The world went black.
The policeman collapsed, and 47 was left to consider his next move. It was tempting to appropriate the dead man’s uniform, but that would burn time, and might set him up as a target for Numo. So the assassin towed the body into a shed, and was careful to close the door on it before he continued on his way.
Gray buildings lined both sides of the street. What appeared to be barracks and warehouses were off to the left, with a long line of one-story hangars to his right. The numbers on them were still legible. Everywhere 47 looked he saw partially stripped vehicles, heaps of no longer identifiable machinery, and all manner of garbage. There was very little rust, thanks to the dry climate.
Judging from the graffiti on many of the buildings, not to mention the remains of a recent campfire, the assassin got the impression that there were others who knew how to find their way in through the minefields. But those thoughts were interrupted as a bullet chipped the concrete directly in front of him, the flat whip-crack report of a rifle shot echoed between the buildings, and the element of surprise was forever lost.
No sooner had the sound of the shot died away than Marla was on her radio, checking in turn with each of her troops. It took moments to establish the fact the man in the tower was dead, that one of the policemen was missing, and that it had been the second lookout who had had the good fortune to spot the intruder from his rooftop perch, and subsequently opened fire on him.
Unfortunately the bastard missed. But at least he was awake and paying attention. As were all of her men by then.
“Good morning, my dear,” Al-Fulani said, as he ambled over to where the Puissance Treize agent was standing. He had just gotten up, and having spent the night with two of the children, was still dressed in red silk pajamas. “What’s going on?”
“That’s what I’m trying to piece together,” Marla replied quickly. “Somebody is out there, that much is clear, but who? It might be locals, who want to steal our vehicles, but the fact that they aren’t afraid of the police, and the way they killed our lookout, would seem to suggest another possibility.”
“Well, I’m sure you’ll take care of the matter,” the Moroccan said confidently. “All you need to do is keep them at a distance. The plane will be here in three hours at the most.”
It was good advice, and Marla took it to heart as she left to begin her rounds. Here was an opportunity to prove what she was capable of, put the Kaberovs of the world in their place, and secure a lasting reputation within the Puissance Treize. Then, with Al-Fulani’s continued sponsorship, the sky was the limit!
Buoyed by those thoughts Marla started to climb the stairs that led to the building’s flat roof.
“They’re in the maintenance building,” Gazeau said from his perch on the radio tower. It was very exposed up there, some twenty-five feet below where the lookout’s body still hung, and the Libyan knew the Moroccan’s security forces could see him because bullets were pinging the metal around him.
The transmission served to confirm what Agent 47 already suspected as he continued to work his way in toward what they were calling “section six.”
“Good work,” the man known as Taylor replied, his voice little more than a terse whisper. “Now get down off that tower before someone shoots you.” Gazeau was well ahead of him, and was already descending the metal ladder by the time he heard the transmission, but appreciated the sentiment as a bullet tugged at his sleeve.
He heard the man trying to reach Numo by then, as well.
“Can you hear me?”
“Yes,” the Libyan replied. “I can.”
“Do you have any sort of shot at the maintenance building?”
Numo stared through his sight. From his perch on the walkway that circled the elevated water tank, he could look down on the building in question and the two-no, make that three-people standing on the roof.
“Yes, I do.”
“Then go to work on it,” came the instructions. “Bullets will go right through that metal siding. I want you to drive them out into the open. Try not to shoot Al-Fulani however. That’s a no-no.”
It was an extremely cold-blooded order, because there were children inside the maintenance building, and it was clear that the man named Taylor didn’t care. But Numo had children, lots of them, and wasn’t about to shoot someone else’s.
That didn’t apply to the adults on the roof, however, so he said, “Will do,” and chose the first person to kill.
Marla could already feel the sun’s warm promise as she opened the door and stepped out onto the metal roof. Soon-within an hour or so-the surface would be too hot to stand on. She knew that the man on the tower had been forced down onto the ground. But as she turned to take a quick look around, the Puissance Treize agent spotted movement up on the water tower!
“Get down!” she shouted. “There’s a man on the-”
But the warning came too late, as the shooter squeezed the trigger and sent a bullet spinning toward his target. The man nearest to Marla was in the process of turning toward her when the bullet slammed into his torso and threw him down. Then, before anyone could react, another rifle shot was heard and a second man fell.
Marla felt as if she were wading through quicksand as she turned back toward the door, and threw herself into the darkness that lay beyond. There was a loud clang, followed by a report, as a third bullet flattened itself against steel. That was the moment when she realized the truth.
What had been a sanctuary had been transformed into a trap.
A slender, nearly emaciated corporal was in charge of the surviving policemen. Not only was he angry about having lost one of his men, but the whore’s repeated attempts to exert control infuriated him more.
So when the shooting began, he led his men past the cowering children to the building’s back door.
Then, knowing how important good leadership can be, he exited first.
Agent 47 was within fifty feet of the maintenance building by that time, and was just about to check the seemingly unguarded back door when it unexpectedly flew open. And, having prepared himself for close-in fighting, he already had the 12-gauge shotgun in his hands.
As the police rushed the assassin, the pump gun made its characteristic boom-clack, over and over again, as the weapon jumped, and the double-aught buck tore the men apart. Blood sprayed the concrete, the doorway, and inside the building.
Marla was back down on the main floor by that time, and any thoughts she had of charging through the open door were put to rest when she saw blood come spraying in through the portal. So she and the rest of Al-Fulani’s bodyguards opened up on the exit with automatic weapons. That forced the shooter to withdraw-thumbing shells into the shotgun’s receiver as he backed away.
It was Agent 47.
Just as the threat faded Marla heard the roar of an engine. The vehicle sounded like a maddened beast as it came across the taxiway, and a Mog crashed into the huge double doors that guarded the interior, slamming them aside. That was followed by the sound of screeching tires, as the driver stood on the brakes, and a cacophony of screams as terrified children ran in every direction.
Marla might have rallied her surviving troops at that point, but a big fender struck the Puissance Treize agent a glancing blow and threw her into one of the parked vehicles.
That knocked the security chief unconscious.
Agent 47 was forced to step on the dead corporal’s chest in order to enter through the back door.
Four of Al-Fulani’s bodyguards had the presence of mind to respond, but both of the Silverballers were out by that time, and 47 fired them in quick succession. The hapless guards were forced to perform a macabre dance as the heavy.45 caliber slugs slammed into them.
Then more shots were heard—only muffled this time—as the remaining bodyguards attempted to escape via a side door, only to be met by bullets from the sharp-eyed Numo.
Satisfied that the situation was under control, 47 took the time required to reload both handguns before going in search of Al-Fulani.
The agent found the Moroccan cowering in a storage room, where he was shaking like a leaf and had recently shit his lovely silk pajamas.
“Good morning,” the assassin said politely, as the terrified businessman stared up at him. “My name is Taylor, and I have some questions to ask you.”
There weren’t any historians present to record the moment, but the airfield at Quadi Doum had fallen for the second time, and vultures were circling above.