Alegria had spent most of Christmas Eve talking to Aine, reassuring her that the team who had gone in to search of Striker and Mantis, along with the two CIA operatives they’d been tasked with extracting from their Somali pirate kidnappers, were the best of the best. And that Striker and Mantis were too.

She’d all but promised Aine that Striker would come back safe, and was as happy as everyone else when he and Onyx walked in the front door.

Alegria held her breath, willing more men to follow, but none did. She waited, listening to Onyx give the condensed version of Striker’s rescue, knowing he was leaving out ninety percent of what had actually happened.

“Can we talk?” she asked.

Onyx nodded. “Where?”

“Come with me,” she answered, walking out the front door and down the pathway to the guest house.

“Where are Dutch and Mantis?” she asked once they were inside.

“We weren’t able to get a fix on Mantis’ twenty when we got to Mogadishu, although we had been able to track Striker.”

Alegria closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Go on.”

“It wasn’t until we were able to intercept Striker that we realized Mantis wasn’t with him. Striker was just as surprised that Mantis wasn’t with us.”

“Please, Onyx. Tell me what happened,” she implored, wishing he would just get on with it.

“Dutch has a Somali source who was able to confirm that Mantis had been ambushed on his way into the city. The team agreed that I fly Striker, Halo, and Tackle back to the States while Dutch, Ranger, and Diesel went to extract Mantis.”

“What have you heard?”

“Nothing yet. Hold on. It’s been a while since I’ve checked.” He pulled the phone out and looked at the screen. “They found him.”

“They found him?”

“That’s what it says.”

“Not that they’ve got him?”

“No, ma’am.” Onyx showed her the message.

“Merde.”

“I’ll follow up.”

Donning his night vision device, Dutch could see Mantis along with two other men, who looked like they were also captives. All were heavily guarded, but that wouldn’t deter him and his team from going in and extracting them. They just needed to organize, and then they’d head in.

Mantis’ head was throbbing, and he felt nauseous. Whatever he’d last eaten was probably spoiled, or worse—poisoned.

He’d been listening to the Somalis argue about the fact that, so far, no one had responded to their ransom demands.

He doubted it would be long before they heard from either Doc or someone from the CIA, but it would only be to tell them they didn’t negotiate with kidnappers and to demand Mantis’ release.

It had been clear that the group who ambushed him was as financially crippled as the one who had taken Tackle and Halo. Nearly everyone in Somalia was in the same situation. Whatever foreign aid came into the country, immediately landed in the hands of corrupt government officials rather than be disbursed to the dying people in their country.

Mantis heard a sound that made his ears prick up. It sounded almost like a birdsong, and would to anyone else who had heard it, but he knew differently.

All hell was about to rain down on this encampment, and not just from anybody; his best friend Dutch was here, and he was about to be rescued.