sponsors, the much-feared Jihad Brotherhood, Muslim fundamentalists who had taken over just about every major city in Somalia. As vicious as the Shaka could be, they were mere insects compared to what these religious fanatics could do.
Bada knew he’d have to get out of there quickly if he ever wanted to see his family again. If these people caught him, they’d cut him up alive.
But he could not leave the wounded warrior behind.
So Bada recalled one of his family’s oldest chants and whispered it, over and over.
And that’s how he and the wounded warrior who had fallen on him became one with the jungle.
* * *
THE CARAVAN OF pickup trucks arrived at the devastated Shaka compound just seconds after Chief Bada had finished his chant.
Three dozen in all, many of these Brotherhood gunmen weren’t even African—they were Arabs from Yemen, Syria and Iraq. They were dressed better than most religious fighters in Somalia, with crisp green camo uniforms and spiffy black boots. It was important for their reputation to be recognized instantly wherever they went; this outfit filled the bill. And though it was against the will of Allah to wear jewelry around one’s neck or in one’s earlobes, the Brotherhood were known for wearing gaudy silver rings. Some had them on every finger—the bigger and thicker, the better.
The Brotherhood was allied with the Somali pirates for one reason only: money. They’d sent the brigands out looking not for ships to hijack, but for high-profile persons to kidnap and hold for ransom. In exchange for guns, ammunition and the blessing of the Brotherhood to ply their trade, the pirates would snatch whomever they could from yachts and other pricey vessels and hold them for as long as necessary.
It had worked out well so far. They’d kidnapped several Dutch priests, the son of an Indian industrialist and a handful of marine scientists. The Brotherhood had been counting on somewhere around two million dollars when these people were finally ransomed.
But they’d been very excited to learn that earlier this night the pirates had managed to kidnap a very famous American movie actress—someone who would bring in tens of millions in ransom. Yet on arriving at the pirates’ base camp, the Muslim fighters were stunned to find the place destroyed, their allies dead—and all those valuable hostages gone. Also missing was the man they’d just shot from far away, because they thought he was a police officer or maybe even a UN peacekeeping soldier.
None of this made sense. The jihadists were here to see the movie actress in the flesh, confirm her identity, then discuss with the pirates’ leader how big of a ransom they should ask for.
But instead, they’d found little more than a smoking hole in the ground, and a lot of dead pirates lying around.
The leader of the jihadist gang was baffled. Who could have done this?
He spat twice on his hand and wiped it on his brow, a jihadist custom.
“Oh Allah,” he said. “Please have mercy on us.”
* * *
BATMAN WAS TERRIFIED.
He was being dragged through the brush and razor-sharp vegetation was cutting him all over. It was dark and he was disorientated and weak. He’d lost his weapons; his GPS locator and sat-phone were also gone. From his shoulders to his tailbone, his back felt like someone had hit him four times with a sledgehammer.
Every part of the past twenty minutes seemed hazy. He recalled that Whiskey had squashed the pirates, that they’d freed the hostages and that he’d agreed to stay behind to make room in the helicopter. He remembered lighting up the roach … and then suddenly, boom! He was out like a light.
But then, someone fell on top of him and hid him or made him invisible or something. Next thing he knew he was looking at some bad actors in green camos and polished boots who were inspecting the devastated pirate camp not ten feet from where he lay. Their rings—they all wore many silver rings. That had stuck in Batman’s mind. And that these guys didn’t look like Africans at all.
Then, he was being dragged through the bush, and was too stunned and weak and sick to fight back.
He was finally hauled to a stop and only then did he realize he was not in some lion’s den, but in a small village of straw huts, hidden on all sides by high foliage.
Several dozen people had gathered around him. By their clothes, or lack of them, and their painted faces, he knew they