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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Pickens laughed and fist-bumped his new partner. “With you or with anyone, brother. I’m just trying to figure out why the Seventh Floor brass suddenly care. Piracy has been a way of life down here for twenty years.”
“It’s about oil.”
Pickens shrugged. “Always is.”
“But not the way it used to be,” Jake said. “Now that the U.S. isn’t importing as much from the Middle East, we’re reducing the military presence we’ve had there for the past fifty years.”
“The ‘Pivot to Asia’?”
“Exactly. Our forces are moving east to deal with national and regional threats, but whoever is stealing these oil tankers is clearing close to twenty million dollars each time they sell the cargo on the black market. That kind of money can fund terror networks and weapons of mass destruction.”
Pickens turned down a side street. “Then why aren’t the pirates ransoming the crews? That’s where they used to make their money.”
“Anonymity,” Jake said. “Headquarters doesn’t have a clue who is behind this: not an email, not a text message, nothing. You start making ransom demands and you leave a trail. Whoever is behind the hijackings understands operational security. This isn’t six-skinnies-in-a-skiff anymore. We’re up against professionals with training and resources, probably ex-military.”
Pickens scowled. “I don’t know, Jake. We take out this pirate and somebody will take his place before the body is cold. There’s no rule of law down here. People have gotten used to taking what they can today because they might not be alive tomorrow.”
“Economic opportunity is the long-term solution, but that’s never going to happen unless we find the pirate leader and put him out of business.”
The two men were stopped behind a line of cars and Pickens was tapping his hand against the steering wheel. Jake couldn’t tell if the anxiety was from the traffic, the narrow escape, or something else.
“I’m on board with the mission,” said Pickens eventually, “because that’s my job, but Somalia is a lost cause.”
THREE
JAKE AND PICKENS drove past Villa Somalia. Built by Italian colonialists, the whitewashed Art Deco building was the official residence of the Somali president, but with the country embroiled in a civil war since 1991, the villa changed tenants like a hot-sheet motel. The current government had been in place for less than a year, and though it didn’t control much territory outside Mogadishu, the new president took his personal security very seriously. He’d paid a lot of bribes and made a great many promises to secure his election, and he wasn’t going to waste the opportunity to grow rich off it. Armored personnel carriers staked out the compound’s corners and drop-down Delta barriers blocked the entrance.