An hour after they’d arrived, the three trucks emerged from the warehouse and were escorted back to the main gate by the guard who’d been waiting outside. The entire operation had been shrouded in secrecy, from the civilian trucks to the late hour, and the guard’s name had been deleted from the roster—with explicit instructions from his supervisor to forget everything he’d seen.

The guard turned in the keys for his pickup and went to the employee locker room to change out of his uniform. He sat on a worn wooden bench and rubbed his eyes. It had been a long day and his shift was finally over. But he still had a phone call to make before his work was finished.

ONE

SIX MONTHS LATER . . .

JAKE KELLER FELT the blade of the machete against his throat.

The Somalis had gotten the jump on them.

“We’re with the United Nations,” Jake said in English. “We’re here to help.”

“You want to help? You give us money,” said Dameer. The nickname meant “donkey,” and he bared his teeth as he burst out laughing. His henchmen laughed too, as if he’d said the funniest thing they’d ever heard.

Dameer slammed his fist down on the table and the laughter stopped. His eyes were bulging and bloodshot.

“Pay us!”

He folded his arms across his chest while two of his cohorts brandished AK-47s. They were even more doped up than their leader.

“We just want to talk,” Jake said calmly. He’d been in worse spots before.

The Middle East, Europe, North Africa. Trouble had followed Jake like a hungry dog for the last two years—ever since he’d gone into the field for CIA.

“No money, no talk,” said Dameer.

Jake could smell the rancid breath of the man holding the knife to his throat.

“Maybe we take you hostage,” Dameer said. “Then UN pay us!”

He put his hands on the table. He was missing two fingers on his left hand. They looked as if they’d been cauterized with a rusty piece of iron. Punishment for something, no doubt.

“We’ll pay for protection,” said Pickens. “We just need to know who we’re paying.”

Dameer glared at him. Though Pickens was black, he looked nothing like the wiry Somalis. He’d been an outside linebacker at Northwestern University before joining the Agency. Beads of sweat glistened on his thick biceps and shaved head. He was built like an oak tree.

“Money, now!” Dameer shouted, slamming his fist against the table.

Pickens retrieved four fifty-dollar bills from his pocket and placed them on the table. Each one was a month’s wages for an honest Somali.

But there wasn’t an honest Somali in sight.

Dameer scooped up the cash and stuffed it in his pocket.

“More money, gaal.” It meant “infidel” in Somali, but the locals used it for any foreigner.