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
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But it also meant that the helicopter was flying convoy protection for whatever ground vehicle was moving the virus, which meant the snipers would be scanning every inch of the area looking for someone like Jake, which was not so good news.
He watched the aircraft come closer until he could clearly make out the snipers with their legs dangling over the skids and their rifles slung over their shoulders. Three sets of headlights came around the corner to his left, bouncing slowly over the rutted dirt road. In front was Yaxaas’s Range Rover, followed by the delivery truck and a pickup filled with gunmen.
The helo had closed to within a hundred yards. In another fifty yards, the helicopter’s rotor wash would flatten the tall grass and the snipers would spot him.
The fate of the goat in camp left little doubt as to what would happen next.
Jake flexed his hand as the helicopter loomed closer—forcing himself to be patient. He could clearly see the snipers with their weapons up, sweeping the ground, searching for targets.
It was nearly overhead when he squeezed the remote firing device. Half a mile away, where the camp road met the paved road, the coded radio signal was received and an electrical impulse triggered a pair of blasting caps—each about the size of a cigarette—which in turn detonated the four blocks of British PE8 plastic explosives that Jake had left in the satchel. The explosion sent a tower of flames and a column of smoke rising into the air.
The helicopter roared past to investigate.
But the sound of the departing helo was quickly replaced by the throaty growl of the Range Rover’s supercharged V8 engine.
Jake grabbed a second actuator and paced the SUV’s approach.
Three, two, one . . .
He pulled the trigger.
A fraction of a second later, another ten blocks of PE8 exploded in a brilliant flash, a violent pressure wave, and a deafening blast.
A cloud of dust rose into the air where the Range Rover had been.
The SUV was literally blown off the road at thirty miles per hour. It fishtailed wildly and nearly slammed into the hillside, but the warlord’s wheelman knew his trade. He let off the gas, turned into the slide, and got his vehicle back under control. The supercharged V8 snarled once again, the run-flat tires bit into the ground, and the big SUV launched itself back onto the dirt road. Jake looked into the distance, watched the taillights disappear around the corner, and muttered to himself.
Motherfucker.
EIGHTY
BUT THERE WAS no time for mourning.
The delivery van had been right behind the SUV. It was inching through the shallow crater made by the IED and was already halfway up the opposite side. The pickup truck filled with gunmen was right on its bumper, laying on the horn and practically pushing it down the road.