Hitman: Enemy Within

CHAPTER TEN

Several more days of surveillance from the apartment across the street from the orphanage led to the conclusion that Marla was keeping Al-Fulani away from the place. So Agent 47 had assumed a new persona and taken up residence in the ultramodern Hôtel de Nouvelle Vague located only two blocks from the Moroccan’s mansion.

The “New Wave Hotel” was a small but exclusive hostelry that normally catered to young, well-heeled Europeans, and was currently jam-packed with musicians of many nationalities who were in Fez to perform in the week-long Festival de la Musique slated to begin the following evening. An event of special interest to the assassin because Al-Fulani was sponsoring it, as just one of many good deeds that kept local authorities happy and the orphanage in business.

So there the “record producer” was, lying in a chaise longue and soaking up the warm Moroccan sun when his phone began to beep. The assassin flipped the device open and brought it to his ear.

“Yeah? Talk to me.”

Hundreds of miles away, deep within the Jean Danjou’s hull, Diana looked up at one of the twenty-four monitors arrayed around her. The shot was being relayed to her from a spy sat, and, thanks to lots of magnification, she could see 47 and the scantily clad young people sprawled all around him. Groupies, for the most part, who, having followed their favorite bands to Fez, were in need of a place to stay. Having been taken in by a free-spending producer known as “The Jammer,” they had unwittingly become an important part of 47’s cover.

“You look comfortable,” Diana commented. “Too comfortable for someone who is supposed to be at work.”

The assassin said, “Screw you,” and directed a one-fingered salute up at the sky. If any of the young things sunbathing all around the agent thought that was strange, they gave no sign of it.

Diana chuckled.

“Sorry to bother you, 47, but it looks like you’ll have to postpone the exercise scheduled for tomorrow, in order to deal with something more urgent.”

The operative swore silently. Al-Fulani was scheduled to be present as the event got under way the next evening. He planned to kill the businessman’s bodyguards as the Moroccan left the stage, hustle Al-Fulani into a stolen limo, and drive him out into the countryside. A workable plan with a decent chance of success.

“Whatever it is, it can wait,” the assassin said evenly. “Opportunities like this one don’t come along every day.”

“No,” Diana replied patiently, “they don’t. And we’re sorry, but there won’t be much point to snatching Al-Fulani if he’s dead. Which will almost certainly be the case if the Otero brothers come after him.”

Agent 47 took a sip of iced tea as one of his well-endowed guests stood long enough to drop her thong. Then, having straddled a long-haired musician, she began to lick his face.

“The Otero brothers?” the assassin inquired mildly. “Who are they? A new boy band?”

“No,” Diana replied firmly. “They work for the Tumaco cartel in Colombia. They specialize in killing judges, government officials, and anyone else who gets in the organization’s way. And based on the latest intelligence, it looks like they have orders to hit Al-Fulani. It seems the cartel wants a cut of the money the Moroccan makes by smuggling drugs into Europe, and he refused. That’s where the Otero brothers come in.”

The assassin felt a rising sense of frustration. No matter how hard he tried to move this assignment forward, it always seemed to slip back. Now, instead of abducting Al-Fulani as planned, The Agency wanted him to protect the miserable bastard!

But Diana was right. It would be pretty hard to pry information out of a dead man. And if the Oteros showed up in the middle of the snatch, then everything would go straight to hell. The risk factor had just ratcheted up to an eleven.

“So how’s the internal audit going?” the agent inquired, as the couple to his right began to make noisy love.

“They haven’t found anything so far,” Diana admitted. “Which makes your initiative that much more important. Check your inbox. You’ll find everything we have on the Oteros waiting there. Including their love affair with explosives. Bombs big enough to bring down entire buildings, blow up airplanes, and demolish bridges.”

Someone else might have interpreted that particular approach as demonic overkill, given the amount of collateral damage that would be involved. But 47 saw the strategy for what it was. After all, why sneak into a well-protected casino and inject the owner with an overdose of insulin, if you can just hire some poor slob to drive a truck loaded with explosives into the parking lot underneath the building? And detonate the load from a hotel room blocks-perhaps even miles-away.

But that sort of thing wasn’t tolerated everywhere. Sometimes the subtle approach was necessary. Which was why individuals like 47 were so sought after.

The woman was picking up the pace, her head was thrown back, and she was making high-pitched whining noises as her breasts flopped up and down and her friends looked on.

“I’ll look forward to meeting the Oteros,” the agent said dryly. “Is there anything else?”

