Hitman: Enemy Within by William C. Dietz

normally would have, the assassin had gone for an after-dinner walk, and chosen to stroll past Al-Fulani’s mansion on the way back to the hotel. A stupid impulse that had very nearly gotten him killed.
    But how had she known he was coming? Had Marla caught a glimpse of him during the last few days?
    Had Rollet sold him out? Or was this latest fiasco the work of the very traitor he was looking for? There was no way to know, and no more time to think about it, as a bullet pinged off the wall to his left and forced him to concentrate on the business at hand. The assassin pushed a man out of the way and ran even faster. A woman went down as he slammed into her, a man swore at him in Arabic, and another gunshot sent people fleeing for cover.
    Sirens had begun to bleat, but they were back in the Ville Nouvelle, where the real German tourist was being tended to and the police were trying to sort out the situation. The man he had modeled himself after—the one he’d previously seen in the lobby of his hotel—had unwittingly paid for 47’s life with his own. The agent knew that he had to lose this particular disguise at the first possible opportunity. Even though he was outnumbered, 47 still had some advantages, not the least of which was the fact that his pursuers had allowed themselves to become strung out. This provided the assassin with an opportunity to lay a quick trap of his own, as one fellow rounded a corner and came to a momentary stop directly beneath a streetlight. The long-barreled Silverballer barked twice. The target staggered and went down.
    That was 47’s cue to take off again, conscious of the fact that reinforcements were on the way and might cut off his line of retreat.
    Ammar began to round the corner, spotted the crumpled body, and pulled back again.
    “He shot Dabir,” the security operative said into the radio. “So be careful.”
    “Keep after him!” Marla’s voice insisted through Ammar’s radio. “Don’t let him out of your sight!”
    “You stay off the radio!” Ammar snapped arrogantly, as another man, Jumah, caught up with him.
    “We’ll take care of this. Return to the mansion.”
    “What’s going on?” Jumah wanted to know, his brown eyes alight with excitement. “Did you take a shot at him?”
    “No, he was gone by the time I arrived,” Ammar temporized. “You take the lead. I need to catch my breath.”
    Jumah, who was the youngest man on the team, and, Ammar knew, eager to establish his own reputation, took off at a sprint. Ammar waited for the telltale sound of a gunshot, and when none was forthcoming, followed in Jumah’s footsteps.
    As he did he glanced back at the body and watched as a pair of preteen boys materialized from the gloom, beginning to rifle through Dabir’s pockets.
    He swore bitterly. Dabir was his brother-in-law, and there would be hell to pay once he got home. Fezwas home to many derbs, or districts, each having its own epicenter with a mosque, bakery, and public fountain. And that’s where Jumah found himself as the street he had been following delivered him into a square that boasted a large fountain.
    But his quarry was nowhere to be seen, and since there were at least four other passageways that led out of the open area, he had no choice but to stop and look around. The security agent turned a full circle, noticed that the square was deserted, and wondered why.
    Jumah was still pondering this when a voice came from behind him. The words were in French.
    “Are you looking for me?”
    Jumah whirled and was in the process of bringing the Jordanian-manufactured 9 mm VIPER up into firing position when he saw that a man wearing a brightly colored shirt had risen from the waters of the fountain and was peering down at him. Even worse was the fact that the stranger was holding two semiautomatic pistols.
    “I’ll take that as a ‘yes,’” the man said evenly, and he fired both weapons. The heavy slugs pounded Jumah to the ground as gunshots echoed