Hitman: Enemy Within

by William C. Dietz

  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 & 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 collapse
d.

  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 cerem
ony.

  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.