Jake stepped inside and moved forward along the right wall. His eyes and the weapon moved as one—swinging in a wide arc and covering every inch of the room. The space was utilitarian, with a metal table in the middle and folding chairs strewn across the floor. A mini-fridge sat silent in a corner.
Jake bolted the exterior door behind him and pushed deeper into the building. The next room was a small warehouse, with crates and pallets stacked along the walls. He sensed movement to his right and brought his weapon around, but it was only two goats in a cage.
At the far end of the warehouse was a set of concrete stairs. Jake climbed slowly, his pistol aimed up the stairway. At the top, a long hallway led to the candlelit room he’d seen from outside.
Someone was speaking.
Jake moved slowly, clearing the rooms on each side of the hallway as he advanced. Most were offices, one was a bathroom.
The voice became louder—a one-sided conversation—the speaker yelling into a phone. Shadows danced on the walls as the candle flickered and the figure paced. The man crossed into the light in front of a large wooden desk.
Yaxaas.
Jake glanced at his watch. It had been three and a half minutes since the CIA safe house had blown. The army and the volunteer ambulance service would be swarming Villa Somalia and soon discover that it wasn’t another terrorist attack on the president, but an explosion at a private residence in the Warta Nabada district.
Word would get out.
Yaxaas’s guards would return to the building.
Jake would be trapped.
He stood in the darkened hallways and took off his NVGs. There was enough light in the office to do what needed to be done.
Jake glimpsed a gun in the warlord’s waistband as Yaxaas ended his call and fished a lighter out of his pocket. He lit a cigarette and stepped through the French doors onto the veranda, staring into the darkened courtyard as he exhaled.
Jake entered the office.
There were a few chairs, a desk, a sofa . . . and maybe a hundred edged weapons hanging on the walls.
There was another door to the right of the veranda.
But no sign of Pickens.
The warlord finished his cigarette and tossed it over the railing.
When he turned around, Jake was ten feet away, with the suppressed pistol pointed at his chest.
EIGHTY-FIVE
A BREEZE RUSTLED THE linen drapes on either side of the warlord. He was still wearing his crocodile-skin cowboy boots.
“So, American . . . Have you solved all of Somalia’s problems?”
“I’m about to solve one of them.”
Yaxaas scoffed. “Killing me changes nothing.”
“You’re too modest,” Jake said.
The warlord fished out another cigarette and reached for his lighter.
“Slowly,” Jake said. Yaxaas did as he was told.
“You think you are protecting my country? You can’t even protect those closest to you.” The warlord exhaled. “It’s a shame, what happened in Greece, but the electrical systems on English cars have always been tricky. At least you can buy another Land Rover.”
Jake’s finger slipped inside the trigger guard.
“Be careful with that,” said Yaxaas, staring down the barrel of Jake’s gun. “I have twenty men outside. You’ll never—”
“It was more like ten, and they’re all dead. I killed every one of them.”
“And nothing will change if you kill me. Someone will take my place before sunrise.”
“Like Badeed?” Jake asked. “He would have, but he’s dead.”
“Then Cawar—”
“Also dead. Nacay too. Dead. Dead. Dead. There seems to be something going around.”
The warlord inhaled deeply from his cigarette and blew the smoke in the air. “I can make you rich, you know. You—”
“I don’t want your money. I just want my partner.”
“He’s not here,” said the warlord. He turned to face the courtyard. “He’s in a rural camp, several hours from here, but perhaps—”
Yaxaas spun around with his gun in his hand.
Jake fired first.
The .45-caliber bullet hit the warlord in the chest. Jake squeezed the trigger a second time, but the hammer fell on an empty chamber. The gun was empty.
He dropped the spent magazine and reached for one of the spares on his belt, but they weren’t there. They must have fallen out when he’d jumped into the compound.
He was out of ammunition.
A bloodstain blossomed across the warlord’s shirt. The hollow-point round had mushroomed inside his chest and nicked his heart. Even a trauma team couldn’t save him now.
But he wasn’t dead yet.
Yaxaas staggered backward, his strength leaving him rapidly. He grasped at the linen drapes as he fell onto the veranda floor. His gun tumbled into the courtyard.
The two men locked eyes as the life drained from the warlord’s body.
The world was a better place.
But Pickens wasn’t in Dujuma.
Jake could feel it.
Shadows flickered in the candlelight as his gaze moved from Yaxaas’s body on the veranda, to the weapons mounted on the walls, to the door on the side wall.
Jake holstered his pistol and drew his knife. He tested the door handle with his left hand.
It was unlocked.
He leaned forward, tightened his grip on the knife, and opened the door.
It was a bedroom, lit by another candle. To the left was another set of French doors, also open to the courtyard. To the right was a four-poster bed, with a bathroom in the far corner.
In the middle of the room, wearing a sleeveless T-shirt and handcuffed to a chair, was Pickens.
EIGHTY-SIX
PICKENS WAS SLUMPED over, with a bandage wrapped around his head. A strip of duct tape covered his mouth.
Jake ripped it off.
