The Night of the Cobra

28 THE BEACH HOUSE

Prince Faisal bin Turki bin Naif could not pull himself away from the news shows parading across the big television screen in the entertainment room of his lavish home in Greece. He had never really believed the Cobra could carry out his mad plan of bombing a huge American shopping mall, but here it was, spreading before him in glorious color. Not a bad result for the modest investment made many years ago, the Saudi prince thought. He was barefoot in a dressing gown of black silk, enjoying the soft feel of the fabric against his skin. Beckoning one of his beautiful boy servants, the prince ordered a light lunch to be served poolside.

He laughed with private humor. If only he could see the faces of the old men who ran the kingdom as they learned of the property destruction and huge loss of life. They will be more shocked, he knew, when the Americans identified two of the attackers as being men from Saudi Arabia. It would rekindle the lingering suspicion held by many Americans that the House of Saud itself was tainted by Islamic jihad. Fifteen of the 9/11 hijackers had been Saudis, and that had taken a lot of explaining from Riyadh. Now this! Faisal clapped his hands with joy and smiled with perfect teeth shining from his slender face.

The prince had just turned fifty years old and had been exiled by the royal family when he was only eighteen because he was gay. They could not afford to have such an embarrassment around the court, for Sharia law did not permit his chosen lifestyle, although sodomy was hardly an unknown sexual practice in the Muslim world. He was allowed to remain one of an entire unimportant horde of Saudi princes and would have an eternal flow of money, if he left the kingdom forever. It was an easy choice. He had never stood any chance of being king or holding an important title in the family business, which was running the entire oil-rich nation of Saudi Arabia. So the minor prince took what the business world called a “golden parachute.” He set up a new life on a sparkling island in Greece with the generous income that guaranteed his silence and let him indulge his fantasies.

His hand ran down between his thighs and parted the silk, sexually aroused by the TV reports. Revenge was nice.

Although the Islamic hard-liners hated homosexuals, they still came around to petition him for petro dollars. The sheikh had proved over the years to be generous to various causes of Allah. The bearded beggars were smart enough to never make a rude comment in his presence, and he privately enjoyed their cowardliness.

A lifetime ago, almost twenty years, a delegation of such hypocrites had approached him bearing a message from his fiery old friend Osama bin Laden, who had never criticized the sheikh. Both were unwanted by their families. Osama wrote that he had discovered a young man of great promise who was being held in a Kenyan prison after being captured by the Americans in the eternal fighting in Somalia. The boy had merit, Osama thought, and the al Qaeda mastermind was looking for someone to sponsor him. Faisal agreed to develop the prisoner, whose name was Omar Jama, to become a future jihad leader. His nickname was “the Cobra,” which appealed to the sheikh. Money exchanged hands. Wardens and guards were paid to protect and assist the badly damaged young prisoner, and he was trained to discipline his mind, repair his body, and stoke his anti-American fury. A total weapon was constructed.

They finally met some nine years ago, and Prince Faisal had been pleased with the product. The Cobra had come out of ten years in prison a much more mature man than when he went in; being forcibly removed from the battlefield had saved him for something better. The man from Somalia was a burly beast, blacker than anyone the prince had ever seen, with a deeply scarred face and a burning hatred of the United States of America. There was never a doubt about the Somali’s bravery. Faisal was not even tempted to try and have sex with his protégé; the man was much too ugly.

The released prisoner had given almost another ten years to the wars in the Middle East to fine-tune his killing skills, before finally striking the United States, just as he had promised. The resulting massacres in Minnesota had been beyond all expectation, and Prince Faisal bin Turki bin Naif had wreaked havoc on the House of Saud, which had shunned him. Omar Jama deserved a fine gift, but the man was already on his way back to Somalia. The prince could think of nothing that would be appropriate for him in that dung pile, certainly not a case of fine champagne. So just some more money then, in that Swiss account.

The storm blew itself out overnight, so dawn allowed a bit of hope to seep through the departing clouds. The sun cast only feeble rays, as if reluctant to expose the Mall USA carnage, and it did little to expel the frigid temperatures. Kyle, Lucky, and Janna had rotated guard shifts in the living room while Deqo slept soundly with the help of an Ambien. Sunday would be better than Saturday, simply because it couldn’t be any worse.

Swanson and Lucky were in Washington by noon for a top-level briefing in the White House Situation Room. Every security agency of the government was grinding away on the series of attacks that culminated with the Mall USA bloodbath. The ten men and two women around the table had been studying a river of data throughout the morning; they had a million questions and no answers. The eyewitness accounts of the pair of CIA and FBI agents who had been there jolted them all. The mood worsened even more when Kyle predicted with certainty that the Somali terrorist known as the Cobra was responsible and described the man’s pathology and background.

“Is it over, do you think?” asked a worn-looking man in a wrinkled dark suit. It was the vice president of the United States, who had been up for almost thirty hours straight. The current meeting had been going on for more than two hours before the government jet carrying Swanson and Sharif landed at Reagan National, where a waiting black limo had met them for the rush trip across the Potomac River to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. There, they had been grilled for almost another full hour.

“Is it over?” Kyle repeated the question. “Who can tell, sir?”

“Give us your best guess, then.”

“He knows that we have identified him, sir, and apparently he is on the run. Without him to supervise the operation, and given the increased police presence and alerts throughout the Minnesota area, this particular set of strikes is probably finished. I could very well be wrong, but you wanted my guess.”

“Very well. And you are sure it was him? No mistake on that?” That question came from a man he did not know.

Swanson had a brief vision of Molly Egan and a bloody night in Somalia. “It was him.”

Lieutenant General Bradley Middleton, at his elbow, knew the background. With a growl, he said, “Swanson can personally recognize the man.”

Lucky Sharif interrupted to add, “My grandmother also identified him. There is no doubt whatsoever.”

The vice president said, “Well, ladies and gentlemen, let me summarize. The attacks may be over. We know who is responsible and are sparing no effort to find him. For now, we focus on that and plan how to take him down without enlarging the crisis. We cannot allow the wanton and horrible acts of this one mad terrorist to lead us into an even larger disaster, or have the nation panic, and the last thing we want is to get snared in the Somalia quagmire again. There has to be another answer. You people find it.”

The meeting ended, and General Middleton, Kyle, and Lucky walked over to the Old Ebbitt Grill on Fifteenth Street Northwest, a half mile from the White House, for lunch. There was a crisp wind, but after the icebox conditions in Minnesota, Swanson and Sharif considered it to be more like a mild breeze.

“So where is this son of a bitch?” Middleton asked as they left the gated grounds, watched by uniformed Secret Service guards.

“Logical thing will be for him to try and get back home to Somalia,” Lucky said. “He will be protected there, and he now automatically is in a position to become the ultimate warlord. Cobra does not think small. I think his primary goal is to take over the government with an al Shabaab revolutionary force.”

“If he can pull that off, Islamic fanatics everywhere will start considering him to be the new Osama bin Laden, rally to him, and set Africa afire,” Kyle said. “Then he will be in a position to get the other offshoots of Islamic terrorism in the Middle East to deal with him.”

Middleton tugged at his gloves and turned up the big collar of his overcoat. “The question is what to do about it.”

“You already know the answer, General. Send Lucky and me after him.”

Sharif agreed. “The two of us are wasting time sitting in meetings in Washington, General Middleton. This Cobra’s level of barbarism is extraordinary, and he is gaining strength by the minute as the world sees what he has done. I was only eight years old when we caught him before, and I could do it better this time. Give us permission and let us cut the head off of this damned snake.”

The Cobra, the most wanted criminal in America, strolled in casual comfort along the Venice Beach boardwalk and let the California sun thaw his bones while he took in the extravagant showiness of the busy beachside area. Artists, clowns, muscle builders, girls in bikinis on roller skates, and kids doing tricks on miniature bicycles all existed in their own little bubbles of life. The Pacific Ocean undulated, surfers were out on the waves, sunbathers were on the beach, and a line of tall palm trees lined the sand. The little restaurants were busy. Colorful murals and graffiti decorated the walls. A lone black man wearing a blue Dodgers cap and wraparound shades was not interesting enough to draw the notice of any of the beach denizens. A cop on a bike rode past without a glance.

He had been walking for some time to find an address he had memorized from the intelligence file that he had had gathered over the years by private detectives, whom he hired anonymously. The details of the place were seared into his brain. The only surprise was that it was so easy to locate — right off the boardwalk. An older couple, both with silver hair, were on a second-floor deck that faced the ocean, leaning on the white railing, joking with each other. The man laughed. This was a wealthy piece of real estate. The owner had purchased two adjoining lots, torn down the existing houses, and replaced them with a single modern home.

A block past the building, Cobra veered off the boardwalk, found the frontage road, and doubled back. The house had a formal entrance on that side with a manicured patch of grass, some spiky bushes, and evergreen shrubs. He pushed the bell and a pleasant ding-dong echoed through the place. He heard footsteps as someone came downstairs. The woman answered and raised her eyebrows in question. “Yes?” She was an artist and was totally relaxed in his presence.

Omar Jama held a large white envelope and lifted it to read a label. “Mrs. Larisey Walden? I’m a private courier from the Gallery Falcone.”

“Yes, that’s me.” She was excited. Several of her works had been sold by the Falcone. Perhaps this was a new commission. She opened the door, and the Cobra punched her hard in the face. Larisey Walden went reeling back hard into the wall.

He followed the punch inside, shoved the door closed behind him, then kicked the woman in the head. Dropping, he clamped his big right palm over her mouth and pinched her nostrils closed with his left hand. It took less than a minute for the unconscious woman to die.

