Hitman: Enemy Within (6 page)

The energetic couple was still at it when 47 left shortly thereafter to return to the Volvo. His first task for the evening was to find dinner down by the water. That was easy enough to do, since there were plenty of restaurants along the lake’s south shore. It was while he was looking for a place to park that Agent 47 stumbled across a nonprofit organization dedicated to the preservation and use of wooden boats. The organization also offered some boats for rent.

That could come in handy, he mused.

Having made a mental note of what time the center opened, 47 walked east, turned into a waterfront shopping complex, and entered an upscale restaurant. Predictably enough the interior boasted a nautical theme, the menu emphasized seafood, and the waitstaff wore blue polo shirts, white slacks, and deck shoes.

The assassin ordered wild salmon and a glass of ice water, then settled back to wait. It was dark outside the windows, so there was nothing to do but watch the people seated around him; individuals whose existences focused on office politics, leaky roofs, and demanding children—all of them variables to be circumvented or exploited. Unpredictable objects that could block a shot, suddenly morph into a counterassassin, or be used for cover should it become necessary.

There had been a relationship with another living being once. Not with a human, but with the mouse that had lived in the wall near his bed and emerged each night to collect the crumbs the little boy brought him from the asylum’s spartan dining room. Though never really tame, the rodent would stare up at its benefactor through beady black eyes as it ate whatever treat it had been given. The relationship lasted for about a month, but came to an abrupt end when 47 returned one evening to find the dead mouse lying across his pillow. Its head was matted with dried blood, and its eyes were glassy. That was when one of his clone brothers erupted into laughter, the rest of them followed suit, and the bond between 47 and his pet ended the way all relationships must.In death.

“Here’s your salmon, sir,” a female voice said, and 47 snapped back into the present as his food arrived. The meal was better than he had expected.

The night in the motel wasn’t.

* * *

It was raining when the assassin arose the next morning.

Seattlewas known for its rain, which often manifested as little more than an intermittent mist, but this was the real thing. The Volvo’s wipers made a soft slapping sound as he drove to the local Denny’s restaurant, which in the absence of a mom-and-pop option, would have to do. After a “grand-slam”

breakfast, it was time to return to the Center for Wooden Boats, park the sedan, and make his way down onto the floating dock.

Classic wooden boats were moored to the right and the left. Many had rainwater sloshing around under the floorboards. A seaplane roared as it passed overhead and made a neat two-point landing on the steel-gray lake beyond, one of a fleet of such planes that ferried people to and from the San Juan Islands, about 80 miles to the north.

A left, a right, and a short walk carried 47 out to a cedar-sheathed structure labeled BOAT HOUSE. The door to the office stood open, and with the exception of a single attendant, the room was empty.A fact that wasn’t all that surprising, given the time of day and the nature of the weather.

“Good morning!” the man said cheerfully. The attendant standing next to the counter was sixty or so and was wearing a blue baseball cap with the words USS PONCE LPD 15 stitched across the front. The rest of his outfit consisted of a paint-smeared sweatshirt and a pair of baggy khaki pants. “My name’s Hal,” he continued genially. “What can I do for you?”

“I’d like to rent a boat,” Agent 47 replied.

“Well, there’s plenty to pick from,” the attendant said. “What’s your fancy?”

“Something light,” the assassin answered.“Something easy to row.”

“Then I have just the thing,” Hal replied confidently. “Follow me.”

The attendant showed a keen knowledge of the wooden boats, and by the time 47 had been issued a pair of oars and a life jacket, he knew all about the vessel he was about to rent. Twelve-foot-longWhitehalls had originally been designed for use as water taxis inNew York harbor, and first put into service about 1840. Because they were faster than the other harbor taxis of their day,Whitehalls were favored by the boardinghouse “crimps,” or runners, who went out to meet incoming ships and bring seamen ashore.

Hal watched Agent 47 as he rowed away, waved once he was comfortable that his customer was competent, and went back to the office.

