Hitman: Enemy Within (4 page)

Never one to refuse a polite invitation, 47 threw a greasy frying pan through the window, and as Skinner swung the shotgun in that direction, the assassin had the opportunity he needed. The bullets passed through the screen door and punched half a dozen holes in the biker’s chest. The biker went to his knees as if praying for help, but having received no response, collapsed facedown on the oil-stained dirt.

The dog yapped excitedly and danced about.

Agent 47 holstered both machine pistols, went back for the DVR, and saw that a bag of dry dog food had been left on the kitchen counter. The assassin paused long enough to dump the entire contents onto the ground on his way out. The dog liked that, and began eating greedily, as his benefactor returned to the car park.

The red Mercedes was gone, which probably meant Marla was driving it. Most of the safety glass was missing from the truck’s side windows, so 47 removed the rest, in hopes that people would assume that the windows were rolled down. The bullet holes in the driver’s side door weren’t so easy to disguise, however. All he could do was get in, place the DVR on the seat beside him, and drive away.

Two bikers lay sprawled in the road next to the first checkpoint, where Marla had dropped them on her way out.

The grader blocked the road farther on, but if Marla had been able to bypass the machinery with her Mercedes, then 47 knew he could do so as well. There was a slight bump as the big off-road tires passed through the ditch that bordered the road, followed by a momentary roar as the agent gunned the engine and steered the rig back onto the gravel road.

Then, with nothing to stop him, 47 hit the gas.

The Big Kahuna was dead, but the operation could hardly be called a success, given how messy the outcome had been. So, rather than take a few days off as he had originally planned, it was time to go back to the motel and lick his wounds. One of which, judging from the persistent pain in his left arm, was quite real.

He arrived at an intersection ten minutes later, paused to let a sixteen-wheeler pass, and pulled onto the two-lane highway. A barn, silo, and farmhouse were visible in the distance, but that was all that broke up the landscape, other than the green-apple orchards that bordered both sides of the road. In spite of the fact that he had been to theUnited States dozens of times, the assassin never failed to be amazed by how large the country was. After eliminating a target inBelgium , he could generally be inGreat Britain a few hours later, but not here. Whenever he had an assignment in the States, some sort of base was necessary.

In this particular case, Agent 47 had staged his activities at a second-rate motel on the outskirts ofYakima,Washington . The sort of mom-and-pop enterprise that had been largely replaced by low-cost hotel chains over the last decade, but still existed here and there, and suited him to a tee. There were exceptions, of course, but most of the small motels didn’t require ID at check-in, and they rarely had surveillance systems. Not to mention the fact that it was often possible for guests to park directly outside their rooms.

But before 47 could return to the slightly seedy embrace of the Blackbird Inn, there were some things to get rid of.Including the Mel Johnson disguise and the newly ventilated truck. So as he approached civilization, he turned into a sprawling apartment complex and pulled into the most remote slot in the parking lot. Perhaps The Agency would be able to recover the vehicle before the manager had it towed. If not, the cost of the truck would be added to the fee paid by the person or persons who wanted the BK dead.

The Colombians perhaps?

Probably, although 47 didn’t really care.

Fingerprints weren’t a concern as he prepared to abandon the vehicle, since he had worn gloves throughout the operation. Nor was DNA likely to be an issue, since the agent wasn’t about to leave any cigarette butts, pop cans, or used Kleenexes in the cab. So all he had to do was pull the cleanup kit out from under the seat, and use the contents to remove both the beard and the blood that had dried on his wounded arm. Having pulled a plain blue T-shirt down over his head, 47 checked to make sure that his left sleeve was long enough to cover the bullet wound. He dumped everything except the DNA-bearing wipe into a plastic sack, which went into a gym bag next to the machine pistols and the DVR. As 47 exited the truck and made his way across the parking lot, he looked like an average guy on his way to a workout at the gym. It was a short two-block walk from the apartment complex to the motel, which was good, because Americans rarely walked when they could ride. That made pedestrians something of an oddity, and oddities are memorable, which was the last thing the assassin wanted to be. The black Volvo S80 was right where he had left it, in front of room 102. Rather than look out of place, as one might expect at a low-rent hostelry like the Blackbird Inn, the sedan wasn’t even the most expensive vehicle in the lot. That honor went to a white Escalade parked a few doors down.
Because
just about anyone can buy a fancy car in the United States—so long as they don’t mind living in a
crummy flat.

