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 wondered if that was really such a good idea, but the big man was already out of the car and past the armed men on his way into the restaurant.
Jake cursed, press-checked his pistol, and did the same.
The beachfront café was a collection of simple tables with a dirt floor and a palm-frond roof, but the air smelled of roasted goat and stewed camel meat—expensive delicacies in the famine-wrought country.
Jake sat facing the road and Pickens watched the rear as a waiter approached their table. Pickens ordered in English.
“What you want, gaal?” the waiter asked Jake.
Jake ordered the baasto. It was a popular dish and a window into Somalia’s past—pasta from the Italian occupation seasoned with spices from the Silk Road era.
“Not baasto. Why you here?” the waiter asked, choosing not to tiptoe around the issue of Jake’s race.
“We’re with the UN High Commissioner for Refugees,” said Pickens, and they had the credentials to prove it, although the UNHCR staff might be surprised to learn it.
The waiter walked away.
“I think he likes you,” said Pickens.
“He raises a good point,” Jake said. “Why are we here, exactly?”
Pickens leaned across the table. “There’s money here, Jake. A lot of it. The market square was packed with people buying actual food in a country that’s starving, this restaurant is almost full, and some of those SUVs outside would cost $100,000 back in the States. That’s more than most Somali families will earn in a lifetime. There’s only one way people can earn that kind of cash in this country, especially in a small coastal town. We’re getting close.”
The food took forever to come out, which was odd because it appeared to be precooked, in large bowls, within plain sight of the table. Other parties arrived and were quickly served. The waiter passed by Jake and Pickens several times but said nothing. The restaurant filled up and became noisy.
“The waiter is setting us up,” Jake said.
“We’ve still got ninety minutes to kill before the meet.”
“Let’s spend it somewhere else.”
The two Americans slipped out of the restaurant and returned to their car. Pickens took the wheel and drove through town, constantly checking his mirrors for a tail. A handful of people were walking to and from the market with pushcarts and baskets, but the two Americans were clean. They soon found themselves in front of the cream-colored building with the green roof. It was empty.
“Let’s check it out,” said Jake.
Pickens frowned.
“C’mon, John. Maybe you’re right about Kitadra. Consider this background for our investigation.”
“All right,” said Pickens, “but just for the record, this is going to end poorly.”
THIRTEEN
THEY PARKED NEXT to a rusty car that looked as if it hadn’t moved in decades.