Somalia, outside Mogadishu.
Inside the abandoned refinery, the smell of rust and diesel mixed with the desert heat was suffocating.
Sajja Mahmoud walked into the factory area with over sixty fully armed men, boots crunching on the broken concrete with crisp sounds.
His gaze swept around—armed factions from various parties in Somalia gathered in small groups, AK-47s casually slung over their shoulders. Some smoked, others spoke in low voices, but no one noticed his arrival.
"Something's wrong."
After looking around, Sajja whispered to his confidant, Hal: "Song Heping isn't here."
Hal narrowed his eyes, fingers unconsciously stroking the trigger of the tactical rifle slung across his chest.
"Boss, might he not have come at all?"
Sajja didn't answer but walked straight to the container yard in the center of the factory area.
There, Abdul was sitting on a shabby sofa, surrounded by four bodyguards in black masks, holding AK-74 assault rifles with grenade launchers.
