“He was doing his due diligence on me. One nice perk of my arms redistribution assignment is that it establishes my bona fides with some serious dudes.”

“Some seriously bad dudes.”

“They’re generally the best sources,” said Pickens.

The silver hatchback turned away and a pair of camels loped down the center of the busy street with numbers branded into their hindquarters.

“What’s with the numbers?” Jake asked.

“The Somalis call them ‘license plates.’ They’re the owner’s mobile phone number.”

“Seriously?”

“Those ugly things were worth $3,000 a head before the drought, maybe $5,000 now. Steal one and you’ll get your hand cut off.”

Pickens did a 270-degree turn around the block and they headed west through the Hawle Wadag district. While nowhere in Somalia was considered safe, the Hawle Wadag was a particularly dangerous area. The neighborhood was littered with burned-out cars, buildings pockmarked from bullets and artillery, and craters from IEDs. Armed men loitered on the streets, watching the SUV roll by.

The two Americans drove past a colonial-era church that was overflowing with displaced Somalis and turned into an area with even deeper scars: scorched buildings, downed power lines, shattered windows. Trash littered the roadside. The stench of sewage was suffocating.

“We’re here,” Pickens said.

He pointed to a dusty lot behind a chain-link fence and enough barbed wire to secure a prison. Empty and abandoned shipping containers littered the foreground. In the back was a one-story warehouse with its garage door raised.

Pickens approached slowly. A man holding an AK-47 was guarding the entrance. He waved the Americans inside and gestured to the back of the warehouse. Pickens crept forward, past a dozen armed men and several vehicles, including a four-door Nissan Navara with dented fenders and a Russian RPD machine gun mounted in its bed.

“One way in and one way out,” Jake noted without enthusiasm.

“Look, brother, I’ve got four kids back in the States, and even though I don’t get back there much, I still want to see them again. We can trust this guy.”

A new Mercedes-Benz SUV was parked in the rear. Half a dozen gunmen with Kalashnikovs stood alongside.

“I thought you said this guy ran half of the Bakaara Market,” Jake said.

“The illegal half,” said Pickens. “Just take everything nice and slow.”

He stopped their SUV fifty feet from the Mercedes, and he and Jake stepped out with their empty hands in clear view.

A man emerged from the passenger seat of the Mercedes. Tall and wiry, he was dressed in a crimson shirt and yellow pants.

“I am Gadhka Cas,” he said. “As-salaam-alaikum.”

“Wa-alaikum-salaam,” said Pickens.

The Somali motioned to three chairs and a serving of tea.

“How did you get your nickname?” Pickens asked.