The DO NOT DISTURB sign was still dangling from the doorknob, but that didn’t mean much, so 47

checked the nearly invisible thread that had been spit-welded across the doorjamb. It was still there.A good sign. But knowing how dangerous assumptions could be, the assassin took the extra precaution of slipping his right hand into the partially open gym bag that dangled from his right shoulder. Then, with a firm grip on one of the Uzis, he turned the key.

It was cool inside the dimly lit room, and a quick check of the bathroom was sufficient to confirm what Agent 47 had already sensed, that everything was the way he had left it. Duty demanded that he upload a full report to The Agency, but he’d been looking forward to a shower, so he decided that the management types could wait for a while. It felt good to shuck the dirty clothing and step under the shower. Cognizant of how many people he had killed in bathrooms, he kept a .45

caliber Silverballer within easy reach, knowing the water wouldn’t damage the stainless steel weapon. But no one attacked the agent as the stream of hot water pummeled his lean body, found the partially open gunshot wound, and caused it to sting. He just stood there for a while, thinking about Marla, before turning the water off and stepping out of the tub. The bathmat was too small, but managed to absorb at least some of the water that ran down off his legs, as 47 ran a scratchy towel over his body. Who was the woman with the Walther?he wondered. And how did she know about the smack?

Then it was time to retrieve his first-aid kit and examine the flesh wound in the bathroom mirror before squirting antiseptic ointment onto it. A self-adhesive bandage went on over that. There had been other cuts, abrasions, and puncture wounds over the years, and many of the scars were visible. With that part of his regimen completed, and clad only in white boxer shorts, 47 went back to work. The Blackbird Inn didn’t offer Internet access, but it didn’t matter, since all of the agent’s interactions with The Agency were handled via scrambled and encrypted satellite uplinks. So it was a simple matter to transfer the surveillance video over to his laptop, connect the computer to his cell phone, and hit a few keys. He heard a series of tones, followed by a momentary burst of static, before Diana’s well-modulated voice came over the line.

The assassin had never seen the woman whose voice he heard, but imagined her to be attractive. There had been times—
hard
times—when Diana had been his only link to the possibility of salvation. Like one of the guardian angels that Father Vittorio spoke of, who could reach down from the heavens and pluck a soul to safety. And for that reason he liked the sound of her voice.

“Good evening, 47,” Diana said evenly. “How did it go?”

“Poorly,” the assassin replied honestly. “The target was terminated, but only after I was fingered, and the entire setup was blown.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Diana said sympathetically. “Are you all right?”

“Couldn’t be better,” the agent lied. “Stand by for a digital upload. The whole affair was captured on surveillance video, including footage of the woman who blew my cover.”

“We’re ready,” Diana said. “Send us what you have.”

So he typed a command into the laptop, waited for the upload to complete itself, and forced himself to sever the link. Doing so always left him feeling cut off, but such was his fate, and it was shared by anyone who practiced his trade.

Time to take out the trash, and he was hungry, so he spent the next few minutes getting ready. Agent 47

began the process by donning a crisp white shirt, a red silk tie, and a pair of pants prior to slipping his arms into a two-gun shoulder-holster rig. A suit jacket went on over that, which, thanks to the efforts of his English tailor, effectively hid the twin Silverballers and a garrote. Black socks and a pair of well-polished shoes completed the ensemble. Once he was dressed, it was a simple matter to lock his possessions into a pair of armored suitcases, set the built-in security systems, and slide them under the bed. Then he exited the room with the half-full garbage bag dangling from one hand. Having opened the Volvo with the remote, Agent 47 slid inside, placed the garbage bag on the seat beside him, and started the car. Two minutes later he was out on the street trolling for a Dumpster. It wasn’t the perfect means of disposal, since whatever one person put into one of the big bins another person could remove, but it was better than leaving the materials in his room. Dumpsters located behind restaurants were best. Once the contents had begun to rot, the smell was so bad even the homeless wouldn’t enter them.

