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?
As Jake ticked off the list of inconsistencies in his head, he came to the inescapable conclusion that it wasn’t a cattle ranch.
It was a training camp.
SEVENTY-ONE
JAKE SLEPT SOUNDLY that night. For the first time since he’d arrived in Africa, he knew exactly what he needed to do. It was a dangerous plan—somewhere between reckless and suicidal—but he wasn’t living for himself anymore. He was living for Athena and Pickens and the men from the Ground Branch team.
He was living for the people of Somalia.
Jake went to Pickens’s bedroom and rummaged through his friend’s personal effects. The top drawer of his dresser was filled with “pocket litter”—generic receipts, business cards, and other miscellany that supported his cover identity. The second drawer contained more pocket litter, but for Pickens’s alternate cover as an arms dealer—a fake passport, rolls of cash held together with rubber bands, and several cell phones—with their passwords written on a sheet of note paper that was taped to the bottom of the drawer.
CIA security would not be impressed.
But it was inside a hand-carved wooden box that Jake found what he was looking for: a picture of Pickens with his ex-wife and their four kids, taken several years ago during happier times back in the States.
Jake found a pen and wrote a letter to Pickens’s children, telling them of their father’s death. He told them how brave John had been, how he had served his country nobly, and how much he had loved them. The distance, the uncertainty, and the loss were burdens born by the families of intelligence officers and military personnel everywhere. The people at home could never know precisely what their loved ones had been working on or how the final moments of their lives had played out, but Jake wanted Pickens’s family to know that they were always on their father’s mind and in his heart.
Jake sealed the envelope and sat back from the table.
He should write a death letter of his own.
But he had no one to send it to.
—
HE RETURNED TO his bedroom closet to find a set of camo fatigues. Stacked against the wall was a sniper rifle, more precisely, Clap’s sniper rifle—a semiautomatic Delta Level Defense CT-M110 that could put a .308-caliber round into a man’s eye socket at two hundred yards. It was the same gun Clap had used to take out the bomb-maker in Iraq, and there was a note taped to the massive Nightforce scope that sat atop it.
With you in spirit.
Jake sat on his bed and held the rifle for a few minutes while he thought about the risks Clap had taken and the hell he’d gone through to take out that bomb-maker. Going after Yaxaas wouldn’t be any easier.