Chapters (96)
- Cover
- Berkley titles by David Ricciardi
- Dedication
- Epigraph
- CHARACTER LIST
- PROLOGUE
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- THIRTY-EIGHT
- THIRTY-NINE
- FORTY
- FORTY-ONE
- FORTY-TWO
- FORTY-THREE
- FORTY-FOUR
- FORTY-FIVE
- FORTY-SIX
- FORTY-SEVEN
- FORTY-EIGHT
- FORTY-NINE
- FIFTY
- FIFTY-ONE
- FIFTY-TWO
- FIFTY-THREE
- FIFTY-FOUR
- FIFTY-FIVE
- FIFTY-SIX
- FIFTY-SEVEN
- FIFTY-EIGHT
- FIFTY-NINE
- SIXTY
- SIXTY-ONE
- SIXTY-TWO
- SIXTY-THREE
- SIXTY-FOUR
- SIXTY-FIVE
- SIXTY-SIX
- SIXTY-SEVEN
- SIXTY-EIGHT
- SIXTY-NINE
- SEVENTY
- SEVENTY-ONE
- SEVENTY-TWO
- SEVENTY-THREE
- SEVENTY-FOUR
- SEVENTY-FIVE
- SEVENTY-SIX
- SEVENTY-SEVEN
- SEVENTY-EIGHT
- SEVENTY-NINE
- EIGHTY
- EIGHTY-ONE
- EIGHTY-TWO
- EIGHTY-THREE
- EIGHTY-FOUR
- EIGHTY-FIVE
- EIGHTY-SIX
- EIGHTY-SEVEN
- Children of Fallen Patriots Foundation
- ABOUT THE AUTHOR
- What’s next onyour reading list?
Jake’s mind was already racing, but the tree and the paint can kicked it into high gear. Something wasn’t right. The can was perfectly vertical, and the debris around it wasn’t moving despite the breeze.
Jake slammed on the brakes and threw the transmission into reverse.
He’d barely released the clutch when his world went black.
TWENTY-ONE
JAKE REGAINED CONSCIOUSNESS in the Corolla’s driver’s seat.
The windows were shattered and his ears were ringing.
Fragments of glass were in his hair.
Jake wiped blood from his face and inhaled a mouthful of dust and chemicals.
He stumbled from the car, coughing repeatedly, and drew his pistol. Unsteady on his feet, he swept the area with his weapon, but he was alone inside a giant cloud of dust.
He shuffled to the side of the road.
There was a crater where the pile of trash had been.
He’d been hit by an IED.
The entire passenger side of the car was imploded, its frame showing through the sheet metal like the ribs of a starving animal. The tires were shredded and the engine had stopped. Gasoline leaked from the tank.
Jake returned to the driver’s seat, punched in the cigarette lighter, and waited. By the time it was hot, there was a puddle of fuel under the car.
Jake tossed the lighter into the gas and it flared instantly. Flames engulfed the car from all four sides.
He staggered to the main road and waved down a Bajaj motorcycle-taxi. The three-wheeled rickshaws were everywhere in Somalia. He switched taxis two more times before heading to the safe house. He unlocked the door and walked inside.
Pickens had an M-4 rifle against his shoulder, pointed at Jake’s chest.
“What the hell happened to you?” Pickens said. “I heard the gate open but I didn’t see the Toyota.”
He lowered the rifle as Jake explained the IED and how he’d torched the car to eliminate his fingerprints and destroy the IMSI catcher.
“You think you were targeted?”
“Maybe Badeed wants his diya.”
“Or maybe it was a warning.”
Jake went to his bedroom and tossed his shirt and pants into a corner. They were covered with blood, fragments of glass, and explosive residue. Though his ears were still ringing and he had a titanic headache, he looked halfway normal after a shower and a change of clothes. He found Pickens in the kitchen.
“We need to talk to Graves.”
“An hour ago you were almost a cloud of dust. Why don’t you lay down for a few minutes?”
“I’ll feel better once we’ve made some progress. I’m calling Ted. Do you want in or not?”
The two men videoconferenced Graves from Jake’s secure laptop.
“You have a name for me?” Graves asked in lieu of a greeting.
“We’re getting conflicting intel,” said Jake.
“I’ll take that as a ‘no.’”