Zack just shook his head at the banter as he studied the UAV feed, early-morning sunlight glinting off the two black Mercedes SUVs awaiting their passengers. Belyakov’s villa was just north, past the outer edges of the urban sprawl of Valetta. Situated along the eastern coast, the villa was a multitiered stone fortress with a view of the ocean at the bottom of short rocky cliffs.

“Playtime is over gentlemen,” Griffin stated, ending the back-and-forth between Noah and Charles before it really began. The two men were known to exchange witticisms on random, esoteric subjects in such a rapid fashion that it often resembled the dialogue of a Quentin Tarantino movie. “Gear up and be ready for final confirmation.”

The team’s weapons were laid out on the dining room table, which could seat twelve comfortably. Each member of the team had carved out a small area for his gear, and they’d checked and double-checked each magazine, smoke grenade, medical kit, and radio to ensure that it would function when the time came. They all understood one truism: If you take care of your gear, your gear will take care of you.

Laid out above each man’s gear was an oiled eleven-inch version of the HK416 A5 5.56mm assault rifle with an assault grip under the barrel and an EOTech holographic red-dot sight above the barrel. A newer version of the assault rifle that ended Osama bin-Laden’s life, the HK416 A5 was a lethal precision piece of weaponry.

“You got it, boss,” Charles said in his smooth manner.

“Time to cowboy up,” Noah responded, and both men started affixing the tools of the trade to their Kevlar vests.

“How much longer?” Griffin asked. A former national champion wrestler from Penn State, Griffin was a precise man, and he loathed being late. If an operation didn’t start exactly when planned, he felt a surge of negative energy course through his body as if threatening to short-circuit his senses. “Time stands still for no man,” his father used to preach at him, and as much as Griffin loathed the abusive alcoholic and self-centered lawyer who’d ruined his childhood, Aaron Huntsmen had been right about the finite quality of time: there was never enough of it.

“Any . . . minute . . . now,” Zack said as if willing the targets into existence on the screen.

From the angle of the orbiting ScanEagle, they had a clear shot of the ornate, double doors, and Zack felt a sense of relief as figures poured out of the building toward the SUVs. Wait a second. There’s too many of them. There’s only supposed to be six—four security, Belyakov, and Moretti. He studied the picture and instantly recognized with horror what the other four figures were—two women and two children.

“We have a major problem. Somebody screwed the pooch on the intel. We have four civilians getting into the SUVs. Two women and two kids.” Zack said.