William Dietz - Hitman - Enemy Within

“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 as it 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 was wait 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. The Whitehall 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 47 was 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.