The goat walked to the pond’s edge, took a sip, then raised its head in alarm. Its eyes, with horizontal slits for pupils, could see almost three hundred degrees around its body—and they’d sensed motion.

But it was only a gust of wind rustling the plants.

The goat lowered its head and resumed drinking.

The fourteen-foot-long crocodile exploded forward, closing the distance in less than a second. The goat turned to run, but the prehistoric predator clamped its teeth around the goat’s rear leg. The croc’s jaws were the most powerful force in the mammalian world, exerting almost 3,500 pounds of pressure per square inch. The goat wasn’t getting away.

Little Yaxaas dragged it backward into the pond, and the goat’s plaintive bleating stopped as the croc took it to the bottom.

The warlord smiled and finished getting dressed.

Yaxaas walked downstairs and out of the building. A security guard carrying a Kalashnikov unlocked the gate as the warlord approached. Other guards were already out on the street, patrolling the perimeter.

The dogs were on their feet, waiting. One was missing a leg, another an eye. All had scars on their necks and haunches. They were wild, feral animals, snarling and nipping at one another as the warlord approached.

He took a basket from one of the guards and tossed chunks of goat, cow, camel, and chicken to the street, letting the dogs determine who would eat and who would not. In ten minutes, they’d eaten more meat than the average Somali family would consume in a month, or maybe a year.

A few beggar children were out as well, watching with dirty faces and bare feet, but Yaxaas had nothing for them but scorn.

He knelt down and let the dogs lick his hands. Maybe it was gratitude, or maybe the animals were just lapping up juices left over from the meat he’d thrown, but the warlord didn’t care. He scratched the last mutt behind the ears for a few seconds and headed inside past his guards.

His only son was waiting for him.

Born thirty-two years earlier to a mother who’d disappeared a few months after his birth, he had inherited many of her physical qualities—he was taller and more muscular than Yaxaas—but his personality had undoubtedly come from his father.

He was known as Nacay. The nickname meant “detestable” and it had not been given in jest. Even Yaxaas had blanched at some of the things his son had done. Where the father was calculating and dispassionate in the application of violence, Nacay was capricious and often viewed it as a form of entertainment. He reveled in the suffering of others, taking an almost erotic pleasure in watching someone—be it man, woman, or child—beg for their lives.

“Cawar is waiting in your office,” he said.