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flat-panel TV. The audio was turned down, which was why the assassin could hear the sound of a child crying. He followed it through the filthy kitchen and into the hall beyond.
    Having passed a bathroom, 47 peered into what was clearly the master bedroom, and saw a half-naked woman stretched out on a messy king-sized bed. Judging from the drug paraphernalia that was scattered about, she was unconscious rather than asleep.A theory that squared with the crying baby, who looked up at the assassin with pleading eyes, and lifted its arms.The Big Kahuna’s child perhaps?
    Yes, 47 thought. Not that it makes much difference.
    Leaving the master bedroom the assassin followed the filthy shag carpeting back to a second bedroom that functioned as an office. Rather than take the time required to examine the items on top of the cluttered desk, or rifle through the three-drawer filing cabinet, Agent 47 focused his attention on a video monitor perched on top of a cheap plant stand. The picture showed part of the driveway outside, but quickly dissolved to a shot of the barn’s body-strewn interior. Then, having held that view for about five seconds, it switched to another scene. All of which reinforced the assassin’s suspicion that images of the barn battle had been stored on a retrieval system of some sort.
    There was a beep from behind, and he whirled—guns at the ready—only to discover that the Big K was receiving a fax.
    His heart continued to beat like a trip-hammer as he searched for the storage unit—perhaps a computer, or a DVD burner. There was a rat’s nest of wiring and dusty black boxes to paw through, but it wasn’t very long before the assassin found the digital video recorder, and freed it from the system. Then, having shoved a mini-Uzi into one of Johnson’s empty holsters, Agent 47 tucked the DVR under his left arm and exited the office. He made his way past the wailing child, entered the living room, and was reaching for the door handle when the dog saved his life.
    As the animal began to yap at the door, 47 threwhimself sideways. He heard the sound of a 12-gauge shotgun a fraction of a second later. The double-aught-buck blew a fist-sized hole through the screen door and the opposite wall, to reveal daylight beyond.
    Having dropped the DVR, the assassin fisted the second Uzi as he came to his feet and glanced through one of the kitchen windows. That was when he spotted Skinner. Judging from the congealed blood on the right side of the biker’s face, and the kerchief tied around his right thigh, he had been wounded during the melee. He was game, though, and determined to exact some sort of revenge for what had taken place.
    “I know you’re in there!” Skinner shouted. “There’s no place to go. Come out and fight!”
    Never one to refuse a polite invitation, 47 threw a greasy frying pan through the window, and as Skinner swung the shotgun in that direction, the assassin had the opportunity he needed. The bullets passed through the screen door and punched half a dozen holes in the biker’s chest. The biker went to his knees as if praying for help, but having received no response, collapsed facedown on the oil-stained dirt.
    The dog yapped excitedly and danced about.
    Agent 47 holstered both machine pistols, went back for the DVR, and saw that a bag of dry dog food had been left on the kitchen counter. The assassin paused long enough to dump the entire contents onto the ground on his way out. The dog liked that, and began eating greedily, as his benefactor returned to the car park.
    The red Mercedes was gone, which probably meant Marla was driving it. Most of the safety glass was missing from the truck’s side windows, so 47 removed the rest, in hopes that people would assume that the windows were rolled down. The bullet holes in the driver’s side door weren’t so easy to disguise, however. All he could do was get in, place the DVR on the seat beside him, and drive away.
    Two bikers lay sprawled in the