Two of the Somalis rounded a corner with their rifles up. They glanced in Jake’s direction, but he remained invisible inside the darkened shed. The gunmen fanned out, one on each side of the small alley, and turned toward the sound of the phone.

Jake fired twice and dropped the first Somali to his knees, then switched his aim and put three shots into the second man just as he was turning around. He crumpled in a pile of arms and legs. The first man was still on his knees, holding his rifle, and screaming in pain.

Jake fired again.

The screaming stopped.

The timer was still ringing, but it wasn’t fooling anyone anymore.

Jake caught a glimpse of a third gunman and raised his pistol, but the man disappeared before he could take the shot.

A panicked woman burst from one of the nearby shanties and ran in front of Jake’s muzzle with two children in her arms.

He took a deep breath. There were too many innocent bystanders around.

A minute later he heard a muffled, one-sided conversation. It was another one of the Somalis, on his mobile phone, coordinating a counterattack.

Smart.

It wasn’t a quality Jake appreciated in an adversary.

He dashed across the alley into the abandoned shanty, pushing aside the hanging carpet that was its door and ducking under some laundry drying on a clothesline inside. There were footsteps outside, moving slowly, scraping against the dirt and gravel.

Jake switched out his half-empty pistol magazine for the full spare he kept on his belt and watched the alley through a thin cotton curtain.

A shadow passed the house.

Jake pushed open the hanging carpet.

“Drop the gun,” Jake said in Arabic.

His pistol was trained on the center of the man’s back, less than ten feet away. The bullet would destroy his heart if it didn’t sever his spinal column.

The man hesitated.

“Live or die,” Jake said. His finger slid toward the Glock’s trigger, but the man laid the gun on the ground.

Jake ordered him back into the house and slammed him to the floor, face first.

“Who sent you?” Jake said in Arabic.

But before the man could answer, Jake caught sight of Sunglasses outside with a pistol in his hands, heading toward Pickens. A second later the Somali turned around a corner and disappeared from view.

Jake wasn’t equipped to take prisoners. He yanked the clothesline from the ceiling, hog-tied the Somali, and stuffed a dish towel in his mouth.

Jake grabbed the man’s Kalashnikov, checked the magazine, and stepped onto the street.