Dameer had mentioned the small coastal town moments before Pickens had knocked him out of his sandals. While the drugged-up, would-be kidnapper’s word wasn’t worth much, the coastal town loomed large in piracy lore, having been the original, and the most successful, pirate haven throughout the first generation of piracy. If street thugs were still talking about it like a city of gold, it was probably worth checking out. Pickens had arranged a meeting to get a read on the current situation.

Kitadra was two hours north, and Jake kept the accelerator close to the floor as they drove through Mogadishu. The narrow city streets were packed with a mishmash of two-, three-, and four-wheeled vehicles, all vying for the same space at the same time.

Right-of-way was decided by testosterone and kinetic energy.

The driving changed once they left the city and headed north on the “highway,” two lanes of broken pavement surrounded by acres of sand and an occasional stand of bent gum trees. They passed petroleum tankers, water trucks, and freight haulers. Cars and trucks coming from the opposite direction thought nothing of forcing other vehicles to the shoulder to complete a pass without slowing down.

The international media often wrote about the low value ascribed to human life in Somalia, and it was hard to fully comprehend, but a couple hours on the road proved it with mathematical precision. Lives were risked for the most insignificant advantage. Vehicle-to-vehicle gunfire was common. Burned-out wrecks littered the roadside.

Hell is nothing to fear when you’re already there.

Occasionally a group of vehicles would pass by at high speed. In the middle was usually an armored Land Cruiser or Range Rover with tinted windows. Two pickup trucks full of gunmen seemed to be the standard escort for a warlord or a high government official—from the average Somali’s point of view, the difference was negligible.

The nation was facing its third famine in two decades. Starvation and illness ravaged the population despite foreign assistance that ran over $1 billion per year. Most of the aid was food, some of it was cash, and maybe 10 percent of it actually made it to the people in need. The rest was diverted to pay for armored SUVs and pickup trucks full of gunmen.

The warlords and government officials called it a tax.

The people called it extortion.

—

THERE WAS NO “Welcome to Kitadra” sign at the edge of town, just sand and scrub, a few palm trees, and a dozen dilapidated homes. No bigger than ten-by-fifteen-foot rooms, the shanties had discarded cardboard covering holes in tin roofs, woven mats hanging over doorways, and rain barrels as their only source of water. With earth-moving equipment scarce and expensive, the residents had built their homes on the flattest land available, leaving them strewn about at odd angles and distances.