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  “There hasn’t been a Shabaab militia unit in Mog in over six months. You know that better than I do.”

  “African politics are quite complicated. Since you are a foreigner, I can hardly expect you to understand,” Moi insisted. He kept his eyes glued to the television set. He was glad that his image still wasn’t targeted.

  “To tell you the truth, I hate politics, African or otherwise. I’ve lost way too many friends because of it. And we both know you’re stalling. You’re holding the CSB shipment hostage. My employer wants to know why. He’s already paid you to ensure safe delivery of each shipment.”

  “I have broken no agreement. The food is safe here with me and will be shipped out when the conditions warrant.”

  “What conditions? And don’t hand me any Shabaab bullshit either.”

  Moi quickly weighed his options. He could bolt out of the room, but then what would he do? His unit didn’t have any antiaircraft weapons to speak of. If he entered the compound, there was a chance he’d be targeted and taken out by a Predator. But if he could get to his Land Rover, he might be able to escape, but then again, a Predator could easily track that, too.

  “Colonel, you’re pissing me off. The clock’s ticking.”

  “My apologies.” Moi swallowed hard. He hadn’t apologized to any man in over twenty years, even when he was in the wrong. “My expenses have gone up. There are more government officials to bribe. And the roads are increasingly dangerous. Not from Shabaab, of course, but from street gangs and even those filthy Djiboutis.” He was referring to one of the other AU peacekeeper nations with forces stationed in the sprawling city.

  “So you want more money? Jeezus. How much is enough?”

  “A question for the ages, Private Citizen. But I might ask you the same. What is Harris paying you? I shall double it.”

  “With what?”

  “With the money I have in the Caymans account.”

  “You mean the one million?” the American asked.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Or did you mean the three million? There are three accounts in three separate Cayman banks, each worth just over a million. Look.”

  Moi gulped when his three separate account statements were displayed on the big plasma screen.

  “The only problem, Colonel Moi, is that you don’t have any money. At least not anymore.”

  Moi watched the balances of each account zero out.

  “You are no businessman. You are a thief!”

  “I only returned the money to my employer for your failure to abide by the terms of your contract. He’ll use it to buy more food supplies, which will probably be stolen by some other petty tyrant.”

  “Tell Lord Harris that if my money is not returned immediately, I shall order my men to dump the CSB into the ocean, and I shall not let one grain of food pass on to the camps in the future.”

  “You drive a hard bargain, Colonel.”

  Moi smiled. “Thank you. I take that as a compliment.”

  “You shouldn’t.”

  Muffled thunder boomed overhead. Moi instinctively flinched. He recognized the sound of large-caliber rifle fire and the whir of rotor blades. Moi watched in horror as the plasma screen switched to multiple live video images from several overhead cameras, all of them at much lower altitudes, swooping and careening over the compound.

  One by one, Moi watched his men fall, each dropped by a single shot fired from a laser-targeted sniper rifle mounted on one of several Autonomous Rotorcraft Sniper Systems (ARSS)—small, unmanned helicopters. Within moments, all of his men were dead, down, or fleeing for cover.

  “Not Predators. ARSS. Impressive,” Moi admitted. He was, after all, a military man. Sniper rounds continued to fire.

  “Hellfire II missiles cost a hundred thousand dollars apiece. Lots of collateral damage, too, which is also expensive. I took out each of your men with a single .338 Lapua Magnum cartridge at a cost of just four dollars apiece. It’s important to control costs in business operations, don’t you think?”

  Moi stared at the plasma television. He was numb with disbelief. His entire command had been effortlessly destroyed by remote control. Chopper blades beat in the humid air outside of his penthouse. He glanced over just in time to watch a gray-skinned ARSS lower to the level of his balcony. The hovering unmanned helicopter was the size of a pickup truck and it pointed a suppressed RND 2000 sniper rifle directly at him from a turret fixed to the starboard runner. The roar of the rotor blades was barely muted by the thick double-paned glass of the penthouse’s sliding glass doors.

  Another image suddenly appeared on the television. Moi watched himself being watched by the ARSS targeting camera. It almost amused him.

