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?
Like everything else in Somalia, the drought had taken its toll on the Jubba, and the once mighty river had been reduced to little more than a stream meandering through the mostly dry riverbed. Jake slung his rifle in front of his body and waded into the warm water up to his knees. The current was so slow as to be nearly imperceptible, trickling softly as it passed over the occasional rock or stump. He spied a few animals drinking along the water’s edge—antelope mostly—but no crocs, no lions, and most importantly, no humans.
He reached the opposite bank in less than a minute.
Jake surveyed the low hills through his magnified rifle scope and hiked to a hilltop he’d marked on his map. In the shallow valley on the other side was a sprawling camp the size of a football field. Shielded by the valley walls, it was invisible from the surrounding area. It had stockade walls and a metal gate topped with barbed wire. Inside were several buildings, maybe a dozen goats in a small pen, and a few armed men—including one with bandoliers of rifle ammunition slung dramatically across his chest.
But there was no sign of Yaxaas or the bioweapon.
Jake had hunted in his youth and was skilled with a gun, but he wasn’t a trained sniper. Even with the precision rifle Clap had left him, Jake wouldn’t be killing Yaxaas with a thousand-yard high-angle shot through a valley swirling with thermals and crosswinds.
He needed to be closer.
He hiked down the ridge, ensconced in darkness and searching the area for sentries, until he spotted movement on another hilltop and froze. He clipped a night vision device in front of his rifle scope, and spied two men who had a commanding view of the approach road and the camp—and a mounted machine gun.
The machine gun nest wasn’t on the reconnaissance photo. Jake zoomed in further. The AN/PVS-27 night vision device’s catadioptric lens illuminated the scene crisply, and he spotted one of the opposition staring out over the valley behind a belt-fed PKM machine gun.
There were many challenges ahead: Jake was still three hundred yards from camp, vastly outnumbered, and facing a crew-served weapon that could cover the entire valley. But the machine gun nest was new, and several PKMs had been stolen from the Saviz.
Jake lowered himself into the tall grass, released the straps on his rucksack, and grunted with relief as the eighty-pound pack slid to the ground.
He’d found the right camp.
SEVENTY-TWO
THE RAIN MOVED in.
At first it was just a few drops splattering on Jake’s boonie hat as he lay behind the rifle, but by midnight it had turned into a steady drizzle. The camp workers went about their business under the lights of a portable generator, until that too was shut down a few hours later.