Hitman: Enemy Within Read online

  All of which goes to prove that crime pays, 47 mused. Especially drug trafficking.

  Satisfied that his actions had gone undetected, 47 began to go through Johnson’s pockets. The search turned up a wad of pocket lint, a wicked-looking flick knife, and an outdated Binion’s $500 casino chip complete with a horseshoe-shaped design. It was a rare item, and one that 47 was going to need in order to crash the Big Kahuna’s party.

  His next step was to retrieve the saddlebags from the truck’s cab. One of the hand-tooled leather bags contained a gun rig, complete with a pair of Johnson’s signature Colt Pythons. The other held two bags of heroin. The assassin emptied both packages onto the ground prior to replacing them with two kilos of street-smack that The Agency had given him. Both were laced with fentanyl, which was 50 to 100 times more powerful than morphine. The problem was that while the mixture produced a higher high, it had been known to kill unsuspecting addicts by causing their respiratory systems to shut down.

  Which was exactly what 47 had in mind.

  But before he could put the Big Kahuna out of commission, permanently, and thereby fulfill The Agency’s contract, the assassin would have to penetrate the annual meeting of the Big Six.

  He checked to ensure that both .357 Magnums were loaded before buckling the western fast-draw holsters around his waist and securing the tie-downs to his legs. It felt good to have a couple of weapons, even though he preferred semiautomatics. But, given the fact that Johnson was known for his six-guns, 47 was stuck with them.

  He was covered with sweat by the time he got back behind the wheel. The air conditioner roared as he took a moment to examine himself in the rearview mirror and check the key component of his subterfuge. The face that stared back at him looked more like Johnson’s than his own. A blue kerchief concealed most of the assassin’s bare scalp—and the fake beard was still in place. Beards could be dangerous appliances, given their tendency to come loose, and 47 had been careful to use plenty of spirit gum, so even the sweat from his exertions hadn’t loosened it.

  Of equal importance were the small things, those details that made a person like Johnson memorable. Like the swastika-shaped tattoo that the assassin had inked on his left cheek, what appeared to be a scar just above his right eyebrow, and the silver rings that dangled from his ears. His clothing consisted of leather gloves, a matching vest, faded Levis, and a pair of lace-up combat boots.

  But would the disguise be sufficient to get him through the meeting? The folks at The Agency thought so, especially since Johnson had been in prison for the past four years, and therefore out of circulation. Which meant most of the people who could ID him were still behind bars. Agent 47 took comfort from the thought as he steered the truck out onto the road, and turned north.

  Having been raised in Europe, the assassin had no desire to actually own one of the inefficient, gas-guzzling trucks that Americans loved so much, but could understand the appeal. With a brawny 345-horsepower engine under the hood, and a stance that placed the driver almost eye to eye with long-haul truckers, the four-wheeler conveyed a sense of power. Which offered 47 some comfort as he topped a rise and discovered an ancient road grader parked across the road. It was a precaution intended to keep farmers, telephone repairmen, and lost tourists from crashing the Big Kahuna’s party. As the assassin applied the brakes, and the truck began to slow, two heavily armed bikers strolled out to greet him. They positioned themselves on either side of the truck so their M16s could put him in a crossfire.

  But Agent 47 wasn’t looking for trouble—not yet—and plastered a friendly smile on what was supposed to be Mel Johnson’s face as he brought the truck to a halt. The side windows whirred as they went down. A man with the look of a part-time bodybuilder sauntered up to the driver’s side. He had bushy eyebrows, a walrus-style mustache, and a pugnacious jaw.

  “So,” he said conversationally, as the second biker stuck his head in through the passenger side window. “Who the fuck are you?”

  “I’m the Reaper,” 47 replied with what he hoped was a sufficient amount of gravitas.

  “Yeah?” the man replied. “I’ve heard of you. They call me Nix. And that’s Joey. They told us you was comin’ on a bike.”

  “That was the plan,” the assassin agreed soberly. “But the chopper broke down, so I borrowed this.”

  There was a burst of static from the other side of the truck, followed by some unintelligible conversation as Joey brought a walkie-talkie up next to his ear. After listening for a moment, he replaced it at his side.

  “That was Skinner,” the biker proclaimed importantly. “The Big Kahuna wants to start the meeting, but they’re waitin’ on this guy.”

  “Sounds like you’d better get a move on,” Nix advised. “But nobody gets in without a chip.”

  Agent 47 nodded, plucked the $500 casino chip out of his vest pocket, and handed it over. Nix produced a disc of his own, compared the two, and returned the first one to “Johnson.”