Though far from an expert, 47 knew how to row, and was pleased with the way the boat cut through the water as he pulled on the oars. And in spite of the cool air and the persistent rain, it wasn’t long before the assassin began to feel warm. So he brought the oars inboard and allowed theWhitehall to coast while he stripped the rain jacket off. That left him in a blue nylon top, matching pants, and running shoes. The Silverballers were invisible beneath the loose zip-up top. Hisgarrote, plus a hypo loaded with an extremely effective sedative, were stashed in a waterproof knapsack that sat beside him. It felt better without the jacket, and Agent 47 soon found that he was enjoying the exercise as he sent the rowboat north in a series of long, smooth spurts. The wind ruffled the surface of the lake, and the bow made a gentle smacking sound as it cut through the occasional wavelet. Gradually theWhitehall passed a marina, a dry dock, and the pier at which three NOAA ships were moored. Water dripped off the tips of 47’s oars, and left circles spinning in the boat’s wake, as the skiff began to close with the houseboats ahead. It was perfectly natural for those who passed to eyeball the floating homes, so there was no need to be secretive, as the assassin took an occasional glance over his left shoulder. The first thing he noticed was that the waterborne structures came in a variety of shapes and sizes. Some were only one-story tall, while others had a second level, and were more spacious inside. Almost all of them were well maintained, and many boasted baskets filled with flowers. One such home was of special interest to the agent because it was located at the end of the dock, directly across from the unit the target lived in. An elderly woman was kneeling on the front deck, tending a flower box full of bright red geraniums, as 47 directed the boat in toward her one-story houseboat.

“Your flowers are very healthy,” he said, as the gap between the two of them closed. “What do you feed them?” The entire time he spoke, he remained aware of the target’s houseboat, but saw no sign of activity.

Even with the weather, there were several rowers out on the lake, and the woman must have been accustomed to such compliments, because she registered no sense of alarm as the stranger allowed one of his oars to rest on her wooden deck. Her name was Grace Beasley, and wisps of gray hair stuck out from under the blue rain hat her dead husband liked to wear while golfing. Her eyes were like chips of turquoise mounted in sockets of wrinkled skin. A plaid shirt and a pair of black pants completed her outfit.

“I use regular fertilizer,” Mrs. Beasley admitted. “But the key is to pinch off the spent blooms. That makes them flower again.”

“Well, it certainly works,” 47 said, admiringly. “By the way, might I have a drink of water? I should have brought some, but I forgot, and it’s a long ways back to the dock.”

The request seemed innocent enough, so Mrs. Beasley said, “Yes, of course. I’ll be right back.” She stepped through a sliding glass door that led into a comfortably furnished living room and the small galley-style kitchen beyond.

A moment later he found her there, removing a bottle of chilled water from her refrigerator. A large hand closed over mouth. Mrs. Beasley tried to scream, felt something bite her neck, and instantly began to fall. Agent 47 caught the unconscious woman and carried her into the single bedroom, where he laid her out on the neatly made bed. To make doubly sure that she would remain immobilized for the necessary length of time, he bound her wrists and ankles with some of her own nylons. Confident that the elderly woman wasn’t about to go anywhere, he set about his real task, which was to enter the neighboring houseboat and have a chat with its owner.

A task that would be easier said than done, he thought, since his target was an assassin herself, and was sure to have a variety of security measures in place.Just as he would. So 47 turned out the lights in the living room, but left everything else asit was, knowing that the slightest deviation from the way the old lady normally did things could attract attention. First, he subtly adjusted the position of what had once been Mr. Beasley’s favorite chair, placing it where someone would have to actually press their nose against the glass in order to see him as he settled back to wait.

Finally, after an hour had passed, the assassin was reasonably certain of two things. The first was that the target didn’t have any security guards to protect her. His position allowed him a reasonably clear view of the houseboat and the surrounding area, and even the most skilled surveillance would have given some sign of their presence, particularly within the small, close-knit floating community. There were no cameras, either. And that made sense, given her relatively low status within the
Puissance Treize
organization.