“Yes,” Diana said. “There are four brothers—and each one of them is worth $250,000.”

“Then there’s a client other than ourselves?”

“Yes,” the controller replied. “A certain agency within the American government would love to see the Tumaco cartel fail. And they don’t like the Oteros, either.”

“Well, there isn’t a whole lot of time, but I’ll do what I can,” he promised.

“Mr. Nu will be pleased,” Diana said evenly. “And one other thing…”

Agent 47 looked skyward.

“Yes?”

“Tell the young woman to your right that she’s getting a sunburn.”

There was only one large public square within the city of Fez; that was where most of the main events involved in the music festival were scheduled to be held. And as Agent 47 exited a cab deep within the area known as Fes El Bali, he saw that preparations were nearing completion. The streets that emptied into the square had been blocked with police barricades, a huge stage had been set up at one end of the plaza, and the area was thick with workmen.

Having paid his fare, the assassin made a beeline for the closest security checkpoint. He wasn’t carrying any weapons other than a garrote, and was relying on the ID card that dangled from his neck to get him in.

The queue continued to move ahead in fits and starts as a policeman examined the cards proffered by the people who had lined up in front of the operative. Then came the moment of truth as 47 stepped forward.

The ID was the rightful property of British folk singer Peter Samo, who was currently passed out on Agent 47’s couch. It had been altered by the simple expedient of pasting a picture of the Jammer persona over the photo of a petulant Samo. It was an amateurish job by most standards, but the panoply of henna tattoos that covered the Jammer’s hairless skull, face, neck, and bare arms proved such a distraction that the cop barely glanced at the card before waving him through.

Which, to 47’s way of thinking, was a clear indication that if the Otero brothers wanted to sneak into the square, they certainly could. And quite possibly had, since the setup phase of the festival was the perfect time to plant a bomb for detonation the following evening. The easiest way to prolong Al-Fulani’s life, at least for the moment, would be to remove the device. Or, if the bomb was too complex for the agent to handle, an anonymous call to the police would take care of the matter as well. Once that problem was out of the way, the assassin could turn his attention to finding the Colombians. A necessity if he were to prevent the Oteros from activating some sort of backup plan.

The problem was that there were literally hundreds of places to conceal one or more bombs on, under, or in the vicinity of the stage. Which meant there was lots of work to do. By far the easiest and most effective place to plant explosives would be directly under the performance platform, so the assassin resolved to begin his inspection there.

It was dark under the stage, and a maze of crisscrossed supports made it difficult to move around. But thanks to a penlight and his willingness to crawl through small spaces, 47 was able to thoroughly inspect the area under the platform. Half an hour later, without having found a bomb or any signs of suspicious activity, he was forced to brush off his clothes and return to the stage, where a team of electricians was working on the sound system.

Having checked to ensure that none of the workmen looked anything like the Otero brothers, 47 began to examine anything that might contain—or be—a bomb. He was stopped and questioned about his activities by a suspicious security guard, but the assassin explained that he was looking for his lost cell phone. That, plus a look at the Jammer’s fake ID, was sufficient to put the guard’s concerns to rest.

Just as 47 was about to give up and leave the platform, a couple of newcomers appeared. And unlike all of the other men in the area, they were wearing stylish sports coats on a very warm day. Why? Because they’re armed, that’s why-a problem he could relate to. Yet they weren’t the Oteros, so who were they? Plainclothes police? Goons hired to protect the Oteros? Bodyguards for some mullah or another?

Then he had his answer, as a demurely dressed Marla Norton mounted the platform, closely followed by more men wearing sports coats. The assassin felt a jolt of adrenaline enter his bloodstream. Was Al-Fulani about to make an early appearance? Or had his security team simply come to check out the situation? Planning what to do if the shit hit the fan?

The second possibility seemed the more likely of the two, and as they moved closer, 47 went to one knee next to a row of spotlights, and pretended to inspect them.

Marla glanced at the tattooed man, wondered why anyone would do such a thing to his body, and turned to look out over the square.

If there were a worse situation to put her protector in, the Puissance Treize agent couldn’t imagine what it would be. Buildings stood shoulder to shoulder all around the square, and any of them could provide cover to someone with a rifle or a rocket-propelled grenade launcher.