The Cobra moved quietly through the living room and into the kitchen, where a rack of cutting tools hung on a wall. He chose a gleaming nine-inch butcher’s knife and waited beside the stairs.

The man came down, calling out, “Larisey? Who was that? I heard a noise.”

Omar Jama waited until the target stepped clear of the wall, then smashed the man with a punch to the ear that sent him crashing to the floor. The Cobra stabbed the point of the knife into the back of the neck just below the skull and pushed it smoothly through the spinal cord and into the brain. The body struggled, stopped.

The Somali terrorist got up and finished the tour of the house, checking himself for bloodstains. He washed his hands. Then he gathered a propane gas tank from the deck, oily rags and aerosol canisters from the garage, and cans of paint and solvent from the artist’s upstairs studio. Most of it went into a neat pile on the king-sized bed, which he soaked with the flammable liquid. The remainder he carried down to the ground floor, splashing the walls and furniture. He lit a set of three candles on the mantelpiece, then went to the kitchen and stripped the gas line from behind the stove. As soon as he heard the hiss and smelled the fumes flowing into the room, he left.

The Cobra closed the front door behind him, adjusted his cap, and returned to the boardwalk, where he found a bench about two hundred meters away and sat to watch the waves. Within minutes, the pretty house detonated in a thunderous fireball that threw debris in a wide circle and then burned to the dirt. He turned to watch, as did everyone else along that section, and eased away in the growing crowd, whistling a tune. The house had been the property of the Marine Swanson.

29 THE COLONEL

Lieutenant General Middleton was known for his iron courage. Today, flocks of butterflies nervously flapped around in his gut. His bold idea could slide sideways in a hurry, but part of his job as deputy national security adviser was to speak truth to power.

He had been granted ten minutes alone with the president of the United States, who had been catching political hell about the terrorist attacks that had happened on his watch. The most powerful man in the world stood at the paned door of bulletproof glass that overlooked the Rose Garden from the Oval Office, weighted with sorrow and anger. Members of Congress were content to complain on television without offering a solution, whining without responsibility.

With no time to waste, the general started right in. “Mr. President, we have to take this guy down fast.”

The president turned slowly. “I totally agree with the first part of your statement. It’s the second part—fast—that has me stumped. We don’t even know where this monster is.”

Middleton was standing in the center of the carpeted office with his big hands folded. “He’ll turn up, sir. Sooner or later. Somewhere.”

“Tell me something that I don’t know, General Middleton.”

“I’ve been mulling this over since you said in your speech last night that all options are on the table.”

“And I mean it.”

“No doubt in my mind that you do, sir.” Middleton shifted his body slightly and glanced over at the fireplace, where a few burning logs were casting unneeded warmth into the climate-controlled room. “Let’s say that he surfaces back in Somalia, which I believe is likely. Going after him there is going to be difficult. Full military intervention by the U.S. is out of the question, and any air strike, even a drone attack, will likely result in a lot of collateral damage, meaning that civilians will die.”

“That madman killed civilians in our country. He cannot hide behind his own people now and expect us to give a damn. We don’t.”

“And that is the blank space, isn’t it, sir? Somalia did not attack us. One single crazy maniac with a few helpers and a handful of hired guns carried out the murders. Many of the attackers were not from Somalia at all; some were from as far away as Nicaragua and Saudi Arabia. If we bomb the hell out of that lawless dung pile called Somalia, we will lose the sympathy of the world and our allies, while our enemies would have a propaganda field day. If any of the pilots are captured, they will most likely be executed on television. That can’t be ruled out.”

The president went back to his desk, where piles of material awaited his attention. “You are just stating the obvious, Brad, so I assume it is only a prelude to why you really wanted this time. You have a suggestion?”

“I suggest that before we roll out the big artillery, I be allowed to launch a small operation outside the normal chain of command. If it goes sour, then you can deny any involvement and paint me as the rogue general that did it without authorization.”

“You want to put Kyle Swanson into play, don’t you?” the chief executive replied without enthusiasm, raising an eyebrow. “The answer is no. You want to replace the big artillery with a loose cannon. Your time’s almost up.”

“Right. Consider, sir, that not only is Swanson the best we’ve got, but he has a couple of personal dogs in this fight. He will push it through and kill the Cobra no matter what is required.”

The president sat in his big chair. He pressed a button on his desk telephone and said to his appointments secretary, “I’m taking another ten minutes.”

“Yes, sir. The chief of staff is waiting, sir,” she said.

“Ten more minutes.” The response was firm.

The president steepled his fingers as he leaned back and closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He had to admit to himself he had been more comfortable when Gunnery Sergeant Kyle Swanson could be dialed up to carry out a directive. “Personal? How? Have a chair, Brad.”

“Absolutely.” Middleton quickly touched on how Swanson and the Cobra dated all the way back to Somalia, the murder of his Irish fiancée, the relationship with the family of FBI Special Agent Lucky Sharif, and the fresh news that the Cobra had burned down Kyle’s beachfront house in California, killing the man and woman who leased the place. “One reason the Cobra came to America was a desire for personal revenge, sir. He wanted to draw Swanson out. I say we should grant his wish.”

“Swanson is with the CIA now, correct? Why not just let the agency handle it with its normal operations? If they can find this guy, I will happily call in the SEALs or shoot a Hellfire missile up his ass. Pardon my language.”

“The possibility of leaks, sir. Security clearances no longer guarantee secrecy. Swanson and Special Agent Sharif would be a formidable team on this specific mission. No extra training would be involved. They know the target.”

“And you believe we can do this on the quiet?”

“Yes, sir.”

The president barked a short, ironic laugh. “We shipped Swanson off to obscurity, and he still ends up in the middle of things. A onetime thing?”

“Then Kyle and Lucky fade back into their regular jobs.”

The man behind the big desk thought a long moment. He still wasn’t sold.

“Mr. President. Kyle Swanson is going after the Cobra no matter what you or I say. If we don’t use him, he will just quit the government and do it anyway. Let’s help him succeed.”

The president leaned forward and planted his elbows on the big desk. The clock was ticking, and he had to move to other things. “If he fails, you may have to fall on your sword, General, and I don’t want to lose you from my national security team.”

Middleton brushed his stiff mustache with a finger. “It won’t come to that, sir. These are two avenging angels willing to take down a monster, and I will make sure they have whatever they need through the Joint Special Operations Command.”

The president lightly knocked the wood on his desk. “Anything else other than give you a green light?”

“Nothing else, sir. Buy us some time while you examine all possibilities. You may even find something better, although I doubt it. In the meantime, Swanson will go after the bastard.”

Omar Jama went to Mexico aboard trolley car number 1053, a comfortable fire-engine-red electric people mover that whisked him out of the quiet Santa Fe railroad depot in San Diego for the sixteen-mile trip south. It ran all day. The ticket, which he bought at a vending machine that did not ask questions, cost a dollar and twenty-five cents because he was leaning on a cheap cane and was considered disabled.

At the San Ysidro crossing, he debarked with dozens of tourists. Automobiles driving into Mexico were crowding up along the interstate highway gates, where alert Immigration and Customs Enforcement officers were watching everyone passing their posts. A picture of the Cobra was posted in all of their cubicles. The trolley crowds were unmolested. Smiling and joking with the party people, shopaholics, and other travelers, Omar Jama, the most wanted man in America, left the country by walking casually through a full-length revolving turnstile and stepping across the yellow and black stripe that marked the border. Some twenty-five thousand other people would do the same thing before the day was done.

A stylish straw hat was raked low across his forehead, and he wore dark aviator sunglasses with a pullover shirt and khakis. For the next minute, he stayed with the crowd as it moved through a lightly guarded quarantine corridor staffed by a few Mexican Army soldiers who carried weapons. A young American with a bald head and a helmet of tattoo ink was the center of their attention as they pawed through his bulky backpack, looking for drugs, fruits, guns, or grain. He looked suspicious. The Cobra did not.

No one asked the Cobra for his passport or any identification, and those would only be examined if he came back into the United States, which he did not intend to do. He kept pace with the steadily moving, lighthearted throng, and the quarantine zone ended as quickly and easily as it had begun. He pushed through a second revolving gate and a multitude of taxi drivers called out in English to offer their services. He chose one and got into the little clean vehicle that had a plastic Madonna on the dashboard.

“Avenida Revolución?” asked the driver, a somber man of middle age whose thick black hair was combed straight back.

“No. Take me down to the Rosarito Beach Hotel, please,” the Cobra said politely.

“Ah. Okay. Some warm lobster tacos and cold cerveza for lunch, eh, my friend?” The car started to move through the heavy traffic.

“Something like that,” Omar Jama answered.

Lucky Sharif of the FBI had never been inside the Central Intelligence Agency. He felt like a child who had wandered into a candy factory. No wonder he had almost had to sign an oath in blood to get through the front door. Swanson just slid a plastic card from his wallet, swiped it through a machine, and stepped through. Lucky received a visitor’s tag that he clipped to the pocket of his suit jacket.

A quick elevator ride dumped them on the third floor, and Kyle led the way to an unmarked door, which he unlocked with his little card and pushed open to enter a semidarkened room that seemed to glow. “Hello, Marty, everybody,” Swanson said conversationally, as if they saw each other daily. “This is Lucky Sharif from the FBI.”

There were glances and grunts, but everyone remained in their chairs, watching the six large computer screens on the far wall. An operator was at his console, an organlike contraption with multiple decks of keyboards and towers. The man had a shaved head and big glasses that amplified his vision. Sharif thought that whatever the CIA analyst was doing was eating entire clouds of disk space.

