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?
Word would get out.
Yaxaas’s guards would return to the building.
Jake would be trapped.
He stood in the darkened hallways and took off his NVGs. There was enough light in the office to do what needed to be done.
Jake glimpsed a gun in the warlord’s waistband as Yaxaas ended his call and fished a lighter out of his pocket. He lit a cigarette and stepped through the French doors onto the veranda, staring into the darkened courtyard as he exhaled.
Jake entered the office.
There were a few chairs, a desk, a sofa . . . and maybe a hundred edged weapons hanging on the walls.
There was another door to the right of the veranda.
But no sign of Pickens.
The warlord finished his cigarette and tossed it over the railing.
When he turned around, Jake was ten feet away, with the suppressed pistol pointed at his chest.
EIGHTY-FIVE
A BREEZE RUSTLED THE linen drapes on either side of the warlord. He was still wearing his crocodile-skin cowboy boots.
“So, American . . . Have you solved all of Somalia’s problems?”
“I’m about to solve one of them.”
Yaxaas scoffed. “Killing me changes nothing.”
“You’re too modest,” Jake said.
The warlord fished out another cigarette and reached for his lighter.
“Slowly,” Jake said. Yaxaas did as he was told.
“You think you are protecting my country? You can’t even protect those closest to you.” The warlord exhaled. “It’s a shame, what happened in Greece, but the electrical systems on English cars have always been tricky. At least you can buy another Land Rover.”
Jake’s finger slipped inside the trigger guard.
“Be careful with that,” said Yaxaas, staring down the barrel of Jake’s gun. “I have twenty men outside. You’ll never—”
“It was more like ten, and they’re all dead. I killed every one of them.”
“And nothing will change if you kill me. Someone will take my place before sunrise.”
“Like Badeed?” Jake asked. “He would have, but he’s dead.”
“Then Cawar—”
“Also dead. Nacay too. Dead. Dead. Dead. There seems to be something going around.”
The warlord inhaled deeply from his cigarette and blew the smoke in the air. “I can make you rich, you know. You—”
“I don’t want your money. I just want my partner.”
“He’s not here,” said the warlord. He turned to face the courtyard. “He’s in a rural camp, several hours from here, but perhaps—”
Yaxaas spun around with his gun in his hand.
Jake fired first.
The .45-caliber bullet hit the warlord in the chest. Jake squeezed the trigger a second time, but the hammer fell on an empty chamber. The gun was empty.
He dropped the spent magazine and reached for one of the spares on his belt, but they weren’t there. They must have fallen out when he’d jumped into the compound.
He was out of ammunition.