Then, as if that wasn’t bloody well bad enough, there was the crowd to consider. It would be easy for an assassin like 47 to use the mob for cover, get in close, and bag Al-Fulani from twenty feet away. Or-given the fact that other dignitaries would be onstage-there was always the chance that somebody would try to eliminate one of them by lobbing a grenade onto the platform. Then there was the possibility of a suicide bomber, a riot triggered by religious fundamentalists, or a falling light, for God’s sake. And those were only some of the possibilities.

Which was why the agent had done her best to talk her employer out of the appearance, only to be overruled. And why? Because Al-Fulani enjoyed the role of benefactor, and didn’t want to miss out on his moment in the spotlight even if attending the event involved unnecessary risk. So she would have her people search the area for explosives prior to the opening ceremonies, dress her client in body armor, and station unsuspecting bullet catchers around the businessman in the hope that any incoming projectiles would hit one of them, rather than Al-Fulani.

Yet ultimately Marla knew that Al-Fulani’s fate—and to a great extent hers—would depend on a great deal of luck, and the man called 47. Based on information that the Puissance Treize had given Al-Fulani, the assassin was still in Fez and eager to get his hands on the Moroccan. The thought sent a chill down Marla’s spine as she turned to leave the stage.

It was late afternoon, and the sun had disappeared, leaving a bloody smear on the western horizon as Agent 47 guided the blue BMW motorcycle through heavy traffic. In contrast to the sleek chopped hog the Grim Reaper had been riding at the moment of his death, the Beemer had a bulbous gas tank, controls that forced the assassin to ride as if he were in a race, and a high-tech aesthetic he liked. The only problem was that, even though the bike was capable of going well over a hundred miles per hour, the jam-packed streets kept him down to no more than twenty.

Stealing the BMW had been as easy as taking a leather jacket that belonged to one of his house guests. There were all sorts of useful things in the pockets, including two prophylactics, a plastic bag containing a mysterious white powder, and the bike’s ignition key. The matching helmet and the guitar case slung across his back were courtesy of the same musician. And because the jacket was long enough to conceal the short-slide Silverballer, it served that purpose as well.

Most of the traffic consisted of smoke-spewing trucks, buses, and dilapidated cars, all of which had fully operable horns that honked, beeped, and brayed as traffic continued to inch its way forward. But like the rest of the scooters and motorcycles, the Beemer was free to weave in and out of traffic. A potentially fatal game were someone to open a car door unexpectedly, but preferable to sitting in one place and sucking exhaust fumes.

Finally, having battled traffic for more than twenty minutes, the BMW passed through one of the city’s ancient gates, and was released into the countryside that stretched beyond. Which, according to intelligence provided by The Agency, was where the Otero brothers had set up shop.

The question was: Why? Especially given that their target, and the best opportunity to kill him, lay deep within Fez itself. Not that it mattered, so long as Agent 47 could locate the Colombians and kill them before they could carry out the hit.

Traffic opened up as the assassin left Fez behind. He followed a well-maintained two-lane road through a succession of small villages and into the hills. There, perched on a rise, stood an old Catholic church. It had been desanctified more than a hundred years earlier, and used for a variety of purposes since. The whitewashed building seemed to brood over a hillside of weathered headstones, as if waiting for the dead parishioners to arise and worship again. There was very little light by the time he arrived. But what there was served to silhouette the variegated arch at the front of the building and the bell tower to the right of it. And that, according to Diana, was where the Oteros had chosen to stay.

Agent 47 downshifted, which caused the BMW to slow, giving the assassin the opportunity to observe that lights were on within the church. Then it was necessary to open the throttle and guide the bike up over a rise.

Confident that he couldn’t be seen from the church at that point, 47 downshifted again, and turned onto a dirt track. The motorcycle’s headlamp played across ranks of shadowy olive trees before the assassin turned it off, toed the transmission into neutral, and killed the engine. Having deployed the BMW’s kickstand, Agent 47 swung a leg over the bike, and parked the helmet on the seat.

The countryside seemed unnaturally quiet after riding the noisy bike. In fact, there weren’t any sounds to be heard, other than the occasional chirp of a cricket, the distant bark of a village dog, and the throaty growl that a heavily laden lorry produced as it made its way up a nearby incline. All of which were pleasant, but the silence also meant that gunshots would be heard if he missed a target and an all-out shooting war began.

Keeping that potential in mind, the assassin drew the short-slide, and took the time required to attach a silencer to it before returning the weapon to its holster. Branches grabbed at him as 47 passed between the trees, but did no damage, as he made his way toward the church. Local night creatures were out and about by that time, and the assassin heard an occasional rustle as other predators went in search of their prey.