“You find the Cobra yet, Marty?” Kyle asked, taking a rolling chair. Lucky found another and pulled it forward. He noticed they were all in casual civilian clothes, while he was in full FBI dark-suit-and-tie regalia.

“We’re not looking for him.” Marty Atkins, the deputy director of Clandestine Service, brought them up to date. “The last sighting was at your house in Venice. Odds are, he is already beyond Mexico by now. He’ll turn up soon enough. The Behavioral Science people at the FBI agree, don’t they, Lucky?” With a single question, Atkins smoothly bestowed CIA legitimacy on the outsider.

Sharif was still going over the busy boards. “Yes. They say that he will want the entire world to know that he is the one who carried out the attacks. He is a megalomaniac, and needs the credit to prove his power and greatness.”

“I think he is heading back to his rat hole in Somalia,” added the deep voice of a balding, middle-aged man on the far side of the room. “The man who would be king. Show us the big map, Bob.”

The operator pulled up a map of northeastern Horn of Africa, then tightened it to just Somalia. The screen sliced, and he added a photograph of a man in military uniform.

The man spoke again. “I’m Paul Graham, by the way, the lead on this project. The Somalis are busy forming a parliamentary system of government, complete with a prime minister and a cabinet and all that malarkey. This is the man with the real power, the commander of the armed forces, General Mohammed Ahmed. Strip away the political trappings, and he is the top-dog warlord in the country right now. The good news, for us, is that General Ahmed is not going to roll over and give up power just because the Cobra would like to take his job.”

Lucky shifted his position before he spoke. “I know about him from my work in the Somali community, and it boils down to the same old tribal story. This general is of the Abgal Hawiye clan. Cobra is Habar Gidir, so there is an automatic hatred and distrust. The general has the local guns, but Cobra will now have the mystique: local boy makes good. He has to gather fighters on his own, which will take time.”

“Right. That works for us,” said Graham. The hum of the secure computers was like background music. “If we move right away, you guys might be in place when the Cobra comes up for air. He has half a world to travel and knows that we might be waiting around every corner.”

Marty Atkins spoke. “Let’s get out of this dungeon and into the sunlight of my spacious and gilded private chambers and drink some coffee and make a plan. Bob, you stay in here and do whatever the hell it is you do. You will not get sidetracked by playing Mario Kart Five or Call of Duty Twelve.”

The operator sneered back. “Right now I’m looking for the money. Always follow the money.”

30 THE MESSAGE

The taxi driver in Tijuana had been correct. The lobster tacos from the kitchens of the Rosarito Beach Hotel were delicious and spicy, and a chilled pitcher of sugary fruit juice topped it off. The Cobra ate and drank his fill in a comfortable room on the seventeenth floor. True, he had room service instead of dining in the bright Azteca Restaurant, but at least no one could see him, and he had a view of the beach and the water. Moving around the room behind him, talking on the phone, was Hassan Abdi, who had fled the United States several days earlier and had rented adjoining suites for them under false names. Now the Cobra had travel documents, and all of the requisite bribes had been paid.

“You look tired, brother,” Hassan said. “Crossing the border when you are a wanted man required great courage.”

Omar Jama finished the glass of sangria. Ice cubes clinked in it. “I am fine. When do we leave?”

Hassan looked in a pocket notebook that he used because he distrusted the security of electronic devices and believed too much information was already out in the e-world. “I have a private car to take us out to the General Abelardo L. Rodríguez International Airport in time for the four-thirty Volaris flight to Mexico City. Since it is an internal trip, there will be no customs or immigration checks.”

“Do I have time to rest a little first and take a shower?”

“Yes, sir.” Hassan turned a page. “We overnight at the Hilton Hotel at the airport down there, then leave early tomorrow morning at eight forty-five a.m. aboard Cubana. An immigration official and his partner will be around to clear the paperwork and escort us aboard.”

The Cobra put down the sweet drink and examined the rich blue passport, which read in gold letters: “Pasaporte” and “República de Cuba.” It was a worn document that had passed through many hands and contained the stamps of someone who flew frequently to the countries in Central and South America. An accompanying manila envelope contained a sheaf of supporting documents, business letters, contracts, and receipts. “I am a citizen of Cuba, a weary investor returning home from another successful road trip.”

“We will be in Havana shortly after noon. Our friends there will protect us.” Hassan closed his notebook and smiled at his brave friend. “We did it.”

Kyle Swanson and the team met regularly over the next few days, deep in the CIA building, designing a snare to trap the Cobra. Folders, prisoner interrogations, maps, and electronic data were studied over and over without substantial discovery of his next move or his ultimate intent. Guessing what was in the mind of a mentally unbalanced killer was a roll of the cosmic dice, for Omar Jama himself might be playing it minute by minute.

“This is all yesterday stuff,” Kyle said, frustrated with the lack of progress as he looked through the reports. “Everything in here is dry history. We have to lean forward, not get stuck in paperwork.”

Paul Graham rolled his fingernails along the desktop in a staccato that had the rhythm of a horse crossing a bridge. “We’ve learned some things, Swanson. It’s not a waste.”

Marty Atkins was relaxed, with his glasses pushed up on his forehead. “We identified one of his bank accounts, although it is under another name, and I could have the State Department get the Swiss to freeze those funds. I decided not to, because it might be a valuable information pipeline. The last deposit was for one hundred thousand dollars from a minor Saudi sheikh who lives in Greece. The House of Saud will slam him hard when we share that news, and he may not live through the experience.”

“The Cobra is going to be rolling in terrorist money after these attacks,” Kyle complained. “Plus, Iran, Syria, Egypt — you name it; they will all be throwing cash at him.”

Swanson leaned back. “We’ve learned all we can from his tracks, people. We can’t stick around here any longer.”

“He could be anywhere,” warned Graham.

“It will be Somalia,” Swanson said with great certainty. “Marty, we need for you to whistle up some air transport to get us over to Jeddah as soon as possible.”

“What is in Jeddah?” asked Atkins. The city was a Saudi port on the Red Sea.

Kyle explained. “The Vagabond, a private yacht that will take us to Somalia. It was already in the Med on business when the attacks happened in Minnesota, and it immediately changed course. She cleared the Suez Canal last night and will be waiting for us.”

Paul Graham blinked. “The Vagabond? Is that one of ours, Marty?”

“No.” Atkins pointed to Swanson. “It’s his.”

“Oh.” The surprise was minimal. After thirty years in the CIA, very little surprised Graham, but he had never actually known anyone who owned a yacht. He looked at the sweep hand of the clock on the wall. “It will take a little time to nail down a flight. Be at Andrews in the VIP lounge about nineteen hundred.”

Kyle looked at his friend. “Consider yourself operational as of now, Lucky. We do not tell Deqo or Janna, and Marty will alert your boss. This is strictly need-to-know.”

The long-expected announcement from the Cobra was recorded on a laptop computer that was propped on a beachfront table at a small restaurant on the Bahía de Cochinos, a scuba-diving spot on Cuba’s Zapata Peninsula, a resort popular among sportsmen around the world for its warm and crystalline waters. It was also known as the Bay of Pigs.

Viewers saw a husky black man wearing a lightweight shirt and a broad-brimmed straw hat with a thin veil attached to the front brim, both to keep away mosquitoes and disguise his image. The voice was deep and confident.

“My name is Omar Jama, and I planned and carried out the attacks on America in the state of Minnesota. The infidel government of the United States did worse — much worse — to my homeland of Somalia some twenty years ago during a crisis of famine. When we needed food and clean water and medicine and refugee assistance, and while international aid sources responded with kindness and compassion, the United States invaded with tens of thousands of their soldiers called marines to pillage and punish our poor country solely because of our religious beliefs. We are Muslims. So Washington now dares to call me a terrorist. I call them mass murderers.”

With excruciating slowness, he removed the hat and veil and rested it on the table. He removed a dental bridge, used both hands to slide away the large dark sunglasses, then remained motionless, staring into the camera lens. The sharp white scars across his face, the bent nose, the missing teeth, and the white orb of his blind eye.

“The Americans say they do not torture. That is a monstrous lie. My entire family and my friends were slaughtered, and I was given this horrible face by a U.S. marine. Then I was cast into the darkest, most vile prison you can imagine, without charges or a trial. While I rotted in CIA dungeons, my country of Somalia was mercilessly raped and ravaged by the blood-hungry marines.” He paused and took time to put his teeth back in, and then the glasses and hat back on. The veil was lowered, and the baritone voice continued.

“For twenty years, I have thought about nothing else but how I must take revenge for what America did to me, to my family, and to my countrymen. The armed forces of the United States slithered away like cowards after my brothers finally were able to rise up on the Day of the Rangers and make the American military atone for their sins. The U.S. took its wars against Muslims elsewhere, but never stopped.

“My dear friend Osama bin Laden struck back with the only weapon we really possess, which is to attack the United States itself without warning. He is dead. Murdered, of course, by Americans.” Viewers saw the mouth curve into a smile.

“But I, Omar Jama, am alive, through the mercy of Allah and his Prophet Mohammed, whose name be praised. My message to my countrymen today is to keep your hearts strong and prepare to rise up and overthrow the tyrants who rule Somalia today. They are nothing but political puppets of the United States. We have suffered for twenty years. That is long enough. I will return home soon and lead the battle for true freedom.

