Pickens flipped him the finger. “Speaking of your youth and inexperience . . . How’d you end up in Special Activities at such a tender young age?”

Though they were both part of the Agency’s Directorate of Operations, the two men were from different divisions. Pickens had taken the traditional route after college, coming up through the clandestine service trainee program before beginning his career in the field as a case officer. His main job was recruiting sources.

But most of Jake’s peers in the Special Activities Center were military special operations veterans who had ten to twenty years of experience in the armed forces before joining the Agency. Jake was considerably younger than his contemporaries, and it was impossible not to notice.

And impossible for Jake to answer.

“Look,” Jake said. “We have photos, names, and last known addresses for the eight subjects. Now we just need to pay them a visit and figure out who’s who in the zoo.”

“You and I can’t run that kind of operation alone. We’ll get made in a heartbeat—especially you.”

“Racist . . .” Jake muttered jokingly as he started typing on his laptop again, drafting another request to the cyber services team in CIA’s Directorate of Digital Innovation. “I’m asking headquarters to run call chains on our gang of eight and build an association matrix. Maybe if we see who is talking to who, it will lead us to whoever is running this thing.”

Pickens nodded and stepped outside to take a call on his mobile phone. He returned to the kitchen twenty minutes later.

“While we’re waiting on that”—he gestured to the laptop as if it were toxic—“I got us another meet for this afternoon, and you’re going to want to take this one.”

FIFTEEN

THE TWO MEN left the safe house in a maroon Toyota Surf SUV.

“Head on a swivel, brother,” Pickens said as they approached a car with its hood up on one side of the road and a stopped minibus on the other. There were six inches to spare on each side of the SUV. “Sometimes the locals stage this shit to funnel people into ambushes.”

Jake’s hand was already resting on the pistol concealed on his waist, but he relaxed when he saw steam rising up from the car’s engine compartment and an old man pouring a jug of water into the radiator.

“Have you met this guy before or is this going to be another battle royale?” Jake asked.

Pickens smirked. “Only once, at a local arms dealer’s warehouse. This guy isn’t a street thug, though. He runs half of the Bakaara Market. I’ve been trying to get this meet since I learned you were coming.”

Jake was watching the side-view mirror. A silver hatchback with peeling paint and mirrored windows had followed them through three turns.

“What made him finally agree?” Jake asked, keeping his eyes on the mirror.