William Dietz - Hitman - Enemy Within

They went to work with enthusiasm.

Kola was ten years old. Both she and her seven-year-old brother Baka had survived the slaver attack, but had been orphaned in the process. Now, as Dagash shouted orders and his men hurried to obey, the little girl knew what to do. It was pointless to resist, and punishments could be painful, so she ordered Baka to stand and take his place in line.

“I won’t!” the boy said rebelliously. “I’m hungry…and tired.”

“We all are,” Kola replied patiently. “Now do as I say, or one of the men will hit you.”

“So what?” Baka demanded sullenly. “I’ve been hit before. They’re just going to sell us.”

“That’s true,” the little girl acknowledged calmly. “But we will live. More importantly, you will live. And so long as you live, all of our ancestors live.”

Having no written records to rely on, each Dinka child was required to memorize his or her entire lineage at a very early age. It often went back for hundreds of years. Because to remember one’s ancestors was to keep them alive.

And since females took their husbands’ names, and Baka was the last male in their immediate family, the weight of the entire ancestral line rested on his narrow shoulders. A heavy responsibility indeed. Having been reminded of his place in the world, Baka stood.

“I’m sorry,” he said contritely. “You’re right.”

The two children held hands as they made their way over to where the lead Land Cruiser was waiting, and took their places in line. The 4X4’s engine rumbled, and its parking lights served as beacons as the children trekked across the desert.

Somewhere, out beyond the curtain of darkness, millions of people slept.

Agent 47 was exhausted by the time the Mog pulled into Abéché, so much so that he skipped dinner and went straight to bed, which consisted of a narrow section of concrete located adjacent to a thin mattress on a latticework of creaky springs. The rock-solid floor seemed to move at first, as if he were still in the truck, but the sensation vanished as sleep pulled him down.

And that’s where 47 was—dreaming about a game that had no rules—when Gazeau touched his shoulder.

“Wake up Alex. We need to get out of here.” If the fact that his client had chosen to sleep on the hard floor rather than in the bed struck the Libyan as strange, he gave no sign of it.

Agent 47 squinted at the dial of his watch.

“Give me a break…it’s two in the morning.”

“That’s right,” Gazeau agreed, “which is why this is the perfect time to leave! Remember the helicopter? The one parked next to the police station in Mongo? It put down ten minutes ago. And guess who went out to meet it…Mr. Citroën.”

The assassin swore, threw the blanket off, and stood. An old Citroën had been following them ever since Mongo. Gazeau saw light glint off one of the stainless steel pistols that Taylor habitually carried, and realized that the weapon had probably been pointing at him moments earlier.

“How do you know this stuff?” the assassin inquired.

“Numo followed Mr. Citroën to the airstrip,” the Libyan answered simply. “But that’s not the worst of it…Al-Sharr was on board the helicopter. I think it’s safe to assume that Mr. Citroën works for him.”

The agent’s pants were draped over the back of a rickety chair. He hurried to pull them on.

“Al-Sharr? The cop?”

“One and the same.”

“We can’t outrun a chopper,” Agent 47 observed, as his shaving kit went into a suitcase.

“No,” Gazeau agreed, “but the helicopter isn’t armed. Sure, they can hose us down with an AK-47, but that’s all.”

The assassin smiled thinly. “Isn’t that enough?”

“It could be a tad uncomfortable,” Gazeau admitted wryly. “But we can shoot back! Choppers are delicate machines. I doubt the pilot will linger.”

“But what about the authorities? Won’t Al-Sharr call for help?”

“Possibly,” Gazeau allowed calmly, as he led his client out through the hotel’s grubby back door. “But I doubt it. Remember, this may be Chad, but bribes are still illegal. The fat man can’t let his superiors know what he’s up to.”

Agent 47 hoped the Libyan was correct, but still had plenty of misgivings as he took his place in the backseat, and Numo guided the Unimog out into the cold Saharan night. It was about a hundred miles to Oum-Chalouba. Where, if The Agency was correct, Al-Fulani had already checked into a hotel and was probably enjoying a good night’s sleep. Would the fat policeman give chase? And would the Moroccan stay in Oum-Chalouba long enough for the assassin to catch up?

There was only one way to find out.

It would have been dangerous to drive very fast, since many traps lay beneath the shifting sands, so hours were spent driving through the tunnel created by the truck’s headlights while waiting for the Eurocopter EC 135 to roar overhead. But nothing happened, and thanks to their early-morning departure-likely coupled with Al-Sharr’s apparent unwillingness to pursue them during the hours of darkness-47, Gazeau, and Numo were able to make good progress. When the sun rose they were on a flat piste, or track, traveling at about 30 mph, as they followed the road toward a clutch of basalt towers that were the only things worth looking at.

Distances could be and often were deceptive, which meant that even though the rocky spires appeared to be relatively close, they were actually many miles away.

The better part of half an hour passed before the outcroppings grew appreciably larger, and the track swung out to the west of them. That was when something appeared in the sky, circled behind the rock columns, and emerged to race straight at them. The EC 135 was no more than fifty feet off the deck and growing larger with each passing second.

“There it is!” Gazeau said grimly. “It looks like the fat bastard finally rolled out of bed.”

Agent 47 tried to watch as the helicopter passed over them, but the cab’s roof blocked his view. His mind went to the weapons stashed in the back, but he knew that neither one of the long guns would be very effective against the chopper.

Then, having turned back, the Eurocopter pulled up next to the left side of the truck and sped along, not 60 feet away from the driver’s-side window. Dust blew backward and boiled into the air. Sous-Prefet Al-Sharr was clearly visible beyond the Plexiglas, and gestured for Gazeau to stop. The Libyan offered a rude gesture by way of a reply, which caused the chopper to pull ahead and enter a wide turn.

“Uh-oh,” Gazeau said. “How much do you want to bet Al-Sharr brought one of his cops along?”

Agent 47 never had an opportunity to reply as the helicopter passed along the truck’s right side and a man opened fire with an AK-47. It took practice to fire an automatic weapon from a moving platform, especially when shooting at a speeding target. And it soon became apparent that the policeman knew what he was doing.

The assassin heard a series of pings as half a dozen 7.62 mm slugs hit the Mog. Then the EC 135 was gone, giving the gunner time to slam a fresh thirty-round magazine into the weapon’s receiver, and prepare for the next pass. Agent 47 was thrown against his shoulder restraint as Gazeau hit the brakes.

“What the hell are you doing?” he demanded. “They’ll shoot the hell out of us!”

“No they won’t,” the Libyan replied. “They expect us to stop.”

Agent 47 heard a familiar clacking sound and turned to discover that Numo had assembled an AK-47 of his own. The Libyan grinned as the Mog skidded to a halt. First the rifle…now this. It seemed that Gazeau kept a small arsenal aboard his truck. Which, given the way things were unfolding, was a pretty good idea.