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?
Neither man saw it until it was too late. Jake pulled the karambit from the sheath under his shirt and raked the knife up the first man’s leg, diagonally slicing at least six inches of his femoral artery. At the top of the arc, Jake rotated the curved blade and brought the knife down hard along the second man’s neck, slashing his carotid artery. The man dropped the gun before he could get off a shot.
The entire attack had taken less than two seconds.
Both men would bleed out in less than two minutes.
But Jake didn’t have that long to watch them die. It was pandemonium outside as more of Yaxaas’s men closed in.
Jake burst through the shop’s rear door and into an alley. It was a part of the market he’d never seen before, but it opened onto a busy street, and for the first time since he’d come to Somalia, the streets of Mogadishu looked like the safest place around.
Jake sheathed the knife and ran.
There were a few cars and trucks, several Bajaj taxis, and a man on a dirt bike stuck in traffic. Jake tackled the man on the motorcycle and took the bike.
“On a moto, heading west,” Jake said into the radio. He’d figure out where he was and where to go later. Right now he just needed to get clear of the market and open up some distance between him and his pursuers.
He put the bike in gear, gunned the engine, and aimed the bike toward a gap between two cars heading in the opposite direction.
He was nearly home free when a black SUV rammed him head-on.
The impact smashed the motorcycle’s front fork and sent Jake flying backward through the air. He crashed to the ground ten feet away with the wind knocked out of him and his radio mic and earpiece missing. By the time he raised himself up to his hands and knees, three men with Kalashnikovs were standing over him. A fourth man emerged from the SUV’s passenger seat.
Nacay.
The warlord’s son walked to Jake and stomped him in the back, sending him sprawling on the ground once again. Nacay kicked him a second time, then a third, each time driving the toe of his heavy boots into Jake’s ribs.
Two of the gunmen hauled Jake to his feet. He was bloodied and wheezing and no longer a threat to anyone, but Nacay wound up and threw a haymaker punch at his face, drawing more blood and sending Jake to the dirt a third time.
The goons stripped Jake of his knife, bound his hands, and threw him in the back seat of the SUV. The rest of the team mounted up and the man sitting on Jake’s right fired a dozen rounds into the air through the truck’s open window.