“So here is my message to Americans. I am recording at this place, known to them as the Bay of Pigs, where an attempted CIA invasion of Cuba was hurled back into the sea in defeat. Later, the Americans would also run from Vietnam, and are scorned around the world today as being clumsy paper tigers. Even as I make this video, they remain bogged down in Afghanistan in their longest war, unable to even defeat a handful of mountain tribesmen. Soon they will leave there, too. History has shown that, far from being safe, the international adventures have left Americans in greater danger than ever. I proved that last week.

“The citizens of the U.S. share the blood that is on the hands of their soldiers. Your time has come. You may live in a small town or in a big city, be at home with your family or at a shopping mall, or perhaps you are touring abroad. My warning is a prophecy; look over your shoulder. Your armies and police cannot protect you. I am the Cobra. I am coming for you.”

Since Cuba did not have the necessary wireless network for a broadcast from the beachside bench, the video was smuggled into Florida, only ninety miles away. From the communications hub in Miami, it was posted to a half-dozen social media sites. It drew millions of hits and was downloaded, shared, and passed around on the Internet as a mega-popular happening. It went everywhere. The laptop from which it was sent was destroyed and the pieces thrown into a canal beside the Tamiami Trail. By then, the Cobra was no longer in Cuba.

The Vagabond swam smoothly through the Arabian Sea after having charged through the pirate-infested Gulf of Aden like a speedboat on steroids, with its pair of 3,240-horsepower engines wide open. Although it showed as a blip on some pirate radars, none could respond fast enough to pose any threat, and the 180-foot-long brilliant white yacht reached the safe channels patrolled by the warships of many nations without incident. Even if one of the little boats of terrorists had somehow managed to stage an attack, it would have discovered this particular pleasure vessel had very sharp teeth, including a pod of ship-killer missiles and a well-supplied armory for a crew made up of a dozen former British special forces operatives.

It belonged to Excalibur Enterprises, the London-based global business of which Kyle Swanson was now in the process of becoming executive vice president. The only passengers aboard were Kyle and Lucky and the quiet CIA communications guy simply known as “Bob,” who had been yanked out of Quantico for this mission.

All of them had watched the Cobra’s self-serving announcement so many times that they could almost recite it from memory. It disgusted Kyle, and he went on deck to let the fresh air clear the cobwebs. Bob was already at the rail, drinking a cold beer with his sunglasses pushed atop his shaved head, and he spit overboard.

“Don’t let that bastard get to you,” said the quiet spook. “We were expecting him to sound off.”

“It’s all such bullshit, like he was just some innocent little guy that was swept up and horribly mistreated by the big, bad American military. Like he didn’t do anything to deserve even being arrested.”

Lucky Sharif joined them in midconversation. “A lot of people are buying his crap version of history. A terrorist gets a worldwide following with the click of a DOWNLOAD button. That just ain’t right.”

Bob turned and gathered his thoughts. He was a tall, thin man who was about thirty years old and had been drafted by the CIA out of Silicon Valley, where he had made a lot of money but had become bored. “From what I’ve seen, this Cobra is a smart dude, Kyle. Best not underestimate him. He has spent a lot of years figuring this out.”

Kyle decided to bring Bob in on the background. “Twenty years ago, he murdered the girl I loved by sticking a machete through her chest. He murdered Lucky’s grandfather that same night. We took him down hard, and I beat the crap out of him. Now he pops up again like a bad dream with all of these lies.”

Swanson had spent a lot of alone time on the voyage thinking about that encounter in the Mog and the terrible death of Molly Egan. It had happened back in 1992. That was ancient history for many people of today, including Bob, who was about ten years old when the savage chapter of the Somalia relief mission was written in blood.

The Cobra was reaching out to the young generations and filling their brains with distortions they would never challenge. The official denials from Washington rang hollow. The Cobra had created a web of fiction about the past, and people were falling for it.

“Social media can be a bitch,” agreed Bob. “The bottom line is that he really doesn’t like you.” Bob tipped back his beer, crushed the can, and tossed it overboard.

Swanson watched the little container sink in the water, and his mind was pulled away from the pit of helpless anger by the distant beat of an approaching helicopter. The white aircraft bearing the golden logo of Excalibur Enterprises was returning. It had left the yacht several hours ago to fetch some supplies and a team of CIA shooters that had been assigned by Marty Atkins. Kyle knew both of them from other assignments — Ingmar Thompson and Bruce Brandt. They had been killing terrorists in the Afghanistan badlands when they were tapped for this temporary assignment.

The helo flared to a stop over the stern helipad, matched up with the moving deck as the vessel crested a rolling wave, and touched down without a bounce. Crewmen immediately tied it down fast, the pilot cut the engine, and the door slid open. Kyle recognized the big frame of Ingmar Thompson as soon as he appeared in the hatch. Thompson jumped easily to the deck, where he dumped his travel packs. Brandt, smooth as a shadow, came out next.

Thompson spotted Kyle and shouted, “Where’s the bar?”

31 THE RETURN

In the warped mind of the Cobra, there remained no doubt that he would soon be hailed as the newest hero for Islam. His recorded manifesto and the startling image of his damaged face would inspire Muslims worldwide to rise up in righteous anger and anoint him as their leader. That he could not now make a move without worrying about being tracked by the United States government did not register as a liability to him. Once he reached Somalia and was back among his own people, the Cobra would no longer be alone but protected by his Habar Gidir clan and also by the ragged army known as al Shabaab. The uprising could begin. He would crush the weak government and execute General Mohammed Ahmed in the middle of Bakara Market, for all to see.

However, he was not back in Somalia yet. Despite the hurrahs pouring in from sympathizers who had viewed his video, Omar Jama had to be slow and cautious in his movements. He had pulled the tail of the tiger, and he could almost feel the hot breath of the deadly beast that was stalking him.

When he read the final list of names of the hundreds of people killed in his Mall USA attack, he did not see the Swanson Marine, nor the woman Deqo Sharif or her policeman relative. Too bad, he thought. They still lived? So what? Burning the house in California was the Cobra’s final gift, and he had more important issues with which to deal than a washed-up Marine, an old woman, and a single cop.

From Havana, he had fled easily down to Argentina, where getting around the facial-recognition software of the authorities in Rio had been dangerous, but was defeated long ago in the planning. A diamond-and-oil-millionaire relative of the president of Angola had been persuaded to buy a pair of thoroughbred polo ponies, a black and a strawberry roan, from an exclusive criollo breeder outside Buenos Aires. Omar Jama and Hassan were hardly given a glance by airport authorities as they boarded the spacious plane that smelled of grass and hay, invisible among the grooms that tended the celebrity horses all the way from Rio, across the South Atlantic to Luanda.

Upon landing in Luanda, the Cobra was still 2,300 miles from Somalia. His enthusiasm surged. At last he was back in Africa, and Hassan’s skills worked wonders in a land where money and bribes provided a common language. Getting through the Congo, Tanzania, and Ethiopia was just a matter of time. Each day, he was one day closer to his destiny. He was impatient.

The Mog was right over there. Swanson could feel the ominous presence of Mogadishu like a weight on his shoulders. He had hoped never to return to Somalia, and memories of Molly Egan swept through his mind — it had been twenty years ago but seemed like only yesterday when he would drive from the stadium to the Irish clinic to be with her. Now Kyle was going back into that place of nightmares.

The thought of killing the Cobra fueled him. If anyone ever deserved to die, it was Omar Jama, for killing Molly and Doctor Sharif with the long, sharp blade of a machete, and forever altering the arc of Swanson’s life. Payback was long overdue. He would end it in Somalia.

Kyle needed patience, but he was good at waiting. Snipers could wait forever to let things unfold around them. Bob was belowdecks with his computers linked back to the giant machines of the National Security Agency. Lucky was in the gym, powering through PT programs. The CIA snipers Thompson and Brandt were on the stern, skeet shooting with remarkable accuracy.

Kyle was aboard the Excalibur helicopter, riding with the door open over the Indian Ocean as the outline of Mogadishu clarified into individual structures. The very sight of the long beach made him stomp down hard on his emotions, and he mentally scrubbed them out by remembering that Somalia was a lot different than when he had first served there. Old attitudes and prejudices could not overrule the situation on the ground today. When he was in the dirt on this mission, he would have no time for personal feelings of any sort, because they only complicated things.

The CIA’s World Factbook showed that the country actually had developed a functioning government, although outside the cities, lawlessness still prevailed in the form of the Islamic extremist group al Shabaab. Those militants still staged occasional hit-and-run attacks inside the Mog, but the army apparently was a coherent force and held their ground. African Union peacekeepers backed the army up. According to Bob, who had demonstrated a fantastic memory for details, the Mog was going to be a tough nut for the Cobra to crack. Not everyone in Somalia believed he was a hero.

The helo buzzed in from the east over the gently rolling waves, putting Mogadishu on the starboard side. The city wasn’t on fire, and from this height and speed, it looked just like a hundred other coastal cities in the third world. Kyle wondered briefly if it was really the same place — the place that had earned a special niche in Marine Corps lore, that had the taste of a job unfinished. A tenuous peace had been in place when the marines pulled out so many years ago and turned the job over to other armed forces, both American and international. Around the clubs and bars for many years thereafter, there was a debate over beers about what would have happened if they had stayed. How long could a thirty-thousand-man footprint be sustained? Stop doing that. This was an entirely different mission and an entirely different day, and he brought his mind back to the problem.

The busy port passed beneath the bird, and the chopper danced lower to land at the adjacent airport. A Land Rover with tinted windows drove up close, and the driver, a youngster who looked like he should be in high school, dismounted. “Mr. Swanson?” he asked. The voice was sharp. Not a high school kid.

Kyle nodded. “Let’s go.”