“Sonofa—” Pickens said as he came to. The tape had nearly taken a layer of skin with it.
“They never taught you how to get out of handcuffs in the OSS?” said Jake.
“First thing I learned,” Pickens said with a smile. He raised his hands. Dangling from one wrist were the open cuffs. “But I didn’t know if it was going to be you or Yaxaas coming through that door.”
“I’ll bet.”
Jake glimpsed the roll of duct tape on the bedside table.
“You here alone?” said Pickens.
Jake glanced back to the office to make sure no one had entered behind him.
Pickens’s massive biceps glistened with sweat as he unlocked the other handcuff and rubbed his wrists.
“Lead the way,” Pickens said, gesturing toward the door.
He took a step forward.
The two men were an arm’s length apart.
Jake stepped back into the warlord’s office. Yaxaas’s body was just a few feet away.
“I thought you were dead,” said Jake.
“They brought me here after you left me at the checkpoint.”
“The ambush,” Jake said.
Pickens shrugged. “They had us boxed in.”
“You knew I’d be unarmed coming from the airport, but you forgot about the gun I kept in the glove compartment.”
“Are you all right, man? You know I’m the one who got shot in the head.”
“Seriously?” said Pickens. He took another step forward.
Jake moved to the side, putting the corner of the desk between them.
“It was all a big show, wasn’t it?” said Jake. “Just like this.”
“What about the handcuffs?” Pickens asked.
“I’d be surprised if there weren’t handcuffs in Yaxaas’s bedroom.”
“Jake—”
“How did you get out
of the other cuff so quickly, John? And what about the duct tape? It sure was sticky for a guy who’s sweating so much. It couldn’t have been on there more than a minute.”
“I’m not sure where this is coming from, partner, but let’s get out of here and talk about it.”
Pickens stepped around the desk. The warlord’s body was at his feet.
“Badeed’s dead too, by the way.”
“How did—”
“Remind me . . . Why were all those weapons in the basement?”
“I told you, brother. Those are for the militias to fight Boko Haram. They’re—”
Jake shook his head. “I did some research, John. The one militia you were supporting switched sides four years ago. They stopped fighting Boko Haram and pledged allegiance to al-Shabaab.”
“It’s a gray area.”
“It’s clear as fucking day. They’re terrorists.”
“Look, Jake. The administration shut down support for the militia. They didn’t care who won—they just didn’t want the bodies in the news every day.”
“But you didn’t shut it down, did you?”
“I thought I could still do some good.”
“I found a bag of diamonds hidden in the safe.”
“I’m taking a small cut. It’s how they do business here.”
“It’s a slippery slope once you take that first step,” Jake said. “Pretty soon you’re in bed with arms dealers and warlords.”
Pickens shook his head in protest, but Jake kept speaking.
“Speaking of warlords, Badeed and I had a nice chat—before I killed him—obviously. He told me that the four men who tried to kill us in Kitadra were hired by a guy who looks a lot like you, to kill a guy who looks a lot like me. Apparently, you were not a target.”
“A lot of guys in Africa look like me.”
“That’s some racist shit right there, John, but I’m going to let it slide.”
“You’re going believe a warlord over me? Half the sources we talked to said Badeed was the pirate leader.”
Jake smiled. “Only the sources you were running, John.”
“Did you really kill him?”
Jake nodded. “I told him Yaxaas had the bioweapon and asked him to meet me at the safe house. Cawar fell for the same ruse.”
“Cawar is dead too?”
“I found the phone you used to text him, John. I sent him a message—pretending to be you—and told him we needed to meet. He and Badeed died in the explosion. You may have felt it just before the power went out.”
“That was the safe house?”
“Ironic, right? All the weapons you bought from Cawar ended up killing him.”
Pickens said nothing.
“Speaking of karma,” Jake said as he drew the pistol and pointed it at Pickens’s chest. “Turn around and put your hands on top of your head.”
“Listen to me, Jake. You’ve got it wrong, brother.” Pickens was speaking quickly, anxiously. “You and I are on the same side of this thing. I spent eight years building my cover here so they would trust me, so they would think I was one of them. It looks like I’m involved because it’s supposed to look like I’m involved.”
“I believed that, John, I really did, but a funny thing happened in Dujuma. Remember when the Range Rover was hit by that roadside bomb? That was me. I used those British plastic explosives you showed me in the basement. I didn’t use all of them, though, just enough to disable the truck so I could rescue you and kill Yaxaas.”
Pickens stared at the gun in Jake’s hands.
“I needed a few more blocks tonight,” Jake said, “to knock out the power. So I opened the second crate, but it was almost empty . . .”
The big man’s shoulders sank. He looked down at Yaxaas’s body.
“It didn’t make any sense, John. And you know how I am, ‘so damned analytical.’ I just couldn’t let it go.”
“Don’t jump to conclusions, Jake. There’s a lot of plastic explosives in Somalia.”
“True enough, but you bought all the PE8. ‘Every last block in the Horn of Africa,’ is what you said. And do you know what I discovered? I discovered that the PE8 in that crate was an exact motherfucking match for the IED that almost killed me.”
