Jake and Pickens arrived two hours early for their meeting to scout the area and assess security. Jake unbuckled his seat belt so it would be easier to reach the Glock 19 pistol holstered inside his waistband and the curved karambit knife sheathed under his shirt. Pickens did the same, although he could have concealed a machine gun without most people noticing.

The standard of living seemed to improve as they reached the center of town. A busy market square held twenty or thirty people haggling over prices for clothing and food. Across the street was an elegant mosque with whitewashed walls and a robin’s egg blue roof made from handmade tiles. Up a side street was a large building with a light green roof and fake shutters painted onto its cream-colored walls.

“That’s the Exchange,” said Pickens, pointing at the cream-colored building. “It was pirate central during the first go-around. The locals contributed anything that could be used in an attack: money, weapons, boats, themselves. It was all valued and assigned a share of any payout. Probably ten percent of the deals hit, and ransom payments took a long time to negotiate and collect, but those that paid out, paid big. Some investors made a hundred times their original investment.”

“Like venture capital for criminals,” Jake said.

He kept driving. They passed more homes and a few commercial buildings until they reached the outskirts of town.

“Call it,” Jake said.

“We should be safe as long as we lay low.”

“Works for me.”

Jake pulled a U-turn across the road, forcing two cars in the oncoming lane to slam on their brakes and swerve around him.

“You’re assimilating nicely,” said Pickens. He checked his watch. The drive through town had taken all of five minutes. “We’ve still got two hours. Let’s grab some lunch.”

The sedan attracted a few glances but little more as they crept down a dusty side street that dead-ended at a wide sand beach. As far as the eye could see, the ocean was calm and the sky was clear as the sun continued its remorseless assault.

There were additional private homes by the beach, but they were modern and multi-story, with late-model cars and trucks parked in their driveways. On the right, surrounded by dozens of banana trees, was an outdoor restaurant. Parked outside were several tricked-out SUVs and an old pickup truck with no windshield and three mounted machine guns, one for the front seat passenger and two on pintles in the back. A group of men was standing nearby chewing qat and talking among themselves. A few had rifles slung over their shoulders.

“Are you familiar with the term ‘recon by fire’?” asked Pickens.

“That’s not exactly laying low. I’m the only white man within a hundred miles.”

“That’s some racist shit right there,” Pickens said with a grin, “but I’m going to let it slide this one time. Let’s do this . . .”