  “You’re good to go, Reaper,” Nix said. “Hold a sec while Joey backs the grader out of the way. You’re the last guy on the list, so we might as well escort you in.”

  There was a pause while Joey fired up the grader’s diesel engine, backed the big machine off the road, and waited for the pickup to pass. Then he moved it back into place. Five minutes later Nix and Joey straddled their choppers as they waved the truck forward.

  The choppers threw up a cloud of dust, and quickly moved into the lead, so 47 eased his foot off the gas and let the pickup fall back a ways. That allowed him to see better as the threesome blew through a second checkpoint and sped toward the odd collection of structures where the meeting was being held.

  A metal silo stood next to a run-down barn that was fronted by a new double-wide mobile home. A variety of small sheds in various states of disrepair were nestled here and there, as a forest of tall weeds did what it could to consume a row of junked cars. The big motor coach that Agent 47 had seen earlier, a red Mercedes, and four brightly painted motorcycles were parked off to the west side of the seedy complex. All of them wore a fine patina of Yakima road dust.

  A black-clad biker appeared as Nix and Joey came to showy stops and sprayed the area with loose gravel. The assassin turned the truck into the makeshift car park and positioned it for a quick getaway. The man in black was waiting as 47 opened the door and dropped to the ground. Johnson’s saddlebags were draped over his left shoulder, and they bounced as he landed.

  “The name’s Skinner,” the long-faced man announced laconically. “Welcome back to the real world. The brothers are waiting. Follow me.”

  Agent 47 expected Skinner to object to the six-guns that were strapped around his waist. But judging from the Glock that protruded from the back of the biker’s leather britches, personal weaponry wasn’t just acceptable, it was expected. The fact struck the assassin as both comforting and worrisome as he followed his guide past the off-white mobile home, up a deeply rutted driveway, and toward the looming barn. Which, judging from the thump, thump, thump of music that issued from inside the ancient structure, was where the meeting was about to be held.

  As he walked up the path 47 compared the layout to his mental picture of the satellite photos while paying special attention to potential escape routes, structures he could use for cover, and the surveillance cameras that were tucked here and there throughout the property.

  Skinner hooked a left where an old refrigerator had been put out to rust, made his way up a slope, and nodded to the tough-looking gang members posted to either side of the huge tractor-sized door. Both thugs were equipped with M16s, pistols, and a lot of tattoos. Agent 47 had one too—aside from the disguise—a bar code that incorporated both his birth date and production number. Largely meaningless, now that his clone brothers were dead, but a permanent link to the past.

  It was cooler inside the barn, and darker, too, so it took 47’s eyes a moment to adjust as the music died and lots of eyeballs swiveled his way. It had been years since farm an
imals had been quartered in the building, but a faint hint of their musky odor still remained. Dust motes drifted through the shafts of sunlight that slanted down from holes in the roof. There were windows, but they were covered with grime, which meant most of the illumination came from bare bulbs that dangled above. In an effort to give the meeting a festive feel, tavern-style bunting had been draped across the rafters. It consisted of Corona beer placards hung from strings of multicolored Christmas lights. The advertisements shivered in the breeze produced by two rotating industrial-strength fans that swept the air across them.

  But that attempt at gaiety was blunted by the presence of the corpse that hung from one of the rafters. The victim’s hands were tied behind him, a length of cord was knotted around his ankles, and his face was purple. The rope creaked as the fans turned and the artificial breeze hit the corpse, causing it to sway. Agent 47 could feel the full weight of their stares as a dozen men and two or three women waited to see how he would react.

  “That’s a nice piñata you have there,” the assassin said lightly. “Who’s the birthday boy?”

  There was a moment of silence, followed by the sound of raucous laughter as a man in a well-cut white suit emerged from the gloom. Good clothes were one of the few luxuries a professional assassin could enjoy, so Agent 47 knew an Yves Saint Laurent suit when he saw one. Even if it was a bit grimy.

  Based on data provided by The Agency, that suit was the signature “look” the Big Kahuna had chosen for himself. A pair of stylish sunglasses hid the crime boss’s eyes, but the rest of his broad, moonlike face was plain to see, as was a body that harkened back to his days as a professional wrestler. He was surprisingly light on his feet, and seemed to float just above the dirt floor as he came forward to embrace the newcomer. The result was a quick man-hug, in which their chests collided briefly before they both took a step back.

  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 47 was more interested in the men seated around him than in how many tons of grass the brotherhood had successfully smuggled in from Canada. Judging from the cigarettes half of them had lit, 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 flo
or.

  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.