The olive trees began to thin after a while, and 47 found himself at the very edge of the grove, which was about thirty feet from a five-foot-high wall, and the church stood beyond. A new sound could be heard by then: the muted but persistent beat of Colombian salsa, punctuated by occasional bursts of raucous laughter.

Noise won’t be a problem, 47 mused gratefully.

Agent 47 was just about to cross the open ground that lay between the trees and the wall when he saw a sudden flare of light high in the bell tower, and realized a sentry had been posted there. That was a problem, especially since the moon had risen by then and was casting a ghostly glow onto the church and the area that surrounded it.

So 47 lifted the strap up over his head, lowered the guitar case to the ground, and knelt beside it. The catches opened soundlessly, as did the lid, revealing the Walther WA 2000 nestled within. The weapon was just under thirty-six inches long, which meant that the sniper rifle fit into the guitar case with ten inches to spare, leaving plenty of room for the silencer and extra magazines.

The first six-round clip was already seated, so all the assassin had to do was remove the rifle from a bed of dirty laundry and work the bolt before bringing the finely tuned weapon up to his shoulder. The Schmidt amp; Bender 2.5-10©56 mm telescopic sight was effective in spite of the low-light situation. Agent 47 inched the highly magnified circle up the white bell tower to the point where the red glow of a cigarette could be seen. It seemed to wink at the assassin as the sentry took a drag.

The heavily silenced rifle coughed and gave the assassin a solid nudge as the 7.62 NATO round left the barrel. The slug struck the sentry right between the eyes, passed through his brain at an upward angle, and blew the top of his head off. Gore splattered the ancient bell, but lacked the force required to ring it, as the dead body collapsed.

No one inside the church took notice, as a portable CD player continued to pump salsa music into the nave, where Pedro and Manuel Otero were drinking tequila and two half-drunk Spanish whores were attempting to dance.

Both brothers had thick black hair, dark brown eyes, and the best smiles money could buy. There was a strong family resemblance, though Pedro had a scar on his forehead, while Manuel was known as Muchacho bonito to his friends and associates.

Both women were topless, and their unrestrained breasts swayed to the music, as they stomped their feet in a clumsy imitation of flamenco-style dancing, and began to circle each other. The brothers shouted encouragement, and began to clap in time with the music.

Meanwhile, out in the olive grove, Agent 47 ejected the spent casing, and slipped the brass cylinder into a pocket. The Walther went back into the guitar case, which, if everything went well, would be retrieved on the way out. Then, concerned lest the dead sentry be discovered, the assassin took a run at the wall.

The jump was high enough that it took him cleanly over the top. As soon as his feet made contact with the ground, he dropped into a crouch, drew the Silverballer, and waited to see if a second sentry would reveal himself.

Which he did-but not in the way that the agent expected.

Thanks to a piece of very bad luck, the assassin had dropped into the garden only a few feet from the point where one of the guards had stopped to tie a shoelace. And the sentry must have been a very cool customer, because rather than shout for help, he remained silent. So much so that 47 was completely unaware of the fact that he’d been discovered until he heard a faint whisper of fabric, caught a whiff of cheap cologne, and felt the aluminum flashlight slam into his right forearm.

The pain was excruciating, and his pistol was still in the process of falling when a bony fist came around to connect with the assassin’s head. That sent him reeling backward, which was almost a blessing, as it bought 47 some time. Not much, but enough to draw the DOVO with his left hand and flick it open as his shoulder hit the ground.

Certain of victory, the guard jumped onto his victim’s chest and brought the flashlight up over his head. But before the smuggler could bring the weapon down, steel flashed in the moonlight.

Agent 47 saw the spray of black blood before he felt the warm liquid spurting from the cut. The sentry looked surprised. His head wobbled and slumped sideways, and the rest of his limp body followed.

The assassin rolled right, came to his feet in one smooth motion, and bent to wipe the DOVO clean. His right forearm wasn’t broken, but it hurt like hell, and it would be a while before sensation returned to his hand.

That was when he noticed the guard’s baseball hat and put it on, hoping that the piece of headgear might buy him a second or two, should a third sentry happen along.

Agent 47 had just reached down to retrieve the Silverballer when he heard glass shatter and the sound of drunken laughter. The steady thump, thump, thump of bass seemed to echo the beating of 47’s heart as he made his way over to the building and followed the south wall toward the east. The back entrance was locked, so the assassin took a moment to peer through the ancient keyhole, and liked what he saw.

