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?
Jake flipped his night vision goggles into position and accelerated into the hills. The bike spit a wake of dirt and debris as it scaled the soft earth. Behind him, the thermate slag had melted through the van’s chassis and ignited its fuel line. A hundred gallons of burning diesel engulfed the truck and sent flames a hundred feet high—illuminating the valley in every direction.
But the aircrew was tenacious. The pilot slewed the helo to the side and the snipers rained down more gunfire. A bullet tore through Jake’s backpack and more rounds crashed into the earth around him as he accelerated up the hill.
He crested the ridge with the throttle wide open and launched the bike into the air—flying forty feet over the ground before landing in a ravine. The helicopter doubled back, but the glare of the burning truck and the ravine’s steep sides shielded Jake from view. The helicopter made another tight turn to the east to cut off Jake’s access to the main road.
But Jake headed away from the road and away from Mogadishu. He turned northwest and drove through the low hills, shifting into high gear and opening up the distance with his pursuers with every passing second.
He caught sight of the MD 520 crisscrossing the countryside several times over the next twenty minutes until it finally abandoned its search and flew away.
EIGHTY-TWO
JAKE STOWED THE dirt bike in the back of the pickup before starting the drive back to Mogadishu.
He drove the old Toyota like he stole it, speeding recklessly through the darkness and swerving around animals and slower vehicles. Once he was in cell phone range, he placed an anonymous call to AMISOM headquarters about the mysterious explosions near Dujuma.
IEDs were so common that they had become a business. Bomb-builders turned to almost assembly line construction to increase output. They bought supplies in bulk and regularly used the same blasting cap and booster charge combination—usually Russian or Chinese Semtex—to ignite base charges of homemade explosives.
Come daylight, African Union ground troops would arrive. Explosive experts would use spectrographs to analyze the debris and search for the bomb-maker’s signature, but the bomb technicians would be in for a worrisome surprise when they saw the results of this site. The presence of the thermate and the biological agents would quickly be shared with U.S. forces in the region and ring alarm bells at the Pentagon and Langley.
Graves would undoubtedly piece the parts together.
Good, Jake thought. Here’s your proof, Ted.
But Jake wasn’t celebrating. Yaxaas still had Pickens, and there was no telling how the old crocodile might vent his rage once they reached Mogadishu.
Jake had been lucky in Dujuma.
He would need a miracle in Mogadishu.