“I know it looks bad—”
“Only one person had access to those explosives, John.”
Pickens raised his hands in surrender—and lunged.
He was strong and fast, but the floor was slick with blood and it gave Jake the fraction of a second he needed to sidestep the attack. Pickens came up short.
Jake still had the gun pointed at his former partner.
“Shoot me!” Pickens yelled as he closed in. “C’mon, Keller. Finish it.”
“It doesn’t have to end that way, John. Give me the key and put the cuffs back on.”
Pickens laughed and faked another charge as Jake circled behind the desk.
“You’re not the only ‘analytical’ one,” Pickens said as he came closer. “I was changing my bandage when you showed up, then I heard the shot and a body hit the floor . . . I figured maybe Yaxaas got the drop on you, because badass Jake Keller never fires less than two rounds.”
The two men slowly circled the desk, with Pickens in pursuit.
“I know the gun is empty, Jake. Even by one goddamned candlepower I can see there’s no magazine in it.”
Jake holstered the pistol.
“Why all the games, John? Why didn’t you just kill me yourself? You had a hundred chances to do it.”
“I was just trying to warn you off, brother. Somalia is a lost cause. Nothing we do here is going to make a damned bit of difference, so why shouldn’t I make a little something on the side—maybe fund my retirement and pay for my kids’ college?”
“Because you’re a traitor. That’s the legacy you’re going to leave for your kids.”
“I didn’t have a choice. Once I did that first deal with Cawar, they had me.”
Pickens pointed one of his meaty fingers at Jake.
“I got nothing against you personally, Keller. You can still walk away.”
Pickens gestured to the door.
“I’m afraid I can’t, John.” Jake pulled the karambit from his vest.
The big man laughed again and grabbed the three-foot-long Ngulu sword off the wall. It was a cross between an axe and a broadsword and its heavy curved blade was designed to sever a man’s neck.
Pickens swung it like a cleanup hitter.
Jake ducked as the edge sliced through the air just inches from his head, then leapt up and elbowed Pickens in the face, shattering his nose.
But it didn’t affect the big man. He wielded the sword effortlessly, like a painter with a brush.
Jake shifted sideways, keeping the desk between them, until Pickens attacked again, swinging the sword overhead as if he were splitting firewood. The blade crashed into the desktop, chopping off a foot-thick corner of the hard mahogany.
Pickens stepped around the desk and swung again.
Jake rotated his body out of the way and drove a heel kick to the big man’s pelvis. Pickens staggered backward but still managed to slice a gash in Jake’s arm.
Jake retreated back behind the desk.
“It’s only a matter of time, Keller,” said Pickens as he feinted to his left and moved right. His natural athleticism masked his enormous strength.
Jake realized that the desk was keeping Pickens away but also giving him an advantage with the longer weapon.
Jake was never going to win a fight for his life by playing defense.
He stepped into the middle of the room with the knife in his right hand and his wounded left arm held against his chest. There could be no mistakes now. If Pickens connected, Jake would die.
The big man came to the same conclusion.
He came at Jake with a stutter step and then charged. He held the axe low and swung it hard enough to fell a redwood.
The blade nicked the front of Jake’s vest as he leapt backward. He counterattacked with a knife strike to Pickens’s rib cage as the big man followed through on his swing.
But Pickens still had the situational awareness he’d developed on the football field and the reflexes to match. He tucked his arm in to protect his ribs and received only a deep cut to his biceps. He seemed impervious to the pain as he spun around and once again raised the sword.
The two men were five feet apart, circling each other.
Pickens’s arm was bleeding heavily, but he was holding the Ngulu sword over his right shoulder and wagging it from side to side, like a batter waiting for a pitch.
Jake feigned an attack, but Pickens didn’t bite. He kept circling, the sword constantly in motion.
Jake was standing in front of the French doors when the big man shifted his hands. Jake recognized the grip as the one Pickens had used for the earlier baseball-swing attack.
Jake was ready for it when it came.
He dove onto the terrace and rolled onto his side.
Pickens tried to check the swing, but he’d already committed. The sword connected with the poured-concrete wall.
The hundred-year-old blade shattered into a dozen pieces. All that was left was a gnarled metal shank at the end of the wooden handle.
Jake lunged with the karambit and raked the blade down Pickens’s thigh, severing two of the muscles in his quadriceps.
Pickens screamed in pain and lashed out furiously, whipping the axe handle at Jake and connecting with his forehead.
It was a solid blow, and the knife fell from Jake’s hand as he almost lost consciousness.
He was on his back on the terrace, dazed and unarmed, his face covered in blood.
Pickens limped over and moved in for the kill.
“I tried to warn you off.” He spoke through gritted teeth as he raised what was left of the sword over his head.
Jake braced his body on the ground and kicked up, using his hips and legs for power. He drove his heel into Pickens’s groin with so much force that it lifted the two-hundred-forty-pound man off the ground.
Black Flag Page 28
