A lone crewman had been working in a noisy mechanical area of the ship’s hold and had not heard the general alarm. By the time he finally ran for the citadel, it was too late. He was a hundred yards from the safe room when he saw the pirates climb onto the deck and fire their weapons into the air. The seaman knew the ship better than almost anyone, and he slid down a ladder back into the hold and ran along a catwalk until he found a good hiding place.

But the devil was in the details.

Two pirates were searching the hold, walking the catwalks, when a burst of static came over the crewman’s radio. The two Somalis found him inside ninety seconds and escorted him to the citadel—at gunpoint.

Which was where Mahad had distinguished himself.

He stripped the seaman of his clothes and hog-tied him with thick ropes. The pirate then grabbed the man’s hair, held his face up to the CCTV camera mounted outside the citadel’s watertight door, and began to flay him alive.

The screams echoed through the metal companionway. In less than thirty seconds the rest of the crew voted to open the door. Seventeen of them were held for ransom and released within a year, three died in captivity, and the crewman who’d been partially skinned alive was tossed overboard and into the salt water before sunset.

The survivors had each identified Mahad by name and photograph upon their release.

“Forget about working with this sonofabitch,” said Pickens. “I’ve dealt with this kind of animal before and they only understand one thing: force.”

Jake closed his laptop.

“Then force it will be.”

NINETEEN

JAKE WAS BEHIND the wheel of the maroon SUV, rolling fast through the narrow streets of Mogadishu with its turbo-diesel motor humming and the hot night air blowing through the open windows.

“Let’s not overthink this,” he said.

“Never been a problem for me,” said Pickens. He jacked the cocking handle on the short-barrel M249 machine gun in his lap. It had a collapsible buttstock and a box magazine holding two hundred rounds. He had two more magazines at his feet.

“Let’s not kill him either,” Jake suggested.

“That’s his call. I’m going home tonight either way.”

Jake whipped around a corner and sped down an alley. He and Pickens had cased the area twice earlier in the day. Mahad had done well for himself, with a gated home in a quiet residential area.

“On target in sixty,” Jake said.

On the SUV’s console was a compact electronic device known as an IMSI catcher. Among other things, it could trick Mahad’s mobile phone into revealing its location.

“Pinging him now,” Pickens said. “He’s home.”

“Thirty seconds,” said Jake. He swerved around a few men loitering on the side of the road and turned down a narrow street. “Hit it.”