Second, based on the time of day and the complete lack of movement across the way, the assassin felt sure that the target wasn’t home. This was something he could have confirmed simply by venturing out to check the parking lot, but he didn’t want to take the chance, since one of the residents might see him exiting the old lady’s home.

So all he could do waswait for the target to return, and make his move during the brief moment when her front door would be unlocked and she would least expect an attack. Having locked the gate behind her, and being on her own home ground, the target would feel safe.

Having formulated his plan, he checked to ensure that the houseboat’s front door would open smoothly. TheWhitehall was safely stashed behind Mrs. Beasley’s boat, out of sight. All that was left was the waiting.

The payoff came forty-five minutes later, when the target appeared on the dock, carrying two bags of groceries. She placed one of them on the bench next to the front door, slid the key into the lock, and gave it a turn to the right. There was a snicking sound as the deadbolt slid to one side; she turned the knob, and gave the door a gentle push. The telltale beep of a burglar alarm could be heard from the kitchen. That meant she had only a few moments in which to enter a PIN number, or the security company would call to check on her.

That was the moment when the
Puissance Treize
agent heard a series of quick footsteps behind her and began to turn. In one fluid motion 47 shut the door and gave her a violent shove. She tripped, lost the bag of groceries, and fell forward. The Walther was holstered under her left arm, but she had no opportunity to use it as she thrust out her hands in order to break her fall.

As the target went down, the assassin knew the situation was iffy at best. He had seconds, maybe a minute, in which to subdue an armed opponent and force her compliance before the alarm company reacted. The insistent
beep, beep, beep
served to emphasize that fact. So 47was already moving forward, seeking to get a grip on her, when she rolled over onto her back. A can of soup was at hand so Marla threw it. The cylinder hit the assassin on the right cheek and caused him to stagger backward. Marla instantly recognized 47 and felt a sudden stab of fear. The
Puissance Treize
agent had no doubt about her ability to deal with either a burglar or would-be rapist, but she’d seen this man in action, and knew his capabilities.

Which begged the question: Why was she still alive?

The answer was obvious. He wanted it that way!

The realization brought a new sense of hope.

Marla kicked with her feet in an attempt to put more distance between them, and thanks to the smooth wood floor of the living room, was able to push herself backward. A box of pasta lay within reach, so she threw it with her left hand and went for the Walther with her right. But the spaghetti bounced off 47’s left thigh. His right foot made contact with her gun hand, and the pistol went flying. There was a loud clatter as the weapon landed on the hardwood floor and slid away. The maddening
beep, beep, beep
continued unabated.

Marla thought of herself as fast, but was shocked by the speed with which the man grabbed the front of her raincoat and jerked her up off the floor. A trickle of blood ran down from the point where the can had broken the assassin’s skin, and she could see the cold determination in his eyes. The phone began to ring.

“That’s the alarm company,” the agent said grimly. “Give them the code—and do it now.”

“Or?”Marla demanded defiantly. “If you were going to kill me, you would have done so by now.”

Agent 47 bared his teeth as the phone rang again. How long would the person on the other end of the line wait?For three rings?Perhaps four?

The ringing stopped.

There was a metallic whisper as the DOVO opened. Light rippled along the razor’s stainless steel blade, and 47 brought the cold metal up to touch the side of the
Puissance Treize
agent’s softly rounded cheek.

“Answer the phone or I’ll cut your face.”

When Marla looked into the hitman’s eyes, it was like looking into a mirror. Here was someone just as ruthless as she was. She could feel the warmth of his breath on her face, and the coiled strength of his body.

The phone rang again.

“Let go and I’ll answer it,” she said, the tension causing her to reveal a faint Irish accent.

“Use the phone in the kitchen,” 47 ordered, and drew a Silverballer as the woman crossed the room. Just because the Walther was lying on the floor didn’t mean the woman wasn’t carrying a second weapon, or even a third.

As Marla answered the phone in the kitchen he lifted the receiver off the extension on her desk.

“Hello?” the
Puissance Treize
agent said, and the ringing stopped.