Hitman: Enemy Within by William C. Dietz Page A

wooden deck. Her name was Grace Beasley, and wisps of gray hair stuck out from under the blue rain hat her dead husband liked to wear while golfing. Her eyes were like chips of turquoise mounted in sockets of wrinkled skin. A plaid shirt and a pair of black pants completed her outfit.
    “I use regular fertilizer,” Mrs. Beasley admitted. “But the key is to pinch off the spent blooms. That makes them flower again.”
    “Well, it certainly works,” 47 said, admiringly. “By the way, might I have a drink of water? I should have brought some, but I forgot, and it’s a long ways back to the dock.”
    The request seemed innocent enough, so Mrs. Beasley said, “Yes, of course. I’ll be right back.” She stepped through a sliding glass door that led into a comfortably furnished living room and the small galley-style kitchen beyond.
    A moment later he found her there, removing a bottle of chilled water from her refrigerator. A large hand closed over mouth. Mrs. Beasley tried to scream, felt something bite her neck, and instantly began to fall. Agent 47 caught the unconscious woman and carried her into the single bedroom, where he laid her out on the neatly made bed. To make doubly sure that she would remain immobilized for the necessary length of time, he bound her wrists and ankles with some of her own nylons. Confident that the elderly woman wasn’t about to go anywhere, he set about his real task, which was to enter the neighboring houseboat and have a chat with its owner.
    A task that would be easier said than done, he thought, since his target was an assassin herself, and was sure to have a variety of security measures in place.Just as he would. So 47 turned out the lights in the living room, but left everything else asit was, knowing that the slightest deviation from the way the old lady normally did things could attract attention. First, he subtly adjusted the position of what had once been Mr. Beasley’s favorite chair, placing it where someone would have to actually press their nose against the glass in order to see him as he settled back to wait.
    Finally, after an hour had passed, the assassin was reasonably certain of two things. The first was that the target didn’t have any security guards to protect her. His position allowed him a reasonably clear view of the houseboat and the surrounding area, and even the most skilled surveillance would have given some sign of their presence, particularly within the small, close-knit floating community. There were no cameras, either. And that made sense, given her relatively low status within the Puissance Treize organization.
    Second, based on the time of day and the complete lack of movement across the way, the assassin felt sure that the target wasn’t home. This was something he could have confirmed simply by venturing out to check the parking lot, but he didn’t want to take the chance, since one of the residents might see him exiting the old lady’s home.
    So all he could do waswait for the target to return, and make his move during the brief moment when her front door would be unlocked and she would least expect an attack. Having locked the gate behind her, and being on her own home ground, the target would feel safe.
    Having formulated his plan, he checked to ensure that the houseboat’s front door would open smoothly. TheWhitehall was safely stashed behind Mrs. Beasley’s boat, out of sight. All that was left was the waiting.
    The payoff came forty-five minutes later, when the target appeared on the dock, carrying two bags of groceries. She placed one of them on the bench next to the front door, slid the key into the lock, and gave it a turn to the right. There was a snicking sound as the deadbolt slid to one side; she turned the knob, and gave the door a gentle push. The telltale beep of a burglar alarm could be heard from the kitchen. That meant she had only a few moments in which to enter a PIN number, or the security company would call to check on