The church’s kitchen appeared to be empty, so 47 was just about to pick the lock, when another sentry rounded the corner. Having caught sight of the ball cap, the man made the natural assumption.

“¡Hey, Jorge, consigue de neuvo a trabajo! ¿O usted tienen gusto de Pedro para golpear su asno con el pie otra vez?”

Agent 47 turned, the moonlight fell on his tattooed face, and the guard grunted his alarm. He was in the process of reaching for his Glock when the Silverballer spoke twice. Thanks to the weapon’s silencer, the reports were no louder than a baby’s cough. The heavy.45 caliber slugs threw the man backward, and dumped him onto the ground.

The assassin took the time necessary to drag the body over into an especially dark shadow before returning to the entrance and attacking the lock, which yielded seconds later. Once inside, he paused for a moment before passing through the kitchen and climbing the stairs beyond. By the time he arrived at a vantage point that allowed him to see into the nave, the entertainment had become quite intimate. Both women were seated astride their clients, both of whom were caught up in the moment, and nearing their respective climaxes.

Until Agent 47 shot Pedro in the head.

The prostitute who was seated on the Colombian’s lap uttered a loud scream as her lover’s head came apart, and continued to produce a series of short emphatic shrieks as her feet hit the floor and she backed away.

That caused the other woman to dismount as well, leaving Manuel seated on a chair, with his pants down around his ankles. The erection that had been so hard the moment before had already begun to disappear. But if the Colombian was embarrassed by his predicament there was no sign of it as he stared up at the man who stood in the choir loft.

“¿Quienes son usted? ¿Y por qué usted mato a Pedro?” he shouted at the intruder.

Agent 47 stared down the barrel of his weapon.

“No era personal. Mato para el dinero. ¿Donde estás sus otros hermanos?”

Manuel was at a disadvantage and knew it. Not only had he been caught with his pants down, his Beretta lay on a table three feet away. So the chances of grabbing it and getting off a shot were slim to none.

He had another weapon at his disposal, however, and when he brought his arms up as if to surrender, he thrust his right hand out in front of him. The sudden motion caused a spring-loaded mechanism strapped to his right forearm to shoot forward, delivering a double-barreled.45 caliber derringer into the palm of his hand.

It all happened so quickly that the tiny pistol had already been fired, and the fat bullet had already whispered something into 47’s left ear by the time the assassin’s brain registered a loud bang. So the reaction was involuntary, rather than conscious, as the Silverballer fired in response.

Manuel had triggered a second and final shot by that time, but the slug went into the ceiling as both the Colombian and his chair went over backward. The combination produced a loud crash as both women, still shrieking, backed toward the front door.

Agent 47 said, “¡Parada!” And they stopped.

It took the better part of a nerve-wracking half hour to lock the prostitutes into a storage room and search the building for explosives. Strangely, given the crime family’s reputation for blowing things up, there wasn’t so much as a firecracker to be found inside the church. And having been forced to kill Manuel, there was no one left to question. Not until the missing Otero brothers returned.

Which meant all 47 could do was dump the bodies into the cellar, collect the Walther from the olive grove, and position the BMW for a quick getaway. He parked it just inside the main door, where it wouldn’t be seen.

Those chores kept the assassin busy for a while, but they were followed by a long stretch of inactivity, and Agent 47 soon began to tire. By the time three hours had passed, it was clear that José and Carlos were on something more substantial than a beer run. Still, having no idea what the brothers were doing, or how long it might take, the assassin was forced not only to stay awake, but to keep his wits about him as well.

He called Diana, who would be monitoring the situation back in Fez, but there was nothing to indicate that the brothers were there, either. Which was a relief, though it brought him no closer to discovering their whereabouts.

So 47 waited, and waited, and when the first blush of dawn appeared in the east he was still waiting. Another call to Diana yielded no useful information. The Agency had no idea where José and Carlos were—or what the brothers were up to.

By now, however, he had to admit to the very real possibility that the Colombians were in Fez, perhaps even planting bombs all around the main plaza, and wouldn’t be back until Al-Fulani was dead. Yet there was only one of him, and while The Agency had other assets, none were close enough to intervene prior to the coming ceremony.

Rather than remain in the nave, where his field of vision was limited, 47 took his binoculars, the Walther WA 2000, and a thermos of hot coffee scrounged from the kitchen up into the blood-spattered bell tower. The dead sentry’s blood had attracted flies, which were a constant annoyance, but the vantage point was excellent-one that provided a view of the highway that fronted the church, the olive grove he had passed through the night before, and the hills to the east.