The Land Rover ran along the side of the airport to a separate compound with a sentry out front and with rolled-out concertina wire but little other protection. The antenna farm on the roof marked it as unique. Good God, this is the same place the CIA was located back in the day. The guard opened the door, and Kyle and the driver entered an air-conditioned office complex.

Mark Preston was the chief of station, and the only other person in the room. His face and forearms were bronzed, the badges of having spent a lot of time in places where the sun shone bright and hot. The sandy hair was cut short but remained long enough to comb. The brown eyes and the lines in the face showed his experience. “Mr. Swanson. I’ve been expecting you.”

They shook hands, and Kyle grinned when he saw a weathered wood placard on the wall. It said, STAY THE HELL AWAY. “That was on the gate outside the last time I was here. Nick Hamilton was the station chief back then.”

“It’s a reminder of bygone days,” said Preston. “Let’s do first names. Something to drink?” As if by magic, two beers appeared on the chipped rectangular table, and the driver then left the room.

“I understand Thompson and Brandt are with you on the big white boat? Behaving themselves?”

“Gentlemen and scholars in every way.”

Preston took a drink, and his face was unreadable. “We have the whole place to ourselves, Kyle. My instructions are simply to assist you.”

“You don’t know why?”

“They didn’t say, but it ain’t hard to figure that you’re looking for the Cobra.”

“People back in Washington who are smarter than me think he’s going to show up here and try to take over.”

“My sources around here say the same. We’ve seen no sign of him.”

“We have a guy out on the Vagabond who manages our secret comms linkup, and he told me as of fifteen minutes ago that the Cobra is still off the grid.”

“Is that Bob?” Now it was Preston’s turn to grin.

“Yeah. You know him?”

“Everybody in the agency knows Bob, and nobody is ever told his last name. He’s great at the job, which is the only thing that counts.”

“Anyway, Bob says the target is using back routes and taking his time to avoid detection.”

Preston leaned back and stretched languidly. “How can we help?”

“I need a name, Mark. Is there an officer in the Somali military structure over here whom you really trust, or is the whole thing still tribal and corrupt?”

Preston thought for a minute. “There are a lot of politics and clan loyalty involved, but there are some up-and-comers who show promise. Best of the bunch, my opinion, is Brigadier General Yusuf Dahir Hamud. He’s not afraid to get dust on his boots and is a former commander of the presidential guard. He’s pretty plugged in. Father was minister of defense for a while.”

“Commander of the presidential guard? Sounds like a pretty job,” replied Kyle.

“No. This guy doesn’t fuck around. He trained at Fort Bragg, graduated from the U.S. Army’s Command and General Staff College and the Army War College. Smart and fearless. If the Cobra wants power, he has to go through General Hamud, and that’s not likely. My opinion.”

Preston and Kyle finished their beer in silence, giving Swanson some time to think.

“Okay. You say so. He does sound good. Can you set up a private meeting? We have a native Somali with us who is now a special agent with the FBI, and he can be our liaison with the general when the feces hits the fan. Things will move fast.”

“I’ll try to set it up and get an answer out to Bob for you. You want to stay for dinner? They have some pretty exotic African dishes on the menu this week. Yum.”

“Thanks, but I’ll pass. Pretty good chow out on the barge, too.”

Major Preston took him to the door. The driver was waiting, spinning a ring of keys, and then they were gone.

32 THE VILLA

The Cobra stopped running. He had made it through all the nets and traps that had been thrown out by the United States hunters, and once again he was in his homeland. Hassan Abdi had arranged an interim rest stop not far outside the city of Kismaayo in the Juba Valley, beside the winding banks of an untamed river. The area was controlled by a two-hundred-man force that soon would be the spearhead for the coming thrust into Mogadishu. However, the revolution would have to wait just a little while longer, for Omar Jama was exhausted. While a contingent of young al Shabaab rebels stood watch, he collapsed onto a wide and comfortable bed and slept for fourteen hours straight.

When he was rested and eager, Omar Jama made the final jump of three hundred miles into Mogadishu, accompanied by a select handful of veteran fighters. The reinforcements would arrive later after picking up more fighters along the way. Many young men wanted to follow the Cobra.

He moved into a well-protected villa off of the 21 October Road, a building that was originally the home of a rich Italian merchant. Perfect. The respectable home of a leader. From this comfortable base, he could launch his campaign of insurrection.

“Gotcha!” Bob, the CIA officer in charge of communications, barely breathed the word, as if saying it aloud might bring bad luck. He rechecked his data once again. No question. Bob called for the rest of the team to join him in the secure Vagabond conference cabin that had transformed into a dim electronic wonder-world. His own CIA-tuned computer system blended in real time with the big hog back at the National Security Agency in Virginia, which fed on the world’s data. The job consumed him. Since coming aboard, Bob had hardly noticed the difference between day and night, other than that sometimes the sky was dark. The powerful intellect did not shut down when he was on the hunt.

Bob had felt violated by the savagery shown in the Cobra’s senseless slaughter at the Mall USA. It could just as easily have been any mall in the States, and his own wife and family could have been out shopping and caught in the trap. Bob had donned a war face after the attacks, using as his weapon the keyboards that plugged him into trillion-dollar computers. It had always been just a matter of time. He knew that the clever Cobra would eventually surface, and then Bob would find him and give him over to the shooters. Kyle, Lucky, Ingmar, and Bruce would take it from there, and the devil would take the bastard’s soul.

“I’ll start back at the beginning so this will make sense,” he said. “The Cobra’s entire operation has been relatively inexpensive, but obviously money had to change hands to make it work. We know now from the FBI and police investigation in Minnesota, Lucky, that he paid some of those assassins in gold. Now, nobody carries around heavy sacks of gold coins. The gold was just for flash, perhaps a personal preference of someone he was paying, but this guy needed a more reliable source of funds. And he had a source, because he kept getting what he needed. With me so far?”

“Where is he?” asked Swanson.

“Soon enough, Kyle. Soon enough. Stick with me.” Bob hit a key, and the picture of a skinny, well-dressed black man slid onto the big screen mounted on the bulkhead.

“Hassan Abdi,” Lucky Sharif said, with instant identification. “He ran the Hassan Investments storefront in Minneapolis, then ran before we could bust him.”

“Right. Who better to handle the Cobra’s money than someone who understands money? So instead of following each of Omar Jama’s footprints, I concentrated on Hassan.”

Ingmar spoke up. “Even looks like a bag man. Do you have proof?”

Bob replaced the picture with a screen of numbers. “Hassan was not a passive observer; he was a player. He was the advance man for the Cobra, and I discovered some of his transactions through the Society for Worldwide Interbank Financial Telecommunication. That organization is headquartered in Brussels and is used by more than seven thousand banks in some two hundred countries and promises secrecy. All of those SWIFT banks got very upset when that asshole Edward Snowden leaked that the NSA was stealing their data.”

Brandt said, “My tax dollars at work. Where’s this going, Bob?”

The electronics analyst held up a palm for patience. “Using that encrypted data, I constructed a virtual fingerprint of Hassan and dug out more information through the Terrorist Finance Tracking Program. Enough of the nerd stuff. In plain English, Mr. Abdi washed his money back and forth between Banque Suisse Kanton Group in Switzerland and a bank in Singapore that is owned by investors from nations all over the Middle East, and it boasts a substantial reserve of available cash and credit. Both of these banks pride themselves on having impenetrable walls of secrecy. It ain’t exactly true, but their depositors and customers don’t know that.”

“Again, Bob. Where is he?” Swanson was on the edge of his chair.

“Almost there, Kyle. With these financial connections in place, Hassan could sweep in donations and deposits and order legitimate money transfers and establish lines of credit with other banks, which would then gladly hand over whatever was requested.” He changed the screen again, and a glowing map came up with a highlighted dot glowing in yellow. As Bob narrated, the dot moved and trailed behind a yellow line that expanded steadily to show the movements of Hassan Abdi, based on hard facts and banking data. It started in San Diego and extended to Minnesota. There, he paused. “Hassan Investments hired a charter jet that brought them from California to Minneapolis. Police found a witness who saw them get off the plane together.”

The date changed on the dot, moving it ahead in time, and the line reversed and headed back to California. “That marks when Hassan Abdi escaped,” Bob said, letting the story unfold. “The money trail shows San Diego to Tijuana, Mexico, and on to Havana, Cuba, where the Cobra broke his silence. Then Hassan drew down a substantial sum, and it was off to Rio. One of his wire transfers went to an operation in Brazil that breeds polo ponies, two of which were purchased by a rich sportsman in Angola and flown across the Atlantic by private jet. I have four sources that indicate that Hassan and Cobra bought their way aboard the plane.” The glowing line swam steadily over the South Atlantic.

The cabin was absolutely silent except for Bob’s quiet, persuasive voice. “Hassan made large cash withdrawals in Angola, so he has a full wallet now. So it is pretty obvious that the Cobra followed his advance man to Mexico, and they have been traveling together since then. Hassan was the front to keep the Cobra off the books.”

“Damn. So he’s finally made it back.” The words came softly from Ingmar Thompson as the yellow dot on the map traced over the eastern border of Kenya and entered Somalia.

“Three months ago, Hassan Abdi signed a year’s lease on a large farm down near Kismaayo, deep in al Shabaab territory.” Bob splashed up an overhead sat view of the big place. Yesterday’s date on it. He turned to the others, and a smile creased his face. “He also leased another place at the same time.”

The dot advanced steadily across three hundred miles of jungles and clearings, and Bob replaced the picture of Kismaayo with a tight satellite shot of Mogadishu that made Swanson’s stomach clench. He knew exactly what he was looking at. There was the oval stadium, and the familiar network of streets, the K-4 roundabout, and the spaghetti factory. The dot stopped there.

