William Dietz - Hitman - Enemy Within

“In return for information about The Agency’s operations,” 47 said, his voice thick with disgust. “But how can I be sure that you’re telling me the truth? How do I know you’re not setting him up as a patsy?”

“I swear it before Allah,” Al-Fulani said sanctimoniously.

Agent 47 nodded. There was no way to be absolutely sure, of course, but the accusation had the ring of truth to it. So the agent turned to face the children.

“Okay, boys and girls, he belongs to you. You can set the bastard free, if you want—or slice him into a hundred pieces. Whichever you prefer.”

At that point he motioned to Numo, and they headed for the stairs.

“ Nooooo!” Al-Fulani protested. “You gave me your word!” But the two men were soon lost to sight.

The Moroccan began to scream. It lasted for a long time.

The plane was half an hour late.

It was little more than a dot at first, but gradually grew larger, and eventually turned into a war-weary C-27/G222 Spartan that, judging from its camouflage paint job and blacked-out markings, had once been the property of Italy’s air force. The twin-engined turboprop circled Quadi Doum twice as if the pilot were looking for signs of danger.

The lookout’s body had been replaced by a white towel that flapped in the breeze, and functioned as a wind sock. All three of the bodies had been removed from the maintenance building’s roof, Al-Fulani’s vehicles had been driven out onto the taxiway, and the children were instructed to wave as the transport roared over them.

Finally, satisfied that things were as they should be, the pilot turned back toward the north.

His name was Bob Preston. He was wearing a faded New York Yankees baseball cap over military-short black hair, and sported a stylish pair of Ray-Ban sunglasses. The ex-air force officer’s brown skin had proven to be an asset in Africa, as was his ability to speak French, Arabic, and a trade language called Lingala. But even with those advantages, running a one-plane transport service was a financial challenge.

Which was why Preston had been forced to supplement his regular income with jobs he and the copilot Evan Franks referred to as “specials.” Meaning the sort of low-altitude, terrain-hugging flights that were required in order to deliver—or retrieve—shipments of weapons or other cargo to airstrips that barely deserved the title, often under trying circumstances, with people shooting at them.

But this trip looked like a piece of cake as Preston put the starboard wing down and turned into the wind. According to information available on the Internet, the original airstrip was nearly 10,000 feet long, which was a whole lot more than the Spartan would require, since the plane was designed to take off and land on short 1,500-foot runways.

No, the problem—if any—would stem from the condition of the strip. Many years had passed since maintenance had been performed on the metal mesh the Libyans had laid down. Which meant a lot of sand had been blown over the top of it, and that raised the very real possibility that the C-27’s nose gear would hit a drift, bringing the plane to a calamitous halt.

Still, that was why they paid him the big bucks. And it was the chance Preston would have to take if he wanted to collect the rest of the $10,000 that Al-Fulani had promised to pay. Plus, there were the orphans to consider.

Mercenary though he was, the pilot had a soft spot in his heart for children. And despite his other, more questionable dealings, Mr. Al-Fulani still took the time to remove refugee children from truly horrible situations, and place them in his orphanage in Fez. Where, based on what the Moroccan had told him, they were well cared for.

So the key was to land in the shortest distance possible, thereby reducing the odds of hitting deep sand.

The gear went down with a palpable thump, the ground came up fast, and Franks began to pray out loud-a practice Preston found objectionable back during the early days of their relationship. He had since come to not only accept it, but take a certain amount of comfort from it. They were alive, in spite of the many forces that had conspired to kill them. He figured that meant help was coming from somewhere.

In any case, the prayer worked. Or perhaps it was Preston’s skill that brought the plane in for a perfect landing in spite of the sand that billowed up around them. The engines roared in protest as the props went into reverse, the hull rattled as if it were about to come apart, and the C-27 screeched to a shuddering stop. Then, happy to have kept his livelihood in one piece, Preston guided the plane over toward the point where his passengers were waiting.

Agent 47 stood, briefcase in hand, as the transport taxied up to a point about a hundred feet away and came to a stop. The engines made a loud whining sound as they wound down, a door opened just aft of the cockpit on the port side of the fuselage, and a set of fold-down steps appeared.

The assassin took that as his cue to approach the plane. Numo was right behind him. The cargo plane had been chartered by Al-Fulani, which might present a problem. But thanks to the briefcase full of money that 47 had recovered from the businessman’s Land Rover, there was a reasonably good chance that the person in charge would be willing to switch employers.

If not, they would be forced to cooperate, or, if absolutely necessary, the assassin could make an attempt to fly the C-27 himself. Although he hadn’t logged any hours on a Spartan, and really didn’t want to push his luck.

He had tried to contact The Agency to tell them what he had learned, but something was interfering with his transmission. Gazeau explained that it was a problem most travelers experienced in this part of the desert, but regardless of the reason, it lent new urgency to their trip back to civilization.

So the operative had a smile on his face as he approached the stairs and boarded the plane.

“Hello!” he said engagingly, as he arrived on the flight deck. “My name’s Taylor—and this is Numo. There’s been a change of plans. I hope that’s okay.”

Preston frowned. There was something different about the man who was standing in front of him. Something dangerous. And whenever he heard the words “change of plans” come out of a client’s mouth, trouble usually followed. Still, it’s often better to go with the flow, so the pilot would wait and see.

“Glad to meet you,” the pilot responded warily. “My name is Preston. Bob Preston. And the man who’s sitting in the cockpit, when he should be outside inspecting the landing gear, is my copilot, Evan Franks.”

“Nice to meet you,” Franks said, as he pushed by. He had reddish hair, lots of freckles, and a farm-boy grin. “Don’t worry-his bark is worse than his bite.”

Agent 47 smiled as the copilot exited the ship.

“What sort of changes did you have in mind?” Preston inquired suspiciously. “And where is Mr. Fulani?”

“He was…delayed,” 47 responded noncommittally, as he eyed the Browning 9 mm that dangled under the pilot’s left arm, “and won’t be able to join us. But I need transportation to Sicily, which, if I’m not mistaken, is well within the range of your plane.”

“Yeah, but that wasn’t part of the deal,” Preston objected sourly. “We were hired to fly to Fez. Six up front-with six on delivery.” That was two-thousand more than Al-Fulani had agreed to, but Preston saw no harm in amping the amount, just in case the man named Taylor was good for it.

“So we owe you six,” the assassin said agreeably, as he turned to place the briefcase on a fold-down table. The latches made serial clicking sounds as they were released. “Here’s six large,” he said, as he turned to offer the pilot a sheaf of currency. “And if you’ll fly me to Sicily, I’ll pay you six more on top of it. Agreed?”