No sooner had the words left Pickens’s mouth than the gunmen raised their weapons and started shouting for the two men to open their doors. Jake hesitated for an instant and the butt of a rifle stock shattered the glass. Two men yanked him from the car and threw him to the pavement. Pickens met the same fate. Both were quickly relieved of their guns, knives, and identification before having their hands bound and hoods thrown over their heads.

Jake had been hopeful Pickens might be right about it only being a shakedown until the hoods came out. It wasn’t the sort of thing most people kept in their vehicles.

The gunmen threw the two Americans into the truck bed and the creaky liftgate slammed closed. Jake tried to free his hands, but they’d been tied professionally—whoever had grabbed them had done it before.

Pickens cursed when he heard a long burst of gunfire.

“Pick?” Jake said.

“Yeah?”

“Do you trust me?”

“Yeah.”

“Hang tough. We’re not going to die today, brother.”

SEVENTEEN

ONE OF THE thugs smashed his rifle stock into Jake’s side.

“No talking,” he said in English.

The blow had nearly cracked a rib, but it felt like a baby’s kiss compared to a beating he’d taken in Iran two years ago. He’d survive.

The pickup’s tires squealed as it did an abrupt U-turn and accelerated. The two Americans slid around the truck bed as it swerved through the streets. There had been so many twists and turns and roundabouts that Jake had lost track of their direction. They could be heading north, south, east, or west.

All were bad options.

The pickup skidded to a halt on a patch of dirt.

The gunmen rousted Jake and Pickens and led them, still bound and hooded, into a building. Pickens said something in Somali and received a blow that knocked him to the floor.

“On your knees,” said a man in English.

Someone removed the hoods. They were back inside the Exchange. A man in his fifties with a cane was limping around the interior, inspecting chips in the walls where bullets had struck the concrete.

“You did this?” he asked.

“Those bullets were fired at us,” said Pickens.

“And yet those men are dead and you are alive.” The man bent over and picked up a lacquered steel shell casing. “Why were you here?”

“We’re aid workers,” Jake said.

“I thought aid workers were supposed to help people, not kill them.”

“It was self-defense.”

“You were well armed for aid workers.”

“Somalia can be a dangerous place,” said Jake, glancing at the men holding them at gunpoint.

The man smirked. “So why were you in my building?” He gestured to the walls around them.

Silence.

The man stepped closer. “Are you familiar with the Somali custom of diya?” he said.

“Blood money,” said Pickens.