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 blew out his heart with two .45-caliber bullets from close range. Secondary explosions from the safe house drowned out the suppressed gunshots.
Jake skulked along the wall, in the darkest shadows where the moonlight failed to shine, and made his way to the main entrance. The remaining two guards were seventy-five feet away, shouting to each other from either side of the gate. Jake raised the pistol in a two-handed grip, exhaled, and placed the infrared laser dot on the first man’s chest. He fired twice, then shifted his aim to the other guard and put two rounds in his back before the man realized what had happened.
Jake jogged over and anchored each of them with a round to the forehead.
He dragged the bodies away from the gate and cleared the rest of the parking area. From the southwest corner of the building, candlelight flickered through a second-floor window.
Yaxaas.
With his weapon in his right hand, Jake shoved the door open with his left. It struck something halfway. Jake pushed harder—and felt someone push back.
“Al’abalah,” Jake yelled. It was Arabic for “idiot.”
The man yelled back.
It wasn’t Yaxaas or Pickens.
Jake fired two rounds through the door and the resistance stopped. He looked around the door and recognized the man on the other side. It was one of the goons from the Bakaara Market.
Jake stepped inside and moved forward along the right wall. His eyes and the weapon moved as one—swinging in a wide arc and covering every inch of the room. The space was utilitarian, with a metal table in the middle and folding chairs strewn across the floor. A mini-fridge sat silent in a corner.
Jake bolted the exterior door behind him and pushed deeper into the building. The next room was a small warehouse, with crates and pallets stacked along the walls. He sensed movement to his right and brought his weapon around, but it was only two goats in a cage.
At the far end of the warehouse was a set of concrete stairs. Jake climbed slowly, his pistol aimed up the stairway. At the top, a long hallway led to the candlelit room he’d seen from outside.
Someone was speaking.
Jake moved slowly, clearing the rooms on each side of the hallway as he advanced. Most were offices, one was a bathroom.
The voice became louder—a one-sided conversation—the speaker yelling into a phone. Shadows danced on the walls as the candle flickered and the figure paced. The man crossed into the light in front of a large wooden desk.
Yaxaas.
Jake glanced at his watch. It had been three and a half minutes since the CIA safe house had blown. The army and the volunteer ambulance service would be swarming Villa Somalia and soon discover that it wasn’t another terrorist attack on the president, but an explosion at a private residence in the Warta Nabada district.