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
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Dameer stepped out from behind the table and squared off against Pickens. The Somali was tall and lanky, with a sweat-stained shirt, crazy eyes, and a knife of his own. It was rusty and dull, except for the edge, which was shiny and sharp.
Pickens brought his forearms up to protect his face and chest, like a boxer.
Old school.
The Somali waved the knife back and forth like he was trying to sell it. He took half a step forward.
Pickens faked right, then rotated his two-hundred-forty-pound body and launched a left into Dameer’s face. The blow lifted the man off his feet and hurled him into the back wall.
His sandals were still on the floor where he’d been standing.
It was a hell of a punch.
But the goons with the AK-47s had finally discovered that something was amiss. They were shouting and yelling and gesturing wildly—and pointing their rifles at Pickens.
TWO
THE TWO MEN with the Kalashnikovs were shaking.
It might have been from the drugs, or maybe they were nervous, but Jake wasn’t looking to make a diagnosis.
He was trying to keep his partner alive.
“Drop the weapons!” he shouted.
He had a 9mm pistol up and was shifting his aim between the two gunmen, making sure they each had a chance to look straight into the muzzle before he switched targets.
They could shoot Pickens, but it would cost them their lives.
It should have been an easy decision, even in a drug-induced haze, but the gunmen didn’t react.
Jake yelled again, this time in Arabic, and the men literally dropped their rifles onto the concrete floor.
Pickens scooped up the weapons and the two Americans backed through the door to a beige Daihatsu hatchback—a car so generic that it was like a third-world cloak of invisibility. With Pickens behind the wheel, they quickly disappeared into the low-rise streets of Mogadishu. Voted “the most dangerous city in the world” for twenty years running, it was a place where machine gun fire punctuated conversations and truck bombs ended them.
Though the thugs who’d tried to ambush them probably couldn’t walk a straight line, much less tail them through city streets, the two CIA officers didn’t take any chances. Pickens drove a full surveillance detection route over the narrow roads. The routes were designed not only to spot a tail but to do so without making it obvious, because acting like a trained intelligence operative was the surest way to confirm that someone was a trained intelligence operative.