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 the remaining 1 percent was something called a taggant, and it was a highly specific chemical included by manufacturers to allow product identification, like a serial number. In this case it was 1 percent dimethyl-dinitrobutane, and its precise formulation identified the explosive as British PE8.
No surprise there, either.
Jake had pulled it fresh from the crate.
But his legs felt impossibly heavy as he walked upstairs—like a man walking to his own execution. He rummaged through his bedroom until he found the shirt he’d been wearing weeks ago when his own car had been hit by a roadside bomb. He’d thrown it in a corner and forgotten about it. The shirt was still covered with fragments of glass, dried blood, and bomb residue.
He pointed the spectrometer at it.
PE8.
Jake aimed at a different part of the shirt and took a second reading, just to be sure.
PE8.
And for the second time in as many days, Jake looked into the distance and muttered to himself.
Motherfucker.
EIGHTY-THREE
JAKE RETURNED TO the house and removed the cell phones from Pickens’s dresser.
He scrolled through the text messages until he found what he was looking for.
Jake sent a message of his own.
If he didn’t survive the night, and even if he did, Graves would argue that what Jake was about to do should have been left to others—teams of highly skilled men who operated as a unit and trained constantly, but Jake’s head was spinning. He wasn’t following orders. He wasn’t on CIA business anymore.
He spent the next hour laying out the equipment he’d gathered for the assault: explosives, weapons, and assorted gadgets. It was enough to equip a squad of soldiers, but he wasn’t a squad of soldiers. He was a single man, going up against a numerically superior and better armed force. Stealth would be more important than firepower.
He stripped away everything that wasn’t absolutely essential, declining even to bring a rifle. Jake was an exceptional pistol shot, and tonight’s work was going to be up close and personal. He reloaded the compact Heckler & Koch pistol he’d used in Dujuma. The HK45 was accurate, deadly, and completely reliable. By the time he’d finished paring down his gear, he could carry everything he needed on a tactical vest and a small backpack.
He was standing at the kitchen table, taking one last look at online satellite images of the warlord’s neighborhood, when the mobile phone pinged.
He’d gotten a response to his text.
Midnight, Jake sent back.
It was the last piece of the puzzle.
He grabbed the backpack, set the alarm, and rolled from the safe house in a white Suzuki Alto. The online maps he’d been studying were low-resolution and had provided only basic details of the area. Jake needed to get eyes on target while there was still daylight.
He had two hours.