Then Bob shifted to a red laser pointer and rested the crimson speck on a specific rooftop. “So, Hassan called the bank in Singapore from that location. He has been so intent on covering the trail of the Cobra that he forgot to cover his own. I can ask our head of station over in the Mog to authorize drone surveillance to get some pictures. Omar Jama is right there, right now.”

Everyone in the cabin felt as if a jolt of electricity was sizzling from the bulkheads. This time, there would be no years-long clandestine hunt for another Osama bin Laden hiding beneath layers and layers of protection. Bob had carefully pieced together an electronic trail from points all over the globe, and it led to an exact address. They had guessed right about the maniac returning to his original lair.

Swanson now wanted to pounce before higher-ups could start having second thoughts. “Great work, Bob. For now, hold on the drones request and do not pass this up the chain of command. Keep it tight. In this room. We are an autonomous unit, so our best opportunity for a strike is to remain independent and not allow too many fingers in this pie. Better to seek forgiveness than seek permission.”

Lucky Sharif was thinking if this worked, no one would question the decision to keep Washington in the dark prior to the strike. If not, he could kiss his FBI career good-bye. “Good,” he said. “Let’s do it.”

Bruce Brandt checked the time. “It’s almost fourteen hundred hours. If we want to expedite this thing, we can use the rest of today and tonight, and all of tomorrow and tomorrow night to gather more intel, lay our plans and line up assets.”

Bob scratched his chin, thinking about what was needed for even a limited raid. He had organized this sort of operation before. “A window of forty-eight to seventy-two hours is pretty tight, boys. There are lots of moving pieces involved for entry and egress protection, diplomatic notification, weapons, medical, comms, local support. Remember that we are dealing here not only with a foreign government within its own borders but also the African Union troops. They need to be in on it.”

Swanson snapped, “I’m not waiting around two days just to get close. We go in tonight.”

“You’re out of your mind,” said Bob.

“Flippin’ impossible,” agreed Brandt. “We know nothing about his protective umbrella.”

“I kind of like it,” said Ingmar.

Kyle slowed down to consider their concerns. “If anyone can make this happen in a hurry, it’s us. You are some of the best operators around, and we don’t have to be tactically perfect, just better than the bad guys.”

“Have you already forgotten your marine training; how hard it is to get the military machine moving?” Bob protested. “We can’t just snap our fingers and reposition hundreds of troops and machines. Putting boots on the ground and rounds on an exact target is a complicated business.”

“No. I haven’t forgotten, but this is not a totally strange environment. I know Mogadishu like the back of my hand, and Lucky knows it even better.” He would not allow doubt to enter the room. “I can see how it comes down right now. It is a minimalist action, and actually all we have to do is work out a few details. Okay?”

“No. Not okay.” Bob was suddenly edgy. “You and Special Agent Sharif have personal scores to settle with the Cobra, and a lust for revenge could lead to sloppy decision making. We just found the bastard a few minutes ago, Kyle! You have to slow down. Think in terms of military necessity and go by the book, because if you go too fast, all of you may be killed, and the Cobra might get away again.”

Swanson understood that he was cornering his friends. “Look. If we wait too long, the Cobra might disappear anyway. He’s home now and can just put on an old shirt and khakis, then vanish in a crowd. There is no question that he already has alliances in place, and no matter how many fighters he already has, tomorrow he will have even more, and next week, more than that. To do this job, we have to move now. I want your help, guys. Goddammit, I need your help.”

“The CIA is not going to allow you to go off on a suicide mission, Kyle. Just wait a few hours and let us make sure that when we go in, we do it right.”

“I’m going in tonight. Lucky and I can do what we want.”

“And I can stop you in a heartbeat with a telephone call.”

“You can, but you won’t. Bob, you’re no keyboard warrior; you love this shit. We already have all of the authority we need to bend some rules and stage a lightning raid. I want to be looking at that house when the sun comes up tomorrow.”

Bob was near his boiling point. Swanson was not bluffing. He would swim ashore if he had to, and Lucky Sharif would follow him through the gates of hell. If he couldn’t talk them out of it, at least he could try to make this work. He could always go back to Silicon Valley. “Okay. You win. Let’s get to work. We have about twelve hours.”

Bruce and Ingmar did a high-five palm slap. Lucky felt his shoulders ease, as if a weight had been lifted.

Kyle read the disappointment in the face of the senior CIA officer. “One last point, Bob. You’re coming in with us. We’ll have some fun.”

“I don’t know if I can shoot a rifle.” The seriousness faded. A gunfight instead of keyboard!

Swanson reached out for a fist-bump. “If we die, I will admit being wrong.”

33 THE HIGHWAY

Brigadier General Yusuf Dahir Hamud, the commander of army special forces within the Somali Ministry of Defense, had granted this unusual meeting at the request of friends in the U.S. Central Intelligence Agency. It was five o’clock in the afternoon, and the sky and the ocean both wore the glow of liquid gold. Every day was a full day for the intense and thoughtful officer, because al Shabaab never stopped, but this was a special favor asked by his friend Mark Preston over at the airport. Fifteen minutes with one individual. A favor done for the CIA was a valuable thing. Keeping it off the record and out of official channels, as Preston also wanted, only increased the value.

The general’s khaki uniform with the red tabs on the collar and pips on the epaulettes looked fresh off the hanger, which it was, and the shirt was crisp, as if wrinkles were enemies. Appearances were important, particularly when doing a favor. His hair and mustache were turning gray, unusual for such a young officer, but they were a telltale barometer of the constant stress under which he lived. Undisturbed sleep was a luxury.

The general had been surprised when the guest arrived through a secluded entrance. Preston had not said that the man was a Somali. In fact, he was not even with the CIA. Settled in a chair on the other side of the desk was Special Agent Cawelle Sharif of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Another thoughtful and serious man.

“My sympathies for those attacks in Minnesota,” said General Hamud. “I never got up to that part of America, but those people certainly helped a lot of our refugees back during the troubles.” His English carried only a slight accent. “I assume you were one of them.”

Lucky Sharif agreed. “That is why I am here, to ask your help.”

A polite question followed, although the general already was feeling a connection of common cause. “Do you want to arrest this terrorist, this Cobra fellow, Special Agent Sharif?”

Lucky shifted in his seat. Tilted his head. “It would be good to put him on trial in a federal court. We have convicted a lot of terrorists, and this one even confessed his crime on the Internet. He would be put away forever in a prison from which escape is impossible.”

“You did not answer my question.”

“I don’t think that a trial is really the best resolution in this particular situation, sir.”

Hamud leaned forward and slowly tore a piece of paper in half, then tore those pieces in half again before speaking. “No arrest and trial. Not if you want my help. I consider him a monster. I want him dead. As long as he draws breath, he will be a potential rallying point for al Shabaab. Not only that, he has this wild dream of taking over Somalia with his terror group. We won’t let that happen.”

Lucky smiled. “Then here it is.”

He had laid out the entire plan that was hatched earlier in the day, including the fresh news that the Cobra was already in Mogadishu, in a villa over by the spaghetti factory. The general’s last intelligence report had the man still down in the al Shabaab stronghold of Kismaayo. “We want him badly, General Hamud, but our team will act in support of your troops. Absolutely.”

The general was wondering why he should not slam an immediate cordon around the neighborhood and go in and personally put a bullet in the head of Omar Jama. “Agent Sharif, I can handle this threat without you.”

Lucky disagreed. “Our president needs absolute proof of his death, General. We want DNA and photographs, which is why we have not just dropped a big-ass bomb on that house. It has to be our people — me, actually — collecting it, to establish a solid chain of custody. There can be no hope left behind for his followers.”

Hamud understood that process. It made sense, and the value of the favor would increase. “But why use these others, the CIA shooters? I truly don’t need them. You can come along to establish the validity.”

“Why pass up this opportunity? Having our sniper in an overwatch position not only guarantees success, but he would provide your troops extra protection. Two other operators would be on the scene only to cover him.”

“You don’t think my own snipers can do that job, Agent Sharif? It isn’t all that complicated, and they are very well trained — as good as any.”

Lucky hesitated. “There’s something else. You want him dead. I want him dead. And so does my sniper.”

He then unveiled the chilling story of what happened in a room at the Irish clinic twenty years ago. General Hamud had heard many horrible stories about the hell of those old days, when life was cheap and killers roamed the streets of Mogadishu like hungry dogs. This was one of the worst.

“The Cobra killed your own grandfather and this Kyle Swanson’s girlfriend right in front of you both?” Two decades, and the wounds on the soul of Lucky Sharif were as fresh as the night they were made.

“Yes, General, and he tried to get the rest of us, too. We eventually stopped him, and now we are all back at this same place. It’s time to finish the job. Kyle and I both deserve to be in on the kill.”

The general put his palms flat on his desk. “Very well. Swanson can do the overwatch. We all want the same thing, and although your proposed timetable is tight, I agree with it. We must not give the Cobra time to build a viable strike force. Just be clear that everyone understands that I am in overall command, not the CIA, not the FBI, and not the U.S., nor the U.N. Me.”

Lucky picked up the tone. “This is personal for you, too, isn’t it?”

The general pulled back on the emotion. “Yeah. He murdered my grandfather about the same time. You take the word back to your team and get things moving, then come back to be my liaison during the raid. No miscommunication.”

“Good. One last thing you should know. Your snipers may be good, but they aren’t better than Kyle.”

General Hamud responded. “Really?”

“No, sir. Nobody is.”

