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?
And the crocodile.
Little Yaxaas.
FIVE
THOUGH IT WAS small by Western standards, Pickens’s CIA safe house was luxurious for Mogadishu. It had two bedrooms with air conditioning units built into the wall, a combined kitchen and family room, tiled floors, and working plumbing. But as it was in most buildings with concrete walls, cellular coverage inside the safe house was terrible, and Pickens had gone outside to make a call on his mobile phone.
Jake was sitting on his bed. He’d just finished typing a cable to headquarters on his laptop and was looking forward to indulging in one of the house’s greatest luxuries—a shower just after the water truck had just made its weekly delivery.
Between the drought and the civil war, most of the city had no public water supply. The only way for homes to get fresh water was by delivery—usually from a truck, but nearly as often from a donkey cart with a plastic tank on it. But in either case, home delivery was expensive, and most of the city’s poorer residents were forced to carry water by hand from neighborhood wells.
Jake’s first few days in-country had been so hectic that he’d been living out of his duffel bag and washed little more than his face. A real shower with real water pressure had passed the point of luxury and now become a necessity. He hauled his duffel out of the closet and accidentally dragged away a brightly colored woven mat that had been covering the closet floor.
Underneath it was a trap door.
Jake tugged at the recessed handle, but it didn’t budge.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” Pickens was standing behind him.
“Didn’t mean to pry, just curious.”
“You’d be a lousy field officer if you weren’t.”
Pickens moved some clothes out of the way to reveal a digital keypad. He entered an eight-digit code.
“Try it now,” he said.
Jake lifted the trap door easily. Below it was a stairway.
“You’re not cleared for this,” Pickens said, “but we’re partners now, so no secrets.”
The two men had saved each other’s lives—it had forged a bond.
Pickens fist-bumped Jake and flipped a light switch at the bottom of the stairs.
“Holy shit,” Jake muttered.
“The program serves a dual purpose,” Pickens said. “It takes this stuff off the streets and redistributes most of it to our African partners in the war on terror.”
Jake walked farther into the cavernous room. Stacked floor-to-ceiling were wooden crates and plastic containers with identifying marks stenciled on their sides: rifles, pistols, ammunition. He looked to the right and spotted the raw materials for IEDs: crates of explosives and artillery shells. He looked to the left: RPGs, Russian land mines, and large, olive green crates with Chinese characters on them.
“Are those—”