The jump was high enough that it took him cleanly over the top. As soon as his feet made contact with the ground, he dropped into a crouch, drew the Silverballer, and waited to see if a second sentry would reveal himself.

Which he did-but not in the way that the agent expected.

Thanks to a piece of very bad luck, the assassin had dropped into the garden only a few feet from the point where one of the guards had stopped to tie a shoelace. And the sentry must have been a very cool customer, because rather than shout for help, he remained silent. So much so that 47 was completely unaware of the fact that he’d been discovered until he heard a faint whisper of fabric, caught a whiff of cheap cologne, and felt the aluminum flashlight slam into his right forearm.

The pain was excruciating, and his pistol was still in the process of falling when a bony fist came around to connect with the assassin’s head. That sent him reeling backward, which was almost a blessing, as it bought 47 some time. Not much, but enough to draw the DOVO with his left hand and flick it open as his shoulder hit the ground.

Certain of victory, the guard jumped onto his victim’s chest and brought the flashlight up over his head. But before the smuggler could bring the weapon down, steel flashed in the moonlight.

Agent 47 saw the spray of black blood before he felt the warm liquid spurting from the cut. The sentry looked surprised. His head wobbled and slumped sideways, and the rest of his limp body followed.

The assassin rolled right, came to his feet in one smooth motion, and bent to wipe the DOVO clean. His right forearm wasn’t broken, but it hurt like hell, and it would be a while before sensation returned to his hand.

That was when he noticed the guard’s baseball hat and put it on, hoping that the piece of headgear might buy him a second or two, should a third sentry happen along.

Agent 47 had just reached down to retrieve the Silverballer when he heard glass shatter and the sound of drunken laughter. The steady thump, thump, thump of bass seemed to echo the beating of 47’s heart as he made his way over to the building and followed the south wall toward the east. The back entrance was locked, so the assassin took a moment to peer through the ancient keyhole, and liked what he saw.

The church’s kitchen appeared to be empty, so 47 was just about to pick the lock, when another sentry rounded the corner. Having caught sight of the ball cap, the man made the natural assumption.

“¡Hey, Jorge, consigue de neuvo a trabajo! ¿O usted tienen gusto de Pedro para golpear su asno con el pie otra vez?”

Agent 47 turned, the moonlight fell on his tattooed face, and the guard grunted his alarm. He was in the process of reaching for his Glock when the Silverballer spoke twice. Thanks to the weapon’s silencer, the reports were no louder than a baby’s cough. The heavy.45 caliber slugs threw the man backward, and dumped him onto the ground.

The assassin took the time necessary to drag the body over into an especially dark shadow before returning to the entrance and attacking the lock, which yielded seconds later. Once inside, he paused for a moment before passing through the kitchen and climbing the stairs beyond. By the time he arrived at a vantage point that allowed him to see into the nave, the entertainment had become quite intimate. Both women were seated astride their clients, both of whom were caught up in the moment, and nearing their respective climaxes.

Until Agent 47 shot Pedro in the head.

The prostitute who was seated on the Colombian’s lap uttered a loud scream as her lover’s head came apart, and continued to produce a series of short emphatic shrieks as her feet hit the floor and she backed away.

That caused the other woman to dismount as well, leaving Manuel seated on a chair, with his pants down around his ankles. The erection that had been so hard the moment before had already begun to disappear. But if the Colombian was embarrassed by his predicament there was no sign of it as he stared up at the man who stood in the choir loft.

“¿Quienes son usted? ¿Y por qué usted mato a Pedro?” he shouted at the intruder.

Agent 47 stared down the barrel of his weapon.

“No era personal. Mato para el dinero. ¿Donde estás sus otros hermanos?”

Manuel was at a disadvantage and knew it. Not only had he been caught with his pants down, his Beretta lay on a table three feet away. So the chances of grabbing it and getting off a shot were slim to none.

He had another weapon at his disposal, however, and when he brought his arms up as if to surrender, he thrust his right hand out in front of him. The sudden motion caused a spring-loaded mechanism strapped to his right forearm to shoot forward, delivering a double-barreled.45 caliber derringer into the palm of his hand.

It all happened so quickly that the tiny pistol had already been fired, and the fat bullet had already whispered something into 47’s left ear by the time the assassin’s brain registered a loud bang. So the reaction was involuntary, rather than conscious, as the Silverballer fired in response.

Manuel had triggered a second and final shot by that time, but the slug went into the ceiling as both the Colombian and his chair went over backward. The combination produced a loud crash as both women, still shrieking, backed toward the front door.

Agent 47 said, “¡Parada!” And they stopped.

It took the better part of a nerve-wracking half hour to lock the prostitutes into a storage room and search the building for explosives. Strangely, given the crime family’s reputation for blowing things up, there wasn’t so much as a firecracker to be found inside the church. And having been forced to kill Manuel, there was no one left to question. Not until the missing Otero brothers returned.

Which meant all 47 could do was dump the bodies into the cellar, collect the Walther from the olive grove, and position the BMW for a quick getaway. He parked it just inside the main door, where it wouldn’t be seen.

Those chores kept the assassin busy for a while, but they were followed by a long stretch of inactivity, and Agent 47 soon began to tire. By the time three hours had passed, it was clear that José and Carlos were on something more substantial than a beer run. Still, having no idea what the brothers were doing, or how long it might take, the assassin was forced not only to stay awake, but to keep his wits about him as well.

He called Diana, who would be monitoring the situation back in Fez, but there was nothing to indicate that the brothers were there, either. Which was a relief, though it brought him no closer to discovering their whereabouts.

So 47 waited, and waited, and when the first blush of dawn appeared in the east he was still waiting. Another call to Diana yielded no useful information. The Agency had no idea where José and Carlos were—or what the brothers were up to.

By now, however, he had to admit to the very real possibility that the Colombians were in Fez, perhaps even planting bombs all around the main plaza, and wouldn’t be back until Al-Fulani was dead. Yet there was only one of him, and while The Agency had other assets, none were close enough to intervene prior to the coming ceremony.

Rather than remain in the nave, where his field of vision was limited, 47 took his binoculars, the Walther WA 2000, and a thermos of hot coffee scrounged from the kitchen up into the blood-spattered bell tower. The dead sentry’s blood had attracted flies, which were a constant annoyance, but the vantage point was excellent-one that provided a view of the highway that fronted the church, the olive grove he had passed through the night before, and the hills to the east.

The cool breezes that blew down from the north, combined with the opportunity to examine the surrounding terrain, were sufficient to keep the assassin occupied for a while. But shortly after he sat down on the white plastic chair, his eyelids grew heavy, and his mind began to drift.