Hitman: Enemy Within by William C. Dietz Page A

between the surrounding buildings, and the VIPER skittered away.
    “Jumah?”A male voice inquired from one of the dead man’s pockets. “What’s going on?”
    Agent 47 returned one Silverballer to its holster, jumped down onto the cobblestones, and carried out a quick search of Jumah’s body. Having appropriated the walkie-talkie, the assassin fled. More sirens had joined the chorus as Ammar entered the empty square. The Moroccan saw Jumah and felt a momentary pang of guilt, knowing it could have been his body lying there. Then, having detected a flicker of movement on the far side of the square, Ammar ran over to the fountain. Careful to keep his head down, he began to circle it. Having lost two of his men, it was clear that Fulani’s sharmuta was correct. The European was dangerous.
    “Ammar?Fahd? Answer me!” The whore’s voice came over the radio, thick with fear. But Ammar knew the man they were chasing must have taken Jumah’s radio, so he sent one last message to Fahd, ordering him to maintain radio silence. A strategy that was likely to work both for and against them, to the extent that it kept Ammar and Fahd from coordinating their movements. To hell with the woman.
    Having followed his prey’s watery trail into a narrow passageway, Ammar felt cautiously hopeful. The ground was dry, and the infidel was wet, which meant Ammar had tracks that were easy to follow, at least temporarily. The wet prints led him up a long flight of stairs and under a two-hundred-year-old arch before they suddenly disappeared.
    That brought the security agent to a cautious halt. He was examining the well-lit patch of ground in front of him when a fiber-wire noose dropped over his head and began to tighten around his neck. Ammar dropped his gun and brought his hands up—but it was too late. He was jerked off his feet. The Moroccan attempted to scream, but discovered that he couldn’t.
    His legs kicked uselessly in the air.
    After a few moments, the kicking stopped.
    * * *
    Time was of the essence.
    47’s sandals made a wet slapping sound as they hit the pavement, and his damp clothes began to rub his skin raw as the assassin followed a narrow street toward the tanner’s quarter—an ancient section of the city where animal skins were left to soak in vats of dye before being hung out to dry. Lights had been rigged so that tourists could view the scene at night, and the air was heavy with the foul odor of the pigeon droppings that were used to make the leather more pliable.
    And that’s where Fahd was waiting.
    While the operative was at least thirty pounds overweight, Fahd was smart and knewFez like the back of his hand. Knowing which way Dabir’s killer was headed, and being well aware of his own physical limitations, the Moroccan had cut over to a main street, hailed a cab, and arrived outside the souk Dabbaghin a few minutes later.
    Thus, the moment Agent 47 appeared on the far side of the craterlike vats, Fahd began to fire. One or two of his VIPER’s 9 mm slugs may have struck the assassin, but from what Fahd could tell neither did any real damage. Either way, Fahd had emptied his pistol and was busy fumbling for a second clip when the assassin fired in return.
    What felt like a sledgehammer struck Fahd’s shoulder, snatched the fat man off his feet, and dumped him into a vat full of bluedye. The liquid felt cold as it closed over his head and set fire to his wounded shoulder.
    He struggled to right himself, and the moment that the Moroccan’s feet made contact with the bottom of the vat, he pushed himself back up. Fahd spluttered as he broke the surface, opened his eyes, and immediately wished he hadn’t as he found himself looking into the barrel of a shiny gun. There was a flash of light, and Fahd was gone.
    The police arrived a few minutes later, but the mysterious European had disappeared, leaving four bodies in his wake. All of whom were tied to Ali bin Ahmed bin Saleh Al-Fulani; a man who gave generously to