What’s next onyour reading list?
“Look, Ted, using Yaxaas to stop a shipload of oil is one thing, but a cargo of weapons is a different story. We can’t trust this man.”
“The IRGC is trying to destabilize a continent, evade UN sanctions, and smuggle weapons to the government that committed the largest genocide of the twenty-first century. Working with Yaxaas may not be a great option, but it’s the best one we’ve got.”
FORTY-FIVE
A WAKE OF DUST followed the small convoy as it sped through the cramped streets of Mogadishu. Two pickup trucks of gunmen were escorting Yaxaas’s armored Range Rover, and a man in the back of the lead pickup fired a long burst into the air from his AK-47 as the three vehicles approached a busy intersection.
The other traffic yielded.
The warlord’s motorcade continued on for several more blocks before turning onto a quiet side street and stopping at the end of the dead-end road. Yaxaas’s gunmen had dismounted their pickups and were patrolling the area on foot when Jake approached in the maroon Toyota Surf. Clap and the Ground Branch team were a car length behind him.
The sun was overhead as Jake stopped alongside the Range Rover and lowered his window. There were a few clouds offshore and a light breeze blowing in from the sea.
“We have another assignment for you,” he said.
“This time you pay me. I could have made twice as much on my original job.”
“Maybe you’d like to trade places with the crew,” said Jake. “It could be arranged.”
“I’m not like you, American. I do not fear death.”
“No one is Somalia is afraid of death because people like you have made it a living hell,” Jake said. “Besides, death would be the easy way out for you. We prefer to grab you out of your bed in the middle of the night and lock you in a six-by-six-foot room where the walls are concrete, the ceiling is concrete, and the floors are concrete. There’s no day, no night, no sound, and certainly no human contact. Think about that. You’d never see another living thing as long as you live—not even a fucking plant. Most people start to lose their minds after a few days or maybe weeks, but if you cross us, you’ll have your whole life to enjoy it.”
“The same thing could happen to you,” said the warlord.
“Except ten more will be right behind me, and a hundred more behind them, and they will never, ever give up.”
The warlord scowled.
“What is this next job?” he said.
“Two days from today,” said Jake, “a commercial fishing boat will pass through the Strait of Hormuz on its way to Sudan.”
Jake handed over a manila envelope. Inside were several photographs of the ship and a detailed route map. All were completely untraceable.
“It’s called the Saviz,” Jake said, “and it can’t make port.”