The cool breezes that blew down from the north, combined with the opportunity to examine the surrounding terrain, were sufficient to keep the assassin occupied for a while. But shortly after he sat down on the white plastic chair, his eyelids grew heavy, and his mind began to drift.

When he awoke, four minutes later, it was to a sense of fear, and pangs of guilt.

A cup of black coffee helped keep him awake for a while, and he observed the passage of an old man and a flock of bawling goats. But the siren call of the chair and the warmth of the morning sun were too much to resist, and even 47 eventually had to give in to sheer fatigue.

The next time he awoke it was to the sound of a bleating siren.

He was already reaching for his gun as he came to his feet. But the ambulance blew past as it continued on its way toward Fez.

Agent 47 glanced at his watch and realized that while more than three hours had elapsed, the Otero brothers had yet to return. More than ever, he was certain they were in Fez, preparing to assassinate Al-Fulani. The Agency’s suits would be pissed off, but such was life, and there wasn’t much he could do about it.

And besides, José and Carlos would return to the church sooner or later. Each of them was worth $250,000, which when added to the kills he had already pulled off, would constitute a solid payday.

So Agent 47 went down to scrounge some food from the kitchen, where he brewed a fresh pot of coffee before returning to his post.

Then, somewhat refreshed, he continued his vigil. Finally, when the shadows cast by the tombstones had grown into long, thin fingers, and the sun was hanging low in the western sky, the Otero brothers returned.

But not in the fashion 47 expected them to. Hundreds of trucks had passed his vantage point during the day, rumbling along the highway, so the fuel tanker was of little interest until the rig began to slow.

It turned onto the pull-through driveway that fronted the church, where it produced a loud blat of sound as the driver braked to a stop.

That was the moment when 47 understood why there weren’t any bomb-making materials in the church. And why José and Carlos had been gone for so long. They had been sent to buy—or steal—a tanker truck loaded with petrol. Which, when delivered in the proper manner, would have enough explosive power to kill Al-Fulani and everyone else in his vicinity! Unfortunately for the Colombians, the process of acquiring the tanker must have taken longer than expected and left them with barely enough time to carry out the hit.

Had José and Carlos been trying to raise their dead brothers by phone? Most likely, and having failed to do so, they were probably hoping that Pedro and Manuel would come running out. Speed would be of the essence, if they were to enter Fez on time.

But as José stepped on the clutch and threw the big rig into neutral, 47 fired. Though dead-on, insofar as the assassin could tell, the true purpose of the first bullet was to blow the truck’s windshield out, thereby exposing the man behind the wheel to a follow-up shot. And the strategy worked perfectly, because the avalanche of safety glass was still falling when the second 7.62 mm slug struck José square in the face. The Colombian probably was already dead, but it paid to make sure, especially at long range.

The sole surviving Otero reacted instantly. Rather than bail out of the truck and expose himself to fire the way the assassin wanted him to, Carlos threw himself across his dead brother’s body and opened the door. That decision saved the Colombian’s life as a bullet thumped into the passenger seat.

Then, with a strength born of desperation, Carlos shoved José out onto the gravel driveway. It took some effort to clamber over the gearshift, but the Colombian made it, and was already behind the wheel by the time the inside rearview mirror shattered. Carlos swore bitterly, as he slammed the truck into gear, and put his foot on the accelerator.

Agent 47 frowned as the tanker began to pull away. Was the Colombian simply trying to escape? Or head into Fez and complete the contract? He took a shot at one of the truck’s tires, and had the satisfaction of seeing it go flat. But the rig had more tires, plenty of them, and kept right on going as Carlos sounded the horn and bullied his way out onto the two-lane highway.

Plumes of dark blue smoke jetted up out of the tanker’s twin stacks, and the engine roared as 47 put a bullet into the silvery fuel tank. But, rather than the massive explosion the assassin was hoping for, there was no visible reaction as the double-hulled safety tank managed to absorb the 7.62 mm round.

So Agent 47 still had to prevent the assassination, and he could score an additional quarter-million, so he threw the rifle into the open guitar case, snapped it closed, and slipped the strap over his head.

Then, rather than descend the ladder normally used to reach the top of the tower, 47 slid down the bell rope into the vestibule below. That caused the bell to toll, and it was still ringing as the assassin entered the nave. He hopped on to the BMW, which was parked just inside the main entrance. He didn’t want to waste the time it would take to don the helmet, which clattered as it hit the floor. The engine roared as it came to life, and there was a solid thump as the front wheel made contact with the partially opened door.