Swanson worked in the armory to prep Excalibur. Spread before him was a clean blue plastic sheet on which lay the parts of the big .50 caliber sniper rifle, a weapon that was much more than the sum of its various components. Its sole reason for existence was its ability to kill a human being at very long range, almost on its own. He used a voltmeter to check the power packs, both the primary and secondary, and other specific lab instruments to tune the miniaturized circuits of the onboard microcomputer — all of the readings were within their proper range. Swanson had helped design the original Excalibur, and it became the cornerstone of Sir Geoffrey Cornwell’s empire. Then they steadily improved it. This was the fifth generation of the lightweight rifle, and the eighth version for the magical scope that brought pinpoint accuracy under any conditions. When firing with a unique rocket-propelled load, the fearsome weapons system was good for up to about 3,200 meters: two miles. Everything was patented, and the technology was out there earning money for Excalibur Enterprises.

“That’s some gun. Is that what I’m going to use on this job?” The analyst Bob was at an adjacent table, cleaning and prepping a black Sony video camera with a long-lens combat camera from Nikon.

“You’re coming along to take pictures. That’s all. We do the shooting.” Swanson slid the various parts home.

“Well, I still need a gun. Something more than a Glock pea shooter.”

Bruce Brandt was at another table, finishing with an M-16A4. He worked on the bolt carrier group with careful efficiency and a practiced eye: firing pin, firing-pin retaining pin, bolt-cam pin, bolt, bolt carrier, and the charging handle. “This one is yours, Bob. Kyle won’t even let me or Ingmar use the Excalibur.”

“I’m rated as an expert. Shot a forty-two on the KD Course, and he’s worried that I might break his toy.” Thompson was wiping down his own gear. He was about ready to suit up and get on with this.

“Get the CIA to buy you one. We’ll give them a good deal. This one is built to match my grip and my eye.” He slid the pieces of Excalibur back together, turning the screws to precise settings, and rubbed it down a final time. It was ready.

“I’m done over here,” said Brandt, snapping the rifle back together. “Bob No Last Name is good to go. Let’s shove some food down our throats. It’s going to be a long night.”

Omar Jama felt uneasy, although he remained outwardly calm. The sleep had helped. The trip was over, and the tensions had eased. He was concentrating on the present and the future.

He stood on the verandah of his villa and took stock. There were about twenty-five young al Shabaab fighters inside the house and in defensive positions around the grounds. More volunteers were drifting in as the word spread among the rebels that the Cobra had returned. In truth, they were not grizzled veterans of many battles but much younger men, most with stars of idealism and religious fervor in their eyes, and their brains scrambled by khat. They were cannon fodder, not leaders around whom he could build an army. They would keep him safe until the force of some two hundred veteran fighters arrived from Kismaayo tomorrow morning.

The sun was leaving the sky, and Mogadishu was quiet. He breathed it in. Gone was the steady beat of gunfire that he remembered, and from this distance on the outskirts of downtown, he could see people moving through the city as if nothing extraordinary was happening. A police car even drove by, slowed momentarily, then went away.

This was not the Mogadishu he had dreamed about for so many years, the wild place of his youth, where guns and daring and the willingness to kill could take a young man far. It was too quiet. He had expected more of a welcome, although he had entered the metropolis quietly.

“You must give this some time, brother. You have only just arrived.” Hassan Abdi shared the evening meal following their observance of the familiar call to prayer from the mosque. “It would not surprise me if you were visited tomorrow by a delegation of government officials who will want to broker a deal in order to keep their skins. You can offer a peaceful transition of power.”

The scent of warm rice and lamb and fresh vegetables surrounded them. Hassan had hired a wonderful cook, and there was a woman housekeeper and a man who worked the grounds, which had grass and shrubs and was not rubble-strewn. Electric light bathed the freshly painted interior of the spacious home. Electricity! Plumbing that worked! Peace in the streets! He chewed a mouthful of food as he considered these magical events.

“You are right, Hassan. Of course, you are right. I have arrived amongst them suddenly, like a mighty bomb that is ready to explode,” said the Cobra. “They were not expecting me, but now they will know my standing with al Shabaab and my deeds. Our following will increase by the hour. If an enemy tries to touch me, the city will explode in fury, and there will be civil war again. They don’t want that. They have grown soft under this so-called federal government.”

Hassan stared at his friend for a long few seconds. He did not want the Cobra to get angry, for then he would be uncontrollable. This was more about symbolism, the appearance of control and inevitable power, than it was about actual military strength. Another twenty-four hours, and the Cobra might be sleeping in the presidential palace, but the boss needed to remain in control of his temper. He just had to hold on. “There have been many changes since you were last in our homeland, brother. This is true. The people yearn to overthrow their foreign puppets, and you have given them reason to again be proud of being Somalis. Your attack on the United States has had a profound effect below the surface. You will be the leader.”

The Cobra felt that the situation was workable. “After I am in power, the Americans will not dare come assassinate me. Tomorrow the troops arrive. It will truly be the start of a new day for Somalia!”

Shortly after dark, road flares and racks of construction lights slowed drivers to a crawl along the broad coastal road from Kismaayo to Mogadishu. Those heading northwest were channeled into a single lane over a space of three miles as road crews in bright reflective vests and hard hats ran loaders and heavy equipment to lay a new stretch of blacktop. Such stoppages were routine during the dry season. Tonight was particularly slow.

After three miles, more orange cones loomed along the road, and more bright lights edged drivers onto a dirt-road detour. Bulldozers growled up on the highway. Cars and trucks were barely moving over unfamiliar rough ground when they came around a broad curve and saw the roadblocks.

Five hundred seasoned soldiers of the Burundi National Defense Force were in an ambush configuration at the barrier and out of sight in the darkness all along the detour route. Machine guns and cannon were pointed at the approaching vehicles, which were stopped one by one, the passengers and drivers ordered out and held at gunpoint while searches were made. Men were arrested, and weapons were confiscated.

Captain Beck White watched from a Humvee, talking by radio with some CIA officer who went only by the code name “Bob.” The tall, dark-haired captain was a Force Recon warfighter with SP-MAG TF-13, a special-purpose marine air-ground task force, and he had been helping train the Burundi contingent of the African Union mission. It was a peacekeeping force that had seen a lot of action. He liked these guys. Poor as mice, they were fine soldiers.

“We bagged a bunch of al Shabaabs in the first hour and only had to kill six. More than fifty prisoners, and lots of weaponry has been confiscated,” the marine captain reported. “Word is getting back to Kismaayo that the highway is closed, so traffic is getting scarce.”

“Outstanding, Captain. Any friendly casualties?” Bob made notes on a legal pad aboard the Vagabond.

“Not among my boys. There’s no love lost between the Burundi military and al Shabaab. The terrorists know we tend to shoot first and ask questions later.”

“And your roadblock will be up all night?”

“We ain’t going nowhere until I hear from you. This road is closed.”

Bob switched off and looked over to Lucky Sharif. “You can let General Hamud know that the al Shabaab reinforcements from Kismaayo have been indefinitely delayed.” They stepped onto the deck, where Kyle Swanson, Ingmar Thompson, and Bruce Brandt were waiting near the fantail, menacing, ghostly figures, all in black overalls.

34 THE COBRA

Swanson had been here before, back in the Mog, back on a rooftop, waiting in the dark of the night with a long rifle in his arms. The former Irish clinic was less than two klicks to the south, and memories of Molly chewed at his concentration. The man who had murdered her was asleep in a nice villa two hundred meters straight ahead. Swanson intended to balance the scale, but he swept the uneasy thoughts with iron self-control.

They had taken the helo in from the yacht to the air base, where a few battered Land Rovers met them, along with some Somali commandos who would be their guides. The CIA station head, Mark Preston, was there for a final radio check so he could stay in touch with all the moving parts, just in case.

It was almost three o’clock in the morning. Lucky Sharif had gone in earlier and was already embedded with General Hamud. Thompson and Brandt piled into the lead vehicle, and Kyle and Bob boarded the other, with Bob in the backseat so he could stretch out his long legs. Kyle rode shotgun, half expecting to see the landscape as scarred as it had been when he rode through on the back of a tank that took him to the stadium in the final dreary days of December, 1992. Back in the day, there was nothing but chaos and hopelessness. This was different, and the two-SUV convoy sailed along the roads as smoothly as if they were on a Sunday drive.

“This sure isn’t like the ’Stans and Iraq. Like this war is over, or almost.” Bob had never been to Somalia before.

The driver was a sergeant named Hussein Kedeyi, and he answered, “Al Shabaab has not been defeated, sir. They remain a huge threat, but we are winning the overall battle and slowly pushing them out. They have been reduced to doing hit-and-run raids because they do not have organization and training. Give us a few more years, and they will not bother us.”

Swanson saw bright lights throughout the city, even at this early hour, and the people on the street were not armed mobs. Business was being done, and entrepreneurs were making money. No one bothered them. Nobody shot at them. Jobs were replacing poverty. Everything needed for a functioning society seemed to be coming together, including the formal government. At least the opposing sides were not killing each other on the streets. The pleasant smell of the ocean was no longer overwhelmed by rot and decay. He smiled to himself. Molly would have been proud. She sacrificed her life to help turn this place around.

The sergeant was young but had grown strong and gave off the confident sense that he knew what he was doing. After all, Kyle reflected, he was special ops. The Land Rovers doused their lights as they neared the K-4 in northern Mogadishu and pulled out of sight beside the old spaghetti factory and shut down. The large building had been a landmark battleground for many years and showed its scars. Hundreds of militia bullets pocked the dirty white walls, the windows were empty holes, and the roof had been blown away by bombs. Urban renewal had not yet reached this centrally located pile of rubble, but the sergeant told them that a new pasta manufacturer had opened elsewhere.

