Hitman: Enemy Within (3 page)

BK and the Reaper were acquaintances, according to a file that 47 had been given, but nothing more, which was important to remember if the assassin was going to fool him.

“Haven’t seen you in four years—but you’re still one
ugly
son of a bitch,” the Kahuna growled affectionately. “What happened? I’d swear you were a good thirty pounds heavier the last time we saw each other.”

“Prison food sucks,” 47 complained. “But I’m starting to bulk up again.”

“There you go!” BK agreed approvingly. “What you need is some meat and potatoes! Come on. We’ve been waiting for you.”

“So, who’s the party favor?” the assassin inquired, as the former wrestler led him past the body.

“We don’t know his real name,” the Big Kahuna answered matter-of-factly. “But Marla pegged him as an FBI agent—and she was right.”

Agent 47 was just about to ask who Marla was when a woman stepped up beside them.

“Did someone mention my name?” She wore leathers, and made them look good. Two other women were present as well, both of whom had pretty faces and large breasts. But this one was different. Looking into her bright green eyes, it was like looking into a bottomless well. Somehow, without being told, the assassin knew that Marla was the most dangerous person in the room, outside of himself, that is….

But what was this woman’s role? Given the fact most of the people present were male—and the other females were clearly here for recreational purposes, she was an enigma.

“Hello, I’m Marla,” she said softly, as she extended her hand. “You’re the Reaper. I’ve heard of you.”

Her grip was strong, and cold.

Careful to stay in character, 47 held on to Marla’s ice-cold hand at least three seconds longer than necessary, and ogled her ample cleavage.

“And you must be the answer to my prayers,” he replied solemnly, before finally releasing her hand. But somehow 47 could tell that Marla wasn’t buying it, as the Big Kahuna replied on her behalf.

“She’s out of your league, Mel,” the big man said dismissively. “So don’t waste your time.” The two of them were separated as one of the Big K’s flunkies led 47 to brand-new, executive-style leather chairs that must have been purchased for the occasion. The big man took his own position, and opened the meeting with a tiresome review of the brotherhood’s successes. The woman named Marla stood over his right shoulder and it seemed to 47 that she spent most of her time staring at him. She knew.

Which would make the task of killing her supersized lover that much more difficult. Video blossomed on a 60-inch flat-panel monitor that had been set up off to one side, as the six men seated at the table were treated to a financial presentation similar to what any board of directors might see. But 47was more interested in the men seated around him than in how many tons of grass the brotherhood had successfully smuggled in fromCanada . Judging from the cigarettes half of them hadlit, at least some of the profits were going up in smoke.

While most of the gang leaders were fairly attentive, one rather ugly specimen had already nodded off, and was soon facedown on the table. A phone chimed, and its owner stood up and walked some distance away in order to take the call. But the rest were paying attention and interjected questions from time to time—queries that seemed to cast doubt on the veracity of the Big Kahuna’s facts and figures. But the Big K’s entourage was sizable, and the guests were seriously outgunned, so they had very little choice but to accept the crime boss’s answers.For the moment at least. Later, when they reunited with their gangs, the trash talk would begin. A full thirty minutes elapsed before the last pie chart disappeared and bottles of cold beer were distributed.

“So,” the Big Kahuna said, as he began to summarize, “We have plenty to celebrate…but we’re facing some problems, as well. Primary among them being competition from the Colombians, who are bringing large quantities of coke into the country in miniature submarines, and undercutting our prices. But by working together, we should be able to counter their efforts. That will take money, however. So, painful though it may be, it’s time for everyone to ante up.”

That statement was followed by a chorus of groans and a small commotion as the gang leaders placed their quarterly payments on the table. The tributes included two attaché cases filled with tightly packed bills, a leather pouch half-filled with diamonds, a money belt loaded with gold wafers, a sheaf of bonds, and the two kilos of lethal smack that were stored in Johnson’s saddlebags. Which, given the crime boss’s appetite for the stuff, BK would no doubt sample before the day was done. Marla chose that moment to speak, and all hell broke loose.

“Excuse me,” she said politely, “but before this process goes any further, I think we should run some tests on the dope that the so-called Grim Reaper put on the table.Because the
real
Reaper is dead.”

They say the truth hurts,
47 thought. In this case it hurt the man who was seated directly across from him. The setup had been blown, and the only thing the assassin could do was shoot his way out. From the moment he noticed Marla’s stare, he had held one of Mel Johnson’s big revolvers under the table. The .357 bucked in 47’s hand, there was a muffled
boom,
and the biker sitting across from him never knew what hit him as both of them went over backward. The difference being that while the gang leader was dead, 47 was alive, for the moment at least.

Marla removed a Walther PP from its hiding place under her jacket and began to empty a clip in Agent 47’s direction. Fortunately the gang leader seated to the assassin’s left chose that moment to stand, and took two 9 mm slugs to the neck and head.

That bit of misfortune led one of the surviving chieftains to believe Marla was acting on the Big Kahuna’s behalf, which caused him to produce a Browning BDM and begin to shoot at her. He missed Marla, but put a slug into the Big K’s head, which caused the ex-wrestler’s sunglasses to fly off. His sheer bulk kept him from being knocked off his feet. The crime boss just stood there for a moment, as if deciding what to do, before he toppled facedown onto the dirt floor.

Marla took offense at that, brought the German semiauto up in a two-handed grip, and dropped the gang leader with two carefully placed shots. One bullet to the chest and one to the forehead, so that body armor wouldn’t be enough to protect him.

Agent 47 couldn’t target Marla from his position on the ground, as one of the gang leaders jumped onto the loot-laden table and prepared to fire down on him. The assassin brought the wheel gun up and fired twice. The first bullet hit the rat-faced man in the stomach, and the second blew his balls off, which caused him to grab his crotch as he fell toward his killer.

But rather than wait for Rat Face to fall on top of him, 47 rolled to one side, came to his feet, and drew the second Colt just in time to see Marla take cover behind a sturdy post. Splinters flew from wood as a heavy slug nicked the timber.

Then it was Marla’s turn as the Walther barked twice. Agent 47 felt something nip his left arm and was forced to spin away. She might have nailed him then and there if it hadn’t been for Joey. With plenty of targets available, the M16-toting gang member began to shoot indiscriminately at anything that moved. As the assault rifle began to rattle and bullets blew divots out of the barn’s dirt floor, Marla was forced to duck back,then defend herself. Her bullets missed, but the return fire forced Joey to duck, and that gave the woman time to throw a folding chair through the nearest window. Glass shattered. Casings from Joey’s weapon continued to arc through the air as he began spraying the room again. Marla took three running steps and dove through the newly created opening.

Agent 47 swore as the mysterious woman disappeared, and ran a mental check on his ammo supply. One of the Pythons was empty. And while the loops on Johnson’s western-style gun rig held twelve hollow points, it was unlikely the bikers would give him the time required to reload. He had to get back to his truck.

So he holstered one revolver and drew the other as he backed toward the door. One of the gang leaders was busy harvesting the loot from the table when another took exception to that initiative and shot the first biker in the back.

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 slugspinged 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 threwhimself 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!”