  “And now it is the paid assassin’s turn to kill me,” Moi lamented.

  “I told you, I wasn’t hired to kill you.”

  Moi shook his head. “What is to become of me then?”

  Another overhead image popped up on the big screen: a convoy of AU vehicles racing through the streets of Mogadishu.

  “General Muwanga will be here shortly to take you into custody. I don’t need to tell you what kind of reception you’re likely to receive in his interrogation facility. He’ll also supervise the delivery of the CSB.”

  “That fat meddler. Why did he not have the guts to assault me himself?”

  “The AU can’t afford another fiasco. Neither can the Western aid agencies. Their donors are getting fed up with all of the corruption. And a pitched gun battle between African peacekeepers over stolen food would only embolden Shabaab and their al-Qaeda masters. So I was hired to clean up the mess.”

  “I may yet be able to afford General Muwanga a surprise or two,” Moi boasted. He stormed over to a nearby closet and pulled out his personal weapon, an Israeli-built TAR-21 bullpup assault rifle. He favored the futuristic compact design over the dated but reliable Heckler & Koch G3 weapon system that was standard issue in the poorly funded Kenyan Defence Forces.

  The ARSS yawed a few degrees. Moi froze. The giant sniper rifle’s suppressed barrel seemed to be pointed at his head.

  BAM! The sliding glass door shattered as the sniper rifle fired. Chunks of glass rained down on Moi as he dropped to the ground with a thud.

  “Sorry about that,” the American said. “Had to clean up one last item.”

  Moi was confused. He turned around. A splintered bullet hole was carved in the door. Thick red blood oozed beneath it and seeped into the fringes of the handwoven silk carpet. Moi’s last surviving soldier had crept up into the stairwell to hide—and die.

  Moi scrambled to his feet, embarrassed, and snatched up his rifle. He detached the magazine from the butt stock and checked it to make sure it was fully loaded.

  “How long until the general arrives?” Moi asked.

  “Six minutes, judging by his current speed. But there’s an alternative.”

  “I look forward to putting a bullet in his fat, ugly face.” Moi racked a round into the chamber.

  “If General Muwanga takes you alive, the Ugandan government will humiliate your prime minister, and your uncle will no doubt be dismissed from his cabinet position and will most likely be arrested and executed after a show trial, along with several other members of your family, all of whom have profited from your misadventures. Your name will live in infamy, your family will bear unforgivable shame, and your nation will suffer a loss of prestige it can ill afford.”

  Moi frowned with despair.

  “However,” the disembodied voice continued, “an arrangement has been negotiated. If General Muwanga finds you and your entire command killed, it will be reported that you and your soldiers bravely died to a man defending a humanitarian food shipment from a Shabaab assault. You’ll be buried with full military honors, and the surviving members of your family will enjoy the everlasting fame of your exploits.”

  “My uncle will see through this charade. He will demand retribution,” Moi insisted.

  The voice laughed. “Your uncle is
the one who suggested it.”

  Moi’s shoulders slumped with resignation. He glanced at the ARSS still hovering outside of the shattered glass door. He calculated that a headshot from this range should be easy for the American. Moi’s back stiffened, as if he were suddenly on parade.

  “I should be grateful if you would do the honor, Private Citizen. I prefer to die as a soldier.”

  “Then you should have lived like one, Colonel.”

  Moi wilted again.

  “Yes, I suppose I should have.”

  He crossed over to his bed. He was tired now. He wished he’d been allowed to have his nap. “You have thought of everything, Private Citizen. I commend you on your efficiency. Your employer should be satisfied with the services you have rendered today.”

  “We aim to please.”

  And with that, Moi lifted the short barrel of the TAR-21 and placed it in his mouth. He began taking deep breaths to gather his courage. On the fourth inhalation, he found it. The rifle cracked and the top of his skull exploded, spattering blood and brain tissue onto the spinning fan blades above his bed.

  Near the Snake River, Wyoming

  Troy Pearce was still lean and cut like a cage fighter despite the strands of silver in his jet-black hair. His careworn face and weary blue eyes belonged to a combat veteran who’d seen too much trouble in the world.

