Hitman: Enemy Within Read Free

dust over the bloodstains and drop the brain bucket into the watercourse below. With that chore out of the way, it was time to remove the now-sagging wire and coil it up as he made his way back to the point where the badly mauled corpse lay. Having stowed the wire in his back pocket, the assassin got a good grip on the back of Johnson’s vest and began to drag the body toward the shed. He was only halfway to his destination when a large cloud of dust appeared to the south. It seemed that something big—and potentially nasty—was on the way.
    The assassin weighed 187 pounds, and even without the top portion of his head Johnson topped 225, so it wasn’t easy to haul the dead biker across the intervening space. Agent 47 tripped and fell over backward, as the sound of the diesel grew louder. Genuinely concerned now, he scrambled to his feet, sought a new grip, and put everything he had into towing the body to the shed. As darkness wrapped itself around 47 a huge motor coach topped the nearest rise and thundered onto the bridge. There were plenty of holes in the side of the ancient shed and the assassin peered through one of them as the maroon bus rolled over the very spot where Johnson had been killed fifteen minutes earlier. He saw the rig bounce slightly as it came off the bridge deck and heard gravel rattle as it flew back over the bridge. An expensive mural had been painted along the side of the coach. It featured a biker on a chopper, a coyote howling at the moon, and jagged mountains in the background. 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 The search turned up a wad of pocket lint, a wicked-looking flick knife, and an outdated Binion’s $500 casino chip complete with a horseshoe-shaped design.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 47was 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 examinehimself 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 hisears. His clothing