Then the way was clear as 47 opened the throttle and stood on the pegs while the BMW flew through the air. The big bike hit the pathway hard, but kept right on going, as the agent skidded onto the driveway and sent a wave of gravel flying toward the wall. There was a momentary screech as the Beemer hit the pavement, followed by a loud roar as the assassin twisted the throttle.

Off in the distance, the fueler vanished into a dip, so 47 put his head down and took up the chase.

He eyed the road ahead, swerved into the left lane in order to pass a heavily loaded flatbed truck, and went back again to avoid a head-on collision with a red sedan. Then he was in the dip-with the wind pressing against his face. By that time the assassin was sorry he had left the helmet behind. But there was nothing he could do but let the tears stream back along both sides of his face and tough it out.

Meanwhile, half a mile up the highway, Carlos Otero was experiencing a similar problem, as a wall of wind pushed in through the shattered windshield. Fortunately both of the truck’s front tires were intact, but one of the right-side duals had been punctured. By a bullet? Yes, the Colombian thought so. Which meant the tire was tearing itself apart, and the Colombian was forced to grip the huge ivory-colored steering wheel with both hands in order to keep the rig on the road.

That was when Carlos glanced at the outside rearview mirror, saw the motorcycle appear out of the dip behind him, and knew someone was after him. Not the police, who would have converged on the fueler in force, but by a lobo solitario, who—for reasons unknown—was determined to stop him.

But what about Pedro and Manuel? Where were they?

Dead, the Colombian concluded soberly, just like José.

Carlos downshifted to take some speed off the juggernaut, gave the van in front of him a blast from the air horn, and pulled out to pass. The tanker truck’s right flank barely brushed the smaller vehicle, but that alone was enough to send the van flying off the road and into the ditch, as Carlos jerked the wheel to the right.

Agent 47 blew past the wreck as the distance between the BMW and the tanker began to close. It was his intention to pull up alongside, shoot the surviving Otero brother in the head, and let the big rig go wherever it wanted. But that plan was easy for his prey to anticipate.

As 47 pulled out onto the centerline and opened the BMW’s throttle, the Colombian countered by swinging left. The trailer came within inches of swatting the bike off the road as a bus appeared up ahead and the assassin was forced to drop back behind the smoke-belching behemoth.

Carlos smiled thinly as the pursuer was forced to eat exhaust, and he took a moment to consider his options.

Originally, back at the church, his only motivation had been to escape what seemed like certain death. But now, as darkness began to fall, another possibility occurred to him.

The music festival would begin soon, and the motorcyclist was powerless to stop him from entering Fez. He would be even more powerless as they approached the city, and the roads narrowed.

So why not complete the hit, avenge his brothers, and collect the second half of the fee that the Tumaco cartel had promised them?

It was a good plan, a macho plan, and the thought pleased him.

The air horn blared, a car veered onto the shoulder in order to escape the oncoming monster, and the outskirts of Fez appeared ahead.

Agent 47 felt a grim sense of satisfaction as city lights appeared in the distance. The tanker was about to hit the usual traffic jam. Once it did, the assassin would be able to pull up alongside the truck and empty the Silverballer into the cab.

That would leave plenty of time for a hot shower, a decent dinner, and a full night’s sleep.

But to his astonishment, there was no traffic jam, because that particular access road had been set aside for official use during the music festival. A fact that Manuel Otero must have been aware of when he chose the route.

There were wooden barricades, however, which shattered into a thousand pieces as the truck’s massive bumper struck them, and half a dozen uniformed policemen sprinted to get out of the way.

Pieces of debris were still falling as 47 roared through what had been a checkpoint, and a chunk of wood struck his shoulder a glancing blow. The impact hurt, but the leather jacket offered some protection as the Colombian upshifted, and the truck accelerated. But if the oncoming traffic along the open road had provided Carlos with an advantage, Agent 47 benefited here, since there was no traffic to worry about. That allowed the assassin to pull out, twist the throttle, and surge forward.

The Colombian saw the move in the truck’s huge side-view mirror and swerved to block it. But with no traffic to worry about, and a nimble bike, 47 had plenty of room to maneuver.

So he guided the BMW to the left, and was just about to reach for the Silverballer with his right hand when he realized he couldn’t do so without releasing the throttle! And having left the long-slide back in the apartment, there was no other weapon at his disposal. That forced Agent 47 to drop back and release the throttle long enough to pull the.45 and transfer the weapon to his left hand before resuming the chase, a task made more difficult by the fact that he could no longer operate the clutch or shift gears.

