Hitman: Enemy Within Read Free Page B

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 animals 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 ofCorona 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