The final approach was underway. I was sequestered in the small, hardened cabin of the Italian missile boat, the Falco. The craft was a brutal blur of speed, cutting across the dark Ionian waves toward the coordinates of the San Vittore. Every vibration of the engine was a ticking clock against the final, inevitable showdown with Damon.

I had ordered the room cleared. Ivan was coordinating the perimeter from the tactical deck; Domenico was piloting the accompanying air support. I needed these ...