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?
The rocket-propelled grenade leapt from the launch tube at almost a thousand feet per second, and its 105mm thermobaric warhead exploded as soon as it hit the ground, dispersing oxygen-starved explosives into the air. They detonated a fraction of a second later, igniting the diesel fuel and triggering an explosive pressure wave that even the Hawiye, back at their vehicles one hundred meters away, felt violently in their chests.
Jake was sitting on the liftgate of one of the pickup trucks, dressed in secondhand clothes someone had given him and drinking a bottle of water, when Badeed limped over. He’d cleaned the stiletto and replaced it atop his cane.
“Thank you,” said Jake. The two men spoke for a minute.
Small explosions punctuated the night air as stores of ammunition cooked off inside the warehouse.
Badeed walked Jake to a Bajaj taxi that one of his men had hailed.
“You have heard the expression ‘The enemy of my enemy is my friend’?”
Jake nodded.
“Your diya is forgiven, and may Allah shower his blessings upon you.”
SIXTY-FOUR
JAKE REACHED THE safe house just before dawn, stumbling the last four blocks on his own because he didn’t trust the Bajaj driver.
He buzzed at the gate and Pickens came out. He’d seen Jake on the video feed on his phone.
“Dude . . .”
Jake was a mess: bruised, bloodied, and wearing the clothes Badeed’s men had stripped from a corpse in the warehouse—complete with bullet holes and bloodstains.
“How are Clap and the team?”
Pickens shook his head. The Ground Branch team was out of the fight. Two were dead, and another had been airlifted to a U.S. military hospital in Ramstein, Germany.
“Ramstein might not be a bad option for you,” said Pickens.
“I’m going to take an ice bath. I’ll be fine.”
Jake explained how he’d been captured by Yaxaas and liberated by Badeed.
“Badeed forgave the diya.”
“You know that’s not a gift,” said Pickens. “You owe him now. It might be time to get out of Somalia before the two warlords who run the place both decide to kill you.”
“I’ll figure it out.”
Pickens shrugged. “OK, but you’d better call Graves. He’s been calling every few hours for an update. He sounds worried.”
“I’m sure he is worried,” said Jake, “but not about me.”
Jake swallowed four acetaminophen tablets and four ibuprofen pills while Pickens ran the water and dumped all of their ice in the tub.
Jake lowered himself into the bath. The water turned brown as the dried blood washed from his body. The cold and the drugs soon numbed the pain and he closed his eyes.