“That’s good news,” said Bob as he climbed from the SUV. “You cannot really have true civilization without spaghetti.” He slapped Sergeant Kedeyi on the shoulder. “Lead the way, son.”

Swanson followed, only slightly nervous that they were not clearing the old building room by room until he saw two other Somali soldiers were already positioned inside. The place was safe. Kedeyi and the other driver joined them, and suddenly the ground floor was as secure as Kyle could have wanted it; a friendly was at all four corners, weapons up and pointed out.

Ingmar and Brandt took the stairs and looked around, then called down for Swanson and Bob to come on up. The CIA sniper team would hold the second floor.

The top floor was a wasteland. Little remained other than a ragged concrete-block surface and piles of junk. Kyle and Bob slid through the litter on the northwest side. They stacked rubble and debris and old concrete to improve the hide, then went in on hands and knees and adjusted the space to fit them both.

Bob pulled his jacket open, took off the gloves, rolled up the black beanie, and removed the video cam and a still camera that had a snout of a long lens. The M-16 was placed at his right side.

Swanson peeled Excalibur from its carrying case, looked it over quickly, and loaded a sleek and heavy .50 caliber bullet in the chamber. The magazine held only three more, which he considered to be more than enough for tonight’s job. He opened the bipod and pointed the rifle just behind the hide opening so it could not be seen. The power source for the scope was activated. His position was the highest spot in the neighborhood and provided a good view across the fences and low walls, all the way to the villa in which the Cobra slept. The scope automatically painted the place with an invisible electronic beam and recorded the ranges, its sensors sniffed the weather, and the computer did the complex math for a solution that would allow the sniper to make a hit.

“Big place,” said Bob, focusing the viewfinder of his video cam, which also had night vision. “I can see two static guard posts.”

“Yuh. That’s what I see. No guards are roving around. That’s sloppy. He feels safe.”

“Not a good idea for him.”

“No.”

Bob radioed the SITREP in to the CIA station at the airport and received confirmation; then they settled down to wait. There was no live feed relayed to Washington. Kyle had not wanted anyone getting cold feet at the last minute.

For almost an hour, they didn’t exchange a word, and the silence lay heavy between them. One would watch while the other rested. Kyle was almost in an easy trance, breathing smoothly, keeping the blood pressure and heartbeat in low gear, thinking of nothing in particular. The big gun seemed a comfortable extension of his body. This would be an easy shot, if and when it came.

The plan was for the Somali special ops people to encircle the house and hit it hard from the rear just before dawn, driving anyone inside out the front door. If the Cobra lived through that initial attack, Kyle would take him down when he appeared.

Swanson exhaled a long breath but never wavered from his sight line. The weight of the big rifle was evenly distributed. Almost time. It felt good.

His mind was steeled with professional detachment now, and nothing would break his concentration. No memories could intrude to rattle him. Still, time passed slowly. “You watch for a while,” he told Bob.

Kyle rolled onto his back, squinting his eyes closed, and a drop of water came down his cheek. He had been staring through the scope for too long; just normal eye strain. He knew better. Thirty minutes was max, and he had stretched it. He doused a cloth and wiped his eyes and there was clarity.

Bob rolled into position and let the lens of his camera magnify the scene. “I got it,” he said. “We’ve got plenty of time.”

Lucky Sharif had nothing to do but stand quietly beside the Humvee with a radio in his hand. He could connect to Bob and Kyle with a single click, but he had nothing to report. General Hamud was studying an area map. An entire company of his men had stolen out of the city during the darkest hours and had thrown a net around the villa.

“My grandfather was an educated man,” the general said, breaking the quiet. His eyes were focused in the middle distance, which was only a deep emptiness. “His name was Abdiwel Godah Hamud, and he became a spokesman for our clan during the years of horror. Do you remember his name?”

Lucky didn’t. “No, sir. I was just a kid.”

The general resumed. “Well, he helped negotiate a treaty to stop the fighting. Then he made a terrible mistake by thinking that General Aidid, the worst of the warlords, would honor the peace agreement that he had just signed. So my grandfather went to the home of a family member to celebrate. A few hours later, the Cobra broke in and killed them all.”

The soldier put his attention back on the map and was satisfied that everyone was in place. “He broke a couple of my ribs, shot me, and left me for dead. I learned only later that the Cobra murdered my grandfather, with a machete, just as he did yours. I think this man has lived long enough, don’t you?”

“Yes, General. I do.” A recollection swam to his mind. “By any chance did they take you to the Irish clinic for treatment?”

“I don’t remember anything after being shot.”

“I was raised at the clinic. I saw a lot of kids go through there. You may have been one of them.”

Hamud and Lucky exchanged knowing looks. Then the general read the glowing hands on the face of a clock in the Humvee’s front panel. “It is six o’clock. The sun rises in ten minutes.” He motioned to a nearby colonel and said, “Go.”

Lucky passed the word to the sniper and climbed aboard the Humvee.

A storm of gunfire at the villa shattered the early-morning stillness of Mogadishu — an old, familiar, dreaded song for Somali citizens. General Hamud’s commando unit took down the pair of guard posts with a combination of machine-gun fire and rocket-propelled grenades, then closed the net, firing disciplined bursts and aiming before pulling triggers. Smoke grenades boiled up in a covering screen, pushed by the morning breeze.

The Cobra had been in bed, relying on his fearsome al Shabaab bodyguards to protect him overnight and hold the place safe until the reinforcements arrived from Kismaayo in a few hours. The gunshots alerted him that it wasn’t happening that way at all. By the time he was dressed, his defenders were crumbling in the path of a trained force. He screamed with fury and grabbed a pistol, stalking through the building and yelling at the men to fight to the death. “The entire city will rise up and protect us,” he screamed. “Hold tight! Do not abandon your positions! God is great!”

The young bullies specialized in random raids on easy targets and were not used to the fierce attack of the commandos. The boys usually melted away when the army brought its strength to bear, but this time there was nowhere to run. They heard the Cobra’s words, but those empty promises and exhortations floated away like balloons. One by one, the al Shabaab boys went down beneath the unrelenting, ferocious assault.

The main attacking force was pushing from the back of the villa, and the rooms were being cleared one by one. The only route out was in the front, where machine guns were raking the open ground. After only five intense minutes, General Hamud ordered his troops to stop shooting. A tense silence gripped the villa. He clicked the loudspeaker mounted on his vehicle.

“You boys of al Shabaab! This is Brigadier General Hamud of the Somali National Security Forces. You know who I am. There is no escape route open, and the column of reinforcements that you were expecting has been obliterated. In one minute, I will resume killing you all. Your only hope for survival is to give me the coward named Omar Jama, who calls himself Cobra. Turn him out, and we will take you prisoner. One minute!”

Inside the villa, Hassan Abdi was crouched beside a wall, bleeding from a shoulder wound. He looked up when he saw his hero and friend approach, noting that the scarred face was twisted in hatred and anger. For the first time, Hassan recognized the true madness that possessed the man. He had spent twenty years chasing a dream that did not exist. The Cobra was no great warrior who would lead Somalia and Islam to a new day. The only people who followed him did so because he had money to pay them. Hassan finally understood that he had made a terrible mistake by attaching himself to such a false and wicked man.

“You failed me,” the Cobra shouted. He spat on his old friend, then shot him twice in the head. The remaining al Shabaab gunmen scuttled into other rooms to hide from both the soldiers outside and the crazed man inside. The Cobra knew it would be only a few seconds before they turned their weapons on him and tossed him out. With a final defiant yell, he burst into a run and crashed through the destroyed front door and into the hazy dawn, intent on killing anyone he could. Whoever it was did not matter. He just had to kill somebody. He ran toward a parked Humvee, firing his pistol as fast as he could.

Kyle Swanson took the shot. The .50 caliber thundered, and the mammoth bullet caught the Cobra on the right knee, tearing the leg away in a gout of blood, flesh, stringy muscle, and bone.

The Cobra spun and fell with a yowl of hatred, still gripping the pistol and finding the strength to fire it again. Swanson adjusted, then took away the gun hand. The sniper watched the Cobra writhe on the ground, wreathed in gore. One more shot, and this would be done. He jacked in another round to put one in the head.

“Cease fire, Kyle! Don’t shoot!” The voice of Lucky Sharif was shouting in his ear. “We’ve got him.”

Swanson had a history of disobeying orders, but Lucky sounded like he meant it. His trigger finger froze halfway through the pull. “Roger that.”

“Bob, turn off the cameras.” Sharif was insistent, urgent.

“Done,” he replied, then turned to Kyle and asked, “WTF?”

Swanson kept his eye glued to the scope. Bob went back to the big camera and pushed the magnification to its max to get the closest image on the 3 × 5 screen. The body of Omar Jama bled and shook, the face twisted and the body in spasms. A ring of soldiers had closed around the villa and were herding out the remaining al Shabaab fighters, their weapons thrown into a pile.

General Hamud stepped from his Humvee, and Lucky Sharif came from the other side. Both were carrying machetes with long, sharp edges that glinted in the morning sun. Lucky kicked the Cobra over onto his back so he could watch.

“For our families,” the general said.

“For everyone from Mogadishu to Minnesota,” added Lucky.

The Cobra saw the big knives rise and then come slashing down, and he cried out as waves of agonizing pain ripped his body with each new cut. There was no mercy.

Bob pushed the cameras away. Swanson watched until the very end.