When he awoke, four minutes later, it was to a sense of fear, and pangs of guilt.

A cup of black coffee helped keep him awake for a while, and he observed the passage of an old man and a flock of bawling goats. But the siren call of the chair and the warmth of the morning sun were too much to resist, and even 47 eventually had to give in to sheer fatigue.

The next time he awoke it was to the sound of a bleating siren.

He was already reaching for his gun as he came to his feet. But the ambulance blew past as it continued on its way toward Fez.

Agent 47 glanced at his watch and realized that while more than three hours had elapsed, the Otero brothers had yet to return. More than ever, he was certain they were in Fez, preparing to assassinate Al-Fulani. The Agency’s suits would be pissed off, but such was life, and there wasn’t much he could do about it.

And besides, José and Carlos would return to the church sooner or later. Each of them was worth $250,000, which when added to the kills he had already pulled off, would constitute a solid payday.

So Agent 47 went down to scrounge some food from the kitchen, where he brewed a fresh pot of coffee before returning to his post.

Then, somewhat refreshed, he continued his vigil. Finally, when the shadows cast by the tombstones had grown into long, thin fingers, and the sun was hanging low in the western sky, the Otero brothers returned.

But not in the fashion 47 expected them to. Hundreds of trucks had passed his vantage point during the day, rumbling along the highway, so the fuel tanker was of little interest until the rig began to slow.

It turned onto the pull-through driveway that fronted the church, where it produced a loud blat of sound as the driver braked to a stop.

That was the moment when 47 understood why there weren’t any bomb-making materials in the church. And why José and Carlos had been gone for so long. They had been sent to buy—or steal—a tanker truck loaded with petrol. Which, when delivered in the proper manner, would have enough explosive power to kill Al-Fulani and everyone else in his vicinity! Unfortunately for the Colombians, the process of acquiring the tanker must have taken longer than expected and left them with barely enough time to carry out the hit.

Had José and Carlos been trying to raise their dead brothers by phone? Most likely, and having failed to do so, they were probably hoping that Pedro and Manuel would come running out. Speed would be of the essence, if they were to enter Fez on time.

But as José stepped on the clutch and threw the big rig into neutral, 47 fired. Though dead-on, insofar as the assassin could tell, the true purpose of the first bullet was to blow the truck’s windshield out, thereby exposing the man behind the wheel to a follow-up shot. And the strategy worked perfectly, because the avalanche of safety glass was still falling when the second 7.62 mm slug struck José square in the face. The Colombian probably was already dead, but it paid to make sure, especially at long range.

The sole surviving Otero reacted instantly. Rather than bail out of the truck and expose himself to fire the way the assassin wanted him to, Carlos threw himself across his dead brother’s body and opened the door. That decision saved the Colombian’s life as a bullet thumped into the passenger seat.

Then, with a strength born of desperation, Carlos shoved José out onto the gravel driveway. It took some effort to clamber over the gearshift, but the Colombian made it, and was already behind the wheel by the time the inside rearview mirror shattered. Carlos swore bitterly, as he slammed the truck into gear, and put his foot on the accelerator.

Agent 47 frowned as the tanker began to pull away. Was the Colombian simply trying to escape? Or head into Fez and complete the contract? He took a shot at one of the truck’s tires, and had the satisfaction of seeing it go flat. But the rig had more tires, plenty of them, and kept right on going as Carlos sounded the horn and bullied his way out onto the two-lane highway.

Plumes of dark blue smoke jetted up out of the tanker’s twin stacks, and the engine roared as 47 put a bullet into the silvery fuel tank. But, rather than the massive explosion the assassin was hoping for, there was no visible reaction as the double-hulled safety tank managed to absorb the 7.62 mm round.

So Agent 47 still had to prevent the assassination, and he could score an additional quarter-million, so he threw the rifle into the open guitar case, snapped it closed, and slipped the strap over his head.

Then, rather than descend the ladder normally used to reach the top of the tower, 47 slid down the bell rope into the vestibule below. That caused the bell to toll, and it was still ringing as the assassin entered the nave. He hopped on to the BMW, which was parked just inside the main entrance. He didn’t want to waste the time it would take to don the helmet, which clattered as it hit the floor. The engine roared as it came to life, and there was a solid thump as the front wheel made contact with the partially opened door.

Then the way was clear as 47 opened the throttle and stood on the pegs while the BMW flew through the air. The big bike hit the pathway hard, but kept right on going, as the agent skidded onto the driveway and sent a wave of gravel flying toward the wall. There was a momentary screech as the Beemer hit the pavement, followed by a loud roar as the assassin twisted the throttle.

Off in the distance, the fueler vanished into a dip, so 47 put his head down and took up the chase.

He eyed the road ahead, swerved into the left lane in order to pass a heavily loaded flatbed truck, and went back again to avoid a head-on collision with a red sedan. Then he was in the dip-with the wind pressing against his face. By that time the assassin was sorry he had left the helmet behind. But there was nothing he could do but let the tears stream back along both sides of his face and tough it out.

Meanwhile, half a mile up the highway, Carlos Otero was experiencing a similar problem, as a wall of wind pushed in through the shattered windshield. Fortunately both of the truck’s front tires were intact, but one of the right-side duals had been punctured. By a bullet? Yes, the Colombian thought so. Which meant the tire was tearing itself apart, and the Colombian was forced to grip the huge ivory-colored steering wheel with both hands in order to keep the rig on the road.

That was when Carlos glanced at the outside rearview mirror, saw the motorcycle appear out of the dip behind him, and knew someone was after him. Not the police, who would have converged on the fueler in force, but by a lobo solitario, who—for reasons unknown—was determined to stop him.

But what about Pedro and Manuel? Where were they?

Dead, the Colombian concluded soberly, just like José.

Carlos downshifted to take some speed off the juggernaut, gave the van in front of him a blast from the air horn, and pulled out to pass. The tanker truck’s right flank barely brushed the smaller vehicle, but that alone was enough to send the van flying off the road and into the ditch, as Carlos jerked the wheel to the right.

Agent 47 blew past the wreck as the distance between the BMW and the tanker began to close. It was his intention to pull up alongside, shoot the surviving Otero brother in the head, and let the big rig go wherever it wanted. But that plan was easy for his prey to anticipate.

As 47 pulled out onto the centerline and opened the BMW’s throttle, the Colombian countered by swinging left. The trailer came within inches of swatting the bike off the road as a bus appeared up ahead and the assassin was forced to drop back behind the smoke-belching behemoth.

Carlos smiled thinly as the pursuer was forced to eat exhaust, and he took a moment to consider his options.