  “Satisfied, Sir Harris?” Pearce asked.

  Sir Harris had watched the entire Somali operation unfold in a live feed while sitting in his country manor outside of London. They spoke via an encrypted satellite channel.

  “Perfectly, Mr. Pearce. I trust you had no casualties on your end?”

  “That’s why I use drones, sir. The safety of my people is my top priority. Accomplishing the mission is second.”

  “Outstanding. Your team has accomplished the mission brilliantly, as expected. I don’t suppose you’d be kind enough to upload that final footage to my intranet server?”

  “Did you get that, Ian?” Pearce asked.

  A thick Scottish brogue rumbled in Pearce’s earpiece. “On its way now.” Ian McTavish was Pearce’s IT administrator and a certified computer genius.

  “Of course.” Pearce was running this mission out of a specially equipped luxury motor home he used on occasion. It was parked on one hundred acres of secluded woodlands next to a rough-hewn cabin hand-built by his grandfather sixty years ago.

  Pearce added, “The CSB is scheduled to arrive at the camp by midnight, local time. General Muwanga will contact you directly when it’s delivered. I assume you’ve already made the financial arrangements with him?”

  “Yes. I just hope we won’t be employing your services again, Mr. Pearce. Heaven knows the Western powers committed their share of crimes in the past, but it seems that the greatest challenges too many Africans face these days come from the hands of other Africans.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about Muwanga. When he finds Moi’s command torn to pieces, he’ll understand the true cost of breaking his contract with you. With any luck, the word will get around to the other pirates and pissants and they’ll leave you alone.”

  “Yes, quite.” Sir Harris chuckled.

  “My people will be providing top cover for the relief convoy, and then our contract is fulfilled.”

  “Splendid. Thanks again for your service, Mr. Pearce, and your discretion. And please congratulate your team on my behalf.”

  “I’ll pass it along. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have another matter to attend to.”

  Pearce broke the satellite connection and shut down his computer. His highly trained team of professionals on the ground in Somalia already had their orders and didn’t require any further supervision from him. Pearce had other fish to fry.

  Literally.

  It was just after sunrise. The trout would already be biting. Time to break in the new fly rod.

  3

  On board Air Force One

  It was nearly midnight and they were still an hour away from landing in Denver. Despite objections by the Secret Service over the enormous security risks, President Margaret Myers had attended the memorial service for Ryan Martinez and the Cinco de Mayo massacre victims and their families in El Paso earlier that day.

  The galley steward had just cleared away her half-eaten Cobb salad and remained below deck to give her privacy. Her closest advisors were gathered in the West Wing conference center back in Washington. She was currently linked to them on a live video feed.

  Myers stood, her glass empty. She had just finished two fingers of Buffalo Trace, her favorite Kentucky bourbon. She was fifty and tired, but didn’t look much of either, even tonight, still dressed in black. Years of swimming and Pilates had kept her frame strong and lean like she’d been as a young girl growing up on a cattle ranch. She still hardly needed makeup, and her dark bobbed hair was colored perfectly.

  “Anybody need to freshen up their drinks?” Myers asked as she crossed to the bar.

  “I think we’re all fine here, Madame President,” Sandy Jeffers said with a tired smile. Despite his obvious fatigue, his salt-and-pepper hair was still perfectly coiffed, and his hand-tailored suit as crisp as the day he’d bought it. As chief of staff, he answered for the group.

  Myers poured herself another bourbon.

  “I want to thank each of you for picking up the slack in my absence. And, Bill, I’m also grateful for the security arrangements you and your team put together on such short notice.”

  Secretary Bill Donovan ran the Department of Homeland Security. He nodded in reply, stifling a yawn behind a beefy hand. He hadn’t slept in three days. “We owe a great deal to our friends at Fort Bliss and the governor of Texas. We couldn’t have done it on such short notice without them.”

  Myers smiled a little. “From where I sat, El Paso looked like the Green Zone with all of the tanks and helicopters you moved in there. I’m sure the press will make a lot of hay with those photos.”

