Jake took two steps and vaulted through one of the openings in the back wall. Chips of concrete flew as one of the gunmen opened up with his Kalashnikov and stitched a line of bullet holes in the wall where Jake’s head had been a few seconds earlier.

Pickens landed on his feet next to Jake. He and Jake drew their weapons and started running.

The neighborhood was a maze of foot paths and small houses. Jake sprinted down the nearest path with Pickens right behind. The two CIA officers nearly collided with a group of children playing in the sand before darting through a cluster of one-room shacks made from discarded building materials and plastic tarps.

A burst of gunfire rattled through the neighborhood. The gunmen weren’t far behind.

The Americans turned down another footpath, between a pair of cinder-block homes and two old men sitting in plastic chairs. At the end was a small palm grove.

Jake stole a look over his shoulder. The Somalis were thirty yards back. Jake and Pickens made a series of random turns through another group of shanties until the alley opened onto a dusty patch of open ground.

Half a dozen young boys were playing soccer with a ball made from discarded duct tape when one of the Somalis fired a burst from his rifle, narrowly missing the boys. Jake turned down another alley to keep them out of the line of fire and the Americans piled on the speed, banging out a five-minute-mile pace through the tiny residential neighborhood. Though Pickens was nearly fifteen years older, he was right on his partner’s heels. They ran down another dirt path, looking for a place to hide or a car to steal, but there were too many people and almost no cars.

The ground opened up at the end of the path.

They’d reached the edge of town.

The land was flat and empty for miles.

Another burst of automatic weapon fire ripped through the air behind them while the Mitsubishi SUV appeared from a side street and blocked their escape.

The Americans were going to have to resolve the threat.

Jake ducked inside a darkened shed and motioned Pickens into an open doorway. It placed them in an L formation where they could cover two approaches and concentrate their fire.

Jake took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, trying to slow his breathing and his heart rate. He listened to his surroundings, isolating the different sounds: the breeze rustling the trees, the children playing nearby, the Mitsubishi’s engine shutting down.

The Somalis were being patient. Time was on their side.

Jake needed to go on the offensive. He lobbed his cell phone twenty feet away into a cluster of scrub brush. Thirty seconds later, the timer he’d set started ringing.

There were footsteps . . . running . . . stopping . . . then advancing slowly as the phone continued to ring.