Both the tractor-trailer and the motorcycle had passed through the open gate, and were well within Fez by that time. As another checkpoint appeared up ahead, the police opened fire. They had been warned by radio and had realized what could happen if 8,000 gallons of gasoline were detonated within the city’s walls. But their puny service pistols and a few assault rifles weren’t enough to stop more than 90,000 pounds of rolling metal. Thanks to the mirror, 47 could see Carlos laughing into the wind as bullets pinged around him.

The laugh was cut short as the BMW appeared next to the cab; the tattooed man pointed his semiautomatic pistol upward and began to fire. Both vehicles were still in motion, so precision was impossible, but there were nine rounds in the extended clip and 47 planned to use all of them.

Carlos uttered an involuntary grunt of pain as a.45 caliber slug punched a hole in the driver’s side door and buried itself in his left thigh. But the motorcycle rider was forced to back off as the Colombian stuck his 9 mm Beretta out through the window and triggered three rounds.

The truck was becoming increasingly hard to control, especially with the missing tire, and the street was beginning to narrow as it wound its way toward the plaza. It was time for him to downshift.

That forced the Colombian to bring his arm back inside and park the pistol on his lap. There were people now, lots of people, all streaming toward the public square. There were screams and curses as they scattered. Or tried to, but there was a sickening thump as one man fell, and the big wheels rolled him under.

Agent 47 dropped back, and brought the Beemer up next to the passenger side door, where he stood on the BMW’s pegs. Then, by bringing his right foot up onto the seat and pushing off, he was able to launch himself at the tanker.

The BMW fell away, hit a curb, and flipped end-over-end before crashing onto the pavement and sliding for another thirty feet.

Meanwhile, with both feet on the step, and having secured a grip on an external grab bar, Agent 47 fired through the open window.

Carlos jerked his head back as the bullet removed most of his nose, blood sprayed the steering wheel, and blew back into his face. Having heard the unsilenced report, the Colombian realized that the man with the gun was off to the right, and was fumbling for the Beretta as he turned to look.

Most of the Colombian’s face was obscured by a bloody mask, but his eyes were visible, and it was during the brief moment that they were looking at each other when 47 pulled the trigger. Then, certain that the job was done, he jumped clear.

Having been left to its own devices, the driverless tractor-trailer rig missed an important curve and sent music lovers running for their lives as the Colombian’s lifeless hands and heavy foot sent the fueler racing toward a spot where a block of substandard apartments had been torn down to make way for what the government promised would be something better.

There was a loud crash as the truck broke through the plywood panels erected to protect the construction site, followed by a brief moment of silence as the tractor-trailer rig sailed out over the pit, and a resounding BOOM! as the big gas tank finally exploded.

The opening ceremonies had just gotten under way, and Marla was on the stage with Al-Fulani when they heard the explosion and saw a huge fireball rise over the buildings to the north.

A chorus of discordant sirens began to bleat a few moments later, the music festival came to an abrupt end, and Al-Fulani was still alive.

It wasn’t until the next morning, when some of the facts surrounding the explosion appeared in the news, that the true nature of what had occurred became clear. A group of Colombians, all of whom were wanted for murder, had stolen a tanker filled with petrol. And given their histories—not to mention the fact that they were in the country illegally—it was clear that they had been planning an attack on the music festival. A political act, according to some accounts, but Marla and Al-Fulani knew better. The Otero brothers were well known to the Puissance Treize.

Of more interest to Marla was the man on the motorcycle who, according to most reports, was heavily tattooed. She had seen such a man the day before, had passed within a few feet of him, and never suspected a thing.

The air was warm out on Al-Fulani’s well-screened terrace, but the Puissance Treize agent felt a chill run down her spine, and knew why. It appeared that Agent 47 had orders to take Al-Fulani alive. It was her job to stop him, and she wasn’t certain she could.

“It’s time to come inside,” Al-Fulani called, as he appeared in the doorway of his darkened bedroom. “We’re ready!” A child could be heard sobbing somewhere behind him.

Marla swore silently as she stood, and let the white robe fall to the floor. There were moments when she would have been perfectly happy to shoot Al-Fulani herself. But he was the only person who stood between her and Mrs. Kaberov’s wrath. Which meant that the Puissance Treize had to do whatever the Moroccan wanted her to.

The screams lasted for a long time.