Having disposed of the Johnson disguise behind theGreenJadePalace , but not being in the mood for a sit-down dinner, Agent 47 bought a couple of hamburgers from a local drive-through. It was his opinion that food purchased from small, independently owned burger joints was always better than the stuff the big chains churned out.

Back in his room, 47 flipped through the channels until he located a soccer game. Not because he cared who won, but for some sort of company, as he unwrapped the burgers and ate another meal byhimself . One of what?Hundreds?Thousands?

There was no way to know.

Eventually the game ended, so he stripped down and hung his clothes in the closet. Then 47 prepared to sleep on the floor. He was well aware of the fact that if a counterassassin forced the door open, the first thing they would do would be to put a few slugs into the bed. So, rather than run that risk, he took his place on the floor, where an intruder’s first shot would miss him. A hard surface, but no worse than the pallet he’d been required to sleep on as a child.

The Silverballers were comforting—and he was asleep five minutes later.

Chapter Three

SEATTLE,WASHINGTON ,USA

As Marla parked her Mercedes in an underground garage and entered a well-appointed elevator, the
Puissance Treize
agent had a feeling she didn’t experience often. She was frightened.

And with good reason.After being promoted to Assistant Sector Chief, and posted to thePacific Northwest , she had been ordered to rid the Big Kahuna’s organization of an undercover FBI agent, and protect the crime boss from an assassin. And she’d been successful up until the moment when she decided to out the assassin. That’s when things went horribly wrong, and people began to die, including the man she’d been sent to protect. It wasn’t that Marla really cared. In fact, those who had died no doubt deserved their fate. But not on her watch.

Now, Marla was on the way up to meet with her new supervisor, a hard-eyed woman called Mrs. Kaberov, who, in spite of her polished exterior, had once been a member of the dreaded KGB, the Russian State Security Committee, before the
Puissance Treize
had hired her away.Which was why it felt like an ounce of liquid lead was sloshing around the pit of Marla’s stomach as she left the elevator, crossed a beautifully decorated lobby, and entered the private club. The restaurant was called The Pacific Rim, and it boasted a sweeping view ofSeattle ’sElliottBay and the snowcappedOlympic Mountains beyond. A prissy maître d’ was there to greet her and lead her to what was unarguably the best table in the restaurant. That’s where Kaberov sat, gazing out over the sparkling bay, as she spoke on her cell phone. A cruise ship was pulling away from a nearby dock as it departed forAlaska and a green and white ferryboat was about to dock as Marla stopped just short of the table. Her supervisor’s white hair was pulled back into a tight bun and she looked stylish in a simple blue knit dress fromSt. Johns . Tasteful gold jewelry and the Hermès handbag completed the outfit. Marla, who was dressed in a two-piece gray business suit and wearing a pair of colorful Pikilino shoes felt dowdy by comparison.

Finally, having ignored Marla for at least two minutes, the older woman closed the flip-phone and eyed her guest with glacier-cold blue eyes.

“You may sit down.”

It had been awkward, standing there like a child waiting for permission to sit, and it was a relief to take the other chair.

“I was speaking on the phone with Ali bin Ahmed bin Saleh Al-Fulani,” the Russian said, in a voice pitched so low that only Marla could hear her. “In spite of ample evidence to the contrary, he insists that you are normally quite competent, and should be given a second chance. I’m not so sure…. Perhaps you will find the means to convince me.”

Marla would have answered, but a formally attired waiter chose that moment to intervene, and Kaberov ordered for both of them. Something Marla would have taken exception to, had her hostess been anyone else. But in this case she was willing to tolerate just about any indignity in order to escape what could be a death sentence.Because while the
Puissance Treize
could be generous to its more reliable employees, it had a very low tolerance for failure.

“So,” Kaberov began. Her English was quite good, in spite of a slight Russian accent. “I read the report you filed, and was impressed by how objective it was. You made no attempt to conceal your incompetence or evade responsibility for what can only be categorized as a disaster. You had been told who was coming, when he would arrive, and what he planned to do. Yet you managed to take what should have been a routine hit and turn it into a major debacle. Now, having had time to reflect on what took place, tell me where you went wrong.”