Garaar followed her into the main room of the house where two small children were lying down. He estimated the older girl to be four and the younger one to be about age two. The four year old wallowed in a pool of vomit while the two year old cried incessantly.
Putting on his mask, he directed the mother to the other side of the room next to her children. He turned on the camera and set it on the tripod. Then, without warning, he unleashed the gas.
In less than a minute, the mother and her children were dead. And Garaar was pleased that it worked as quickly as it did. He wasn’t sure he could take much more of the gurgling and gagging noises the trio made as they died. He proceeded to store all his equipment before drenching the inside of the house with gasoline. He unfurled a 100-foot rope, soaked it in gasoline, lit the rope on fire, and drove away.
Garaar passed through the checkpoint and was at least a mile outside the village before he saw large plumes of smoke billowing in his rearview mirror. He picked up his phone and dialed a number.
“I completed the testing,” he said. “The product will be ready for you to collect on schedule.”
He couldn’t wait to demonstrate the gas on Barbara.
CHAPTER 5
Berbera, Somalia
HAWK SLUNG HIS BAG over his back and descended the steps of Blunt’s private jet. He stopped at the bottom and stared at the runway that stretched for as far as he could see. Heat haze emanated from the tarmac. Looking down at his feet, Hawk watched two beads of sweat splash to the ground.
“Welcome to Somalia,” a man said in a thick accent.
Hawk looked up to see a man smiling and offering his hand. Shaking the man’s hand, Hawk flashed a smile back before he strode toward the private hangar.
“What kind of airport is this?” Alex asked.
Hawk looked over his shoulder to see Alex’s mouth agape as she stared down the runway.
“What on earth needs a landing strip this long?” she asked, still in disbelief.
Hawk stopped. “Nothing on earth, but something landing on it does.”
“Come again?” she said as she gathered her equipment bag and hustled next to him.
Hawk resumed his walk toward the hangar. “This runway was a backup emergency landing site for the U.S. space shuttle program during the 80s. Cost the government $40 million a year just to have the privilege of renting it in case of emergency.”
“If only I’d decided to pave a three-mile stretch in the desert.”
The man who’d greeted Hawk slipped up beside him and tried to take his bag.
“Let me help you with this,” the man said.
Hawk tightened his grip on the straps. “Cool your jets, my friend. I can handle it myself.”
“Very well then,” the man said. “Right this way.”
The man gestured toward an SUV sitting near the entrance of the hangar.
“My name is Cawaale or you can just call me ‘Lucky,’” he said.
“Lucky? Now how’d you get that name?” Alex asked.
“My mother was eight months pregnant with me when our village was overrun by a group of pirates. They killed everyone except my mother, who pretended to be dead.”
“That’s quite a story, Lucky,” Hawk said as he watched Lucky lumber toward the vehicle with a pronounced limp. “What happened to your leg?”
“I was attacked by a crocodile.”
“That’s not so lucky.”
“I’m still here, aren’t I?”
“Touché.”
Hawk opened the door for Alex and then climbed in after her. Cawaale gave them a brief tour, covering a vast expanse of Berera history, from the flourishing ivory trade in the ninth century to the Russian military presence in the 1970s.
“If tourism ever becomes a thing in Berera, you need to switch jobs, Lucky,” Hawk said.
Lucky flashed a 100-watt smile at Hawk and whipped around the corner before skidding to a stop.
“We’re here,” Lucky said as he jammed the gear into park.
Hawk and Alex got out and walked up to a gated compound. The cinder block walls towered twelve feet above, providing a formidable barrier to the outside and casting long shadows to escape the scorching heat. The sounds of men shouting and yelling were mixed with scuffling and fighting. And Hawk assumed it was all coming from inside the compound.
Hawk pressed a button next to the door and waited. A few moments later, a voice crackled over the intercom.
“Please state your name and business,” a man said.
“I’m Brady Hawk, and I’m here with my assistant Alex. We’re supposed to be meeting with a John McGinn.”
“Just a moment please.”
Thirty seconds later, the gate swung open, revealing a hive of activity that was every bit and more than what Hawk imagined. Two men shuffled back and forth, battling with a pair of wooden sticks. One man hurled a grappling hook over a wall that appeared to be used for training. Two other men sparred in hand-to-hand combat simulation. Meanwhile, dust swirled about the area and almost choked Hawk. He coughed several times before he looked up to see the man he’d been waiting to see.
“You must be Brady Hawk,” the man said, offering his hand. “John McGinn.”
Hawk nodded. “Pleased to meet you.”
“And you must be Alex.”
Alex smiled and nodded before shaking McGinn’s hand.
From his shirt pocket, McGinn pulled out a new pack of cigarettes and tapped it hard against the palm of his hand. He proceeded to rip the package open, tossing the cellophane wrapping onto the ground. He fished out a cigarette and placed it loosely on his lips.
Before he lit up, McGinn offered Hawk and Alex a smoke.
Alex waved him off; Hawk scowled.
“I’ll pass,” Hawk said. “Those things will kill you.”
McGinn flicked his lighter and took a long drag. He gestured with his hand around him then exhaled a lung full of smoke.
“This is Somalia, Mr. Hawk. Lung cancer won’t kill you here. You’ll never live long enough for it to catch up with you.”
“We don’t intend on staying long,” Alex said.
“Get ready because we're going