  “Better safe than sorry,” Donovan offered. Despite his morbid obesity, he’d proven to be an effective and energetic DHS secretary.

  Myers nodded. “Of course. Now, for the business at hand.” Myers returned to her chair.

  The media had jumped on the first witness’s statement that ICE agents had perpetrated the massacre. The witness had seen black military uniforms, military-style machine guns, and “ICE” emblazoned on their tactical vests, which accurately described ICE combat teams.

  The idea that rogue ICE agents had perpetrated the crime fit the mainstream media metanarrative perfectly—Myers’s ruthless budget cutting was causing chaos across the government. Only in Washington, D.C., could freezing future increases in spending be counted as a “cut.”

  But within a few hours it became apparent that the killers had merely impersonated ICE officers. All of the gear they wore was available for purchase on a hundred websites. The Hummer they’d used had been stolen two hours before the attack and later found abandoned and burned up in a vacant lot just across the Mexican border. Most important, every ICE agent’s location and activity that night had been accounted for.

  Responsible media began reporting the new facts as soon as they became available, but Myers’s staunchest opponents resorted to a variety of conspiracy theories and began alleging a cover-up.

  “Faye, why haven’t we made any progress on the shooters?” Myers asked. Faye Lancet was the attorney general of the United States and thus the head of the Department of Justice and one of its subsidiary agencies, the FBI.

  “Our most reliable informants on the street are suddenly either deceased or irreparably mute. Snitches have an extremely short life expectancy in that part of the world.”

  “You make it sound as if South Texas is a Third World country,” Myers said.

  “In some ways, it is,” Lancet replied. “The border is still pretty porous these days.”

  “Maybe this was just a local neighborhood gang,” Myers said.

  Mike Early, Myers’s special assistant for secu
rity affairs, spoke up. “Possibly, but not likely. According to witnesses, they were firing machine guns, probably German HK21s.”

  “How do you know that?” Myers asked.

  “We found six proprietary HK ammo drums on-site, each with a fifty-round capacity. The Mexican army uses HK21s. They even manufacture their own under an HK license.”

  “You think the Mexican army is connected to this?” Lancet asked.

  “No. But Mexican army guns have a funny way of turning up on the streets, whether stolen or sold.” Early scratched his five o’clock shadow. “Hell, the Mexican army itself has had over a hundred thousand desertions in the last decade. God only knows how many weapons they take with them.”

  “The forensics point to two weapons used that night, which is corroborated by at least three survivors who thought they saw or heard two machine guns being fired,” Donovan said.

  Myers frowned. “Why couldn’t local gangs purchase some of those weapons?”

  “Possible, but highly unlikely. Mexican guns don’t usually travel north. It’s American guns moving south that causes problems down there. Even if a couple of street punks could find a high-end gun seller that wasn’t a Fed, or a Fed informant, it’s clear to me the shooters knew what they were doing. They weren’t a couple of gangbanger lowlifes hosing down the neighborhood like Tony Montana,” Donovan said.

  Early added, “They discharged three hundred large-caliber, armor-piercing rounds in less than a minute in controlled bursts—and on target. The bastards were definitely trained.”

  “So who wanted to send a message? Why attack a house full of teenagers having a good time? And who’s the message for?” Myers asked.

  “Too soon to say who the message was for with certainty,” Donovan said. “Word on the street is that it was a turf issue, and given that El Paso is Castillo Syndicate territory, it’s not too big of a stretch to say that Castillo was the one pulling the trigger.”

  Myers fumed. “Castillo territory? El Paso is American territory, damn it. Who does that son of a bitch think he is?” The Castillo Syndicate was the most powerful drug cartel in Mexico, based out of the state of Sinaloa where it originated. Its power was exerted over the western half of Mexico and had extended itself steadily north into the United States and south into Central America for the last decade. Its main competitor was the Bravo Alliance, which controlled the eastern half of Mexico. Both cartels had effectively absorbed all of the other smaller cartels in recent years. It was a classic bipolar system, a vicious stalemate between two equally powerful enemies, like scorpions in a bottle.