“We can bring more people on,” Owen replied, “but it would take time to get them all to Rome.”
Jennika was using the side of the van, the sliding door pushed open as a seat. She was wearing a headset and had a computer perched on her lap. “I’m about to link us in with their comms, so get it out of your system now.”
“Saddle up,” Rhys Fletcher said.
“No.” Jennika pointed at Rhys. “No stupid cowboy terms.”
“Aww, darlin’—”
“I will delete you from all known digital databases. Good luck trying to convince the government you’re alive again.” Jennika didn’t look up from the computer screen as she issued the threat.
As an NSA agent, she could carry through on that.
“As long as you don’t mind a top spot on Homeland’s watch list,” Rhys countered.
“Now, now, let’s all try and get along,” Ridley said with a grin. He was laid-back and approachable—which seemed counterintuitive since he was 6’5” with a shaved head.
“Fine.” Jennika pointed to her own headset. “Earpieces in.”
“Fine by me,” Rhys paused, then very deliberately added, “darlin’.”
“Could you not?” Owen asked the Homeland Security agent.
Rhys shrugged and put his earpiece in.
“Besides.” Ridley put in his own earpiece. “I could rendition both your butts to a CIA black site.”
“Literally the opposite of helpful,” Owen said.
Then there was no more banter because the comms went live.
Owen, along with Jennika, Rhys, and Ridley, stood by a white van with a cartoon plumber’s logo on the side.
Two black vans, bearing logos for an Italian internet provider and a locksmith, respectively, were parked on the other side of the parking lot. Nine men and women stood outside or sat in the vans, and now that the comms were on, they could hear an occasional comment or quick conversation in a variety of languages.
Percival was standing at the open door to one van, talking to Sidika Arslan, a Turkish woman who worked for a private security company in Istanbul. She was running comms for the Masters’ Admiralty team.
He shouldn’t think of them as two separate teams, especially since the plan he and Percival had developed, with information from both satellite photos and a detailed interview with Luca, had them grouped into three entry teams, with a mix of Trinity Masters and Masters’ Admiralty people on each.
“English, please,” came Percival’s clipped accent though the earpiece.
“Load up,” Owen commanded.
“See you on the flip side.” Ridley held out a fist, and Owen bumped it with his own.
Rhys touched two fingers to the brim of an imaginary hat. Jennika made a disgusted noise, but she smiled slightly.
Rhys and Ridley walked away from their van, each man heading for one of the two black vans. The Trinity Masters portion of the MPF was only five people, and one of those was Franco, the Grand Master’s advisor. Since the man had no combat experience, and was still recovering from a nearly fatal gunshot wound, Franco hadn’t come to Italy with the rest of them. With Jennika on the comms with Sidika, that left just himself, Rhys, and Ridley to join the strike teams.
Jennika hopped into the van, taking a seat at the small desk bolted to the side wall.
Rodrigo Santiago and Vadisk Kushnir came over to join Owen. Rodrigo looked like he’d walked out of a Spanish perfume ad—hair that was long on top, an “anchor” mustache and beard, and a long, lean body.
From what Owen had pieced together about him, Rodrigo was a “security officer”—which seemed to be a formal title in the Masters’ Admiralty—for the territory of Castile. On paper, he worked for a small and highly sought-after security company based in Madrid.
Vadisk was also a security officer, but from the territory of Hungary, which had to encompass the Ukraine, because Vadisk had full sleeves of uniquely Ukrainian tattoos—linear geometric patterns that almost looked like embroidery or quilting in black and red, with the Ukrainian coat of arms front and center on his right forearm.
“Vadisk, Rodrigo.” Owen shook each man’s hand. “This is Jennika.”
Jennika turned around and waved.
In his earpiece, Owen could hear Rhys and Ridley introducing themselves. The white-van team—Team P, for plumbers—was a three-man unit. They would be going over a wall on the east side of the compound, where some tree cover would hide their approach.
Team L—for locksmith, since they were riding in the van with that logo—were going to enter through the front. Rhys was in that van, which was being driven by Kristin Riddari from Kalmar. Claudette Chevalier from France was riding shotgun, and the hope was