Hitman: Enemy Within Read Online Free PDF Page B

car in the United States—so long as they don’t mind living in a crummy flat.
    The DO NOT DISTURB sign was still dangling from the doorknob, but that didn’t mean much, so 47
    checked the nearly invisible thread that had been spit-welded across the doorjamb. It was still there.A good sign. But knowing how dangerous assumptions could be, the assassin took the extra precaution of slipping his right hand into the partially open gym bag that dangled from his right shoulder. Then, with a firm grip on one of the Uzis, he turned the key.
    It was cool inside the dimly lit room, and a quick check of the bathroom was sufficient to confirm what Agent 47 had already sensed, that everything was the way he had left it. Duty demanded that he upload a full report to The Agency, but he’d been looking forward to a shower, so he decided that the management types could wait for a while. It felt good to shuck the dirty clothing and step under the shower. Cognizant of how many people he had killed in bathrooms, he kept a .45
    caliber Silverballer within easy reach, knowing the water wouldn’t damage the stainless steel weapon. But no one attacked the agent as the stream of hot water pummeled his lean body, found the partially open gunshot wound, and caused it to sting. He just stood there for a while, thinking about Marla, before turning the water off and stepping out of the tub. The bathmat was too small, but managed to absorb at least some of the water that ran down off his legs, as 47 ran a scratchy towel over his body. Who was the woman with the Walther?he wondered. And how did she know about the smack?
    Then it was time to retrieve his first-aid kit and examine the flesh wound in the bathroom mirror before squirting antiseptic ointment onto it. A self-adhesive bandage went on over that. There had been other cuts, abrasions, and puncture wounds over the years, and many of the scars were visible. With that part of his regimen completed, and clad only in white boxer shorts, 47 went back to work. The Blackbird Inn didn’t offer Internet access, but it didn’t matter, since all of the agent’s interactions with The Agency were handled via scrambled and encrypted satellite uplinks. So it was a simple matter to transfer the surveillance video over to his laptop, connect the computer to his cell phone, and hit a few keys. He heard a series of tones, followed by a momentary burst of static, before Diana’s well-modulated voice came over the line.
    The assassin had never seen the woman whose voice he heard, but imagined her to be attractive. There had been times— hard times—when Diana had been his only link to the possibility of salvation. Like one of the guardian angels that Father Vittorio spoke of, who could reach down from the heavens and pluck a soul to safety. And for that reason he liked the sound of her voice.
    “Good evening, 47,” Diana said evenly. “How did it go?”
    “Poorly,” the assassin replied honestly. “The target was terminated, but only after I was fingered, and the entire setup was blown.”
    “I’m sorry to hear that,” Diana said sympathetically. “Are you all right?”
    “Couldn’t be better,” the agent lied. “Stand by for a digital upload. The whole affair was captured on surveillance video, including footage of the woman who blew my cover.”
    “We’re ready,” Diana said. “Send us what you have.”
    So he typed a command into the laptop, waited for the upload to complete itself, and forced himself to sever the link. Doing so always left him feeling cut off, but such was his fate, and it was shared by anyone who practiced his trade.
    Time to take out the trash, and he was hungry, so he spent the next few minutes getting ready. Agent 47
    began the process by donning a crisp white shirt, a red silk tie, and a pair of pants prior to slipping his arms into a two-gun shoulder-holster rig. A suit jacket went on over that, which, thanks to the efforts of his English tailor, effectively hid the