Hitman: Enemy Within

by William C. Dietz

  Having missed Marla, Joey swiveled the M16 toward 47, and fell as a bullet removed the top of his head.

  Harsh sunlight washed over the assassin as he hit the door, backed outside, and the biker named Nix appeared. The gang member clutched a stubby sawed-off shotgun in his hands and was panting heavily.

  “Reaper…What the hell’s going on?”

  “That Marla chick shot the Big Kahuna!” 47 lied. “But I think he’s still alive. Go on in. The big guy needs your help!”

  Nix nodded gamely, charged through the open door, and staggered as a burst of 9 mm bullets slammed into his unprotected chest.

  Agent 47 turned and began to run. An automatic weapon began to chatter from the direction of the mobile home as one of the Big Kahuna’s security guards began to chase the assassin with bullets from an AK-47.

  Fortunately the biker was short on experience. Rather than lead his target the way he should have, the goon brought his weapon around in an attempt to catch 47 from behind. And since he was firing on full automatic, the assault rifle’s banana-style clip quickly ran dry. That gave the assassin the perfect opportunity to stop, drop, and roll under the high-riding truck.

  Agent 47 discarded the Python in order to snatch two micro-Uzis that were clamped to the truck’s frame. Then, with a machine pistol clutched in each fist, the rearmed assassin rolled out from under the far side of the truck just as the idiot with the AK-47 opened fire again.

  Safety glass shattered, and the 4X4 shuddered as a hail of lead struck it. The biker was advancing by then, teeth bared as he fired the automatic weapon from the hip. It appeared as if the guard believed the fugitive was hiding in the cab, as half a dozen 7.62 mm slugs pinged the driver’s side door. That was when 47 made his way around the front end of the truck and fired a three-round burst from the left-hand Uzi. Though he was right-handed at “birth,” the asylum’s staff forced their charges to use both hands equally. A skill for which the agent was thankful.

  Mr. AK-47 looked surprised as the bullets hit him, and he fired a final burst of slugs into the clear blue sky as he pitched over backward, and skidded across some loose shell casings before finally coming to a stop.

  The assassin might have left at that point, and very much wanted to, but knew he couldn’t. Not without retrieving whatever memory device the surveillance system was hooked to. Partially to protect his identity, and to obtain images of Marla, which would help The Agency identify her. That meant he would have to cross open ground, enter the mobile home, and deal with anyone who blocked his way.

  But then a final gunshot was fired inside the barn, and an eerie silence settled over the farm.

  A jetliner drew a white line across the sky as 47 crossed the open ground, and flies buzzed around the assassin’s head as he opened the screen door. An energetic white dog came out to greet him. The animal yapped madly and danced circles around 47 as the agent entered the double-wide’s living room, and his eyes adjusted to the gloom.

  Empty beer cans sat everywhere, part of a motorcycle engine was resting on the coffee table, and dry dog turds lay scattered about. The lights were off, so what little illumination there was originated from cracks around the shaded windows, and the cartoon show on the flat-panel TV. The audio was turned down, which was why the assassin could hear the sound of a child crying. He followed it through the filthy kitchen and into the hall beyond.

  Having passed a bathroom, 47 peered into what was clearly the master bedroom, and saw a half-naked woman stretched out on a messy king-sized bed. Judging from the drug paraphernalia that was scattered about, she was unconscious rather than asleep. A theory that squared with the crying baby, who looked up at the assassin with pleading eyes, and lifted its arms. The Big Kahuna’s child perhaps?

  Yes, 47 thought. Not that it makes much difference.

  Leaving the master bedroom the assassin followed the filthy shag carpeting back to a second bedroom that functioned as an office. Rather than take the time required to examine the items on top of the cluttered desk, or rifle through the three-drawer filing cabinet, Agent 47 focused his attention on a video monitor perched on top of a cheap plant stand. The picture showed part of the driveway outside, but quickly dissolved to a shot of the barn’s body-strewn interior. Then, having held that view for about five seconds, it switched to another scene. All of which reinforced the assassin’s suspicion that images of the barn battle had been stored on a retrieval system of some sort.

  There was a beep from behind, and he whirled—guns at the ready—only to discover that the Big K was receiving a fax.

  His heart continued to beat like a trip-hammer as he searched for the storage unit—perhaps a computer, or a DVD burner. There was a rat’s nest of wiring and dusty black boxes to paw through, but it wasn’t very long before the assassin found the digital video recorder, and freed it from the system.

  Then, having shoved a mini-Uzi into one of Johnson’s empty holsters, Agent 47 tucked the DVR under his left arm and exited the office. He made his way past the wailing child, entered the living room, and was reaching for the door handle when the dog saved his life.

  As the animal began to yap at the door, 47 threw himself sideways. He heard the sound of a 12-gauge shotgun a fraction of a second later. The double-aught-buck blew a fist-sized hole through the screen door and the opposite wall, to reveal daylight beyond.

  Having dropped the DVR, the assassin fisted the second Uzi as he came to his feet and glanced through one of the kitchen windows. That was when he spotted Skinner. Judging from the congealed blood on the right side of the biker’s face, and the kerchief tied around his right thigh, he had been wounded during the melee. He was game, though, and determined to exact some sort of revenge for what had taken place.

  “I know you’re in there!” Skinner shouted. “There’s no place to go. Come out and fight!”

  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 b
roke 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 the United States dozens of times, the assassin never failed to be amazed by how large the country was. After eliminating a target in Belgium, he could generally be in Great 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 of Yakima, 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 the Green Jade Palace, 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 by himself.

  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 the Pacific 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 of Seattle’s Elliott Bay and the snowcapped Olympic 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 for Alaska and a green and white ferryboat was about to dock as Marla stopped just short of the table.