The flight to Somalia was like torture. Jake wanted to run, to scream, to find some way to vent his rage—his guilt. Instead, he sat in his seat and stared blankly out the window, clenching and unclenching his fists, his mind stuck in an endless loop that constantly replayed the last few hours of Athena’s life: the car that had followed him from the airport, the clarity that had followed their conversation in the kitchen, and the joy he’d felt watching her walk to the Land Rover.

The truck he’d driven every single time they’d gone to the beach.

Except this time.

Someone had learned their routine and wired a bomb to the ignition circuit—expecting to kill Jake, but ending Athena’s life instead.

—

THE MOGADISHU AIRPORT was right next to the ocean, and the winds were gusting over thirty miles per hour as the Gulfstream touched down. Thick clouds muted the sunrise.

The copilot said something to Jake as he walked down the plane’s stairs, but Jake wasn’t listening. A few raindrops landed on his face as he walked past the United Nations jet, past the mechanic working on the gray helicopter, past other things that had once seemed to matter.

He texted Pickens and hailed a cab to a local hotel as part of his regular security routine.

It all seemed so pointless.

Pickens was waiting at the hotel in the beige Daihatsu.

“Didn’t expect to see you back so soon,” he said.

“Lots to do.”

It was the morning rush hour and the Makka al-Mukarra boulevard was clogged with cars, bicycles, Bajajs, and a smattering of pedestrians. Traffic was forced to stop completely for a few minutes when a pickup truck drove the wrong way down the divided road just so it wouldn’t have to make a U-turn at the next intersection.

“You just missed Clap,” said Pickens. “He took off for Germany to check on his guy.”

“He left you a present,” Pickens continued, but Jake was silent, staring out the window.

“You all right?” asked Pickens.

“Just tired,” Jake said.

Pickens took a harder look and decided he wasn’t buying it.

“Lady trouble?”

“You could say that.”

“Sorry, brother.”

Pickens turned onto the main boulevard, following one of his regular surveillance detection routes. They drove around a traffic circle and passed a pair of AMISOM armored vehicles that were parked outside the soccer stadium, then turned onto a residential side street.

It was as if rush hour had ended in an instant.

The traffic disappeared: the Bajajs that were angling for the same section of road, the pedestrians who were meandering across the streets, the trucks that stopped in the middle of the boulevard to unload their cargoes.

They were all gone.

Jake instinctively went into high gear.