Originally, back at the church, his only motivation had been to escape what seemed like certain death. But now, as darkness began to fall, another possibility occurred to him.

The music festival would begin soon, and the motorcyclist was powerless to stop him from entering Fez. He would be even more powerless as they approached the city, and the roads narrowed.

So why not complete the hit, avenge his brothers, and collect the second half of the fee that the Tumaco cartel had promised them?

It was a good plan, a macho plan, and the thought pleased him.

The air horn blared, a car veered onto the shoulder in order to escape the oncoming monster, and the outskirts of Fez appeared ahead.

Agent 47 felt a grim sense of satisfaction as city lights appeared in the distance. The tanker was about to hit the usual traffic jam. Once it did, the assassin would be able to pull up alongside the truck and empty the Silverballer into the cab.

That would leave plenty of time for a hot shower, a decent dinner, and a full night’s sleep.

But to his astonishment, there was no traffic jam, because that particular access road had been set aside for official use during the music festival. A fact that Manuel Otero must have been aware of when he chose the route.

There were wooden barricades, however, which shattered into a thousand pieces as the truck’s massive bumper struck them, and half a dozen uniformed policemen sprinted to get out of the way.

Pieces of debris were still falling as 47 roared through what had been a checkpoint, and a chunk of wood struck his shoulder a glancing blow. The impact hurt, but the leather jacket offered some protection as the Colombian upshifted, and the truck accelerated. But if the oncoming traffic along the open road had provided Carlos with an advantage, Agent 47 benefited here, since there was no traffic to worry about. That allowed the assassin to pull out, twist the throttle, and surge forward.

The Colombian saw the move in the truck’s huge side-view mirror and swerved to block it. But with no traffic to worry about, and a nimble bike, 47 had plenty of room to maneuver.

So he guided the BMW to the left, and was just about to reach for the Silverballer with his right hand when he realized he couldn’t do so without releasing the throttle! And having left the long-slide back in the apartment, there was no other weapon at his disposal. That forced Agent 47 to drop back and release the throttle long enough to pull the.45 and transfer the weapon to his left hand before resuming the chase, a task made more difficult by the fact that he could no longer operate the clutch or shift gears.

Both the tractor-trailer and the motorcycle had passed through the open gate, and were well within Fez by that time. As another checkpoint appeared up ahead, the police opened fire. They had been warned by radio and had realized what could happen if 8,000 gallons of gasoline were detonated within the city’s walls. But their puny service pistols and a few assault rifles weren’t enough to stop more than 90,000 pounds of rolling metal. Thanks to the mirror, 47 could see Carlos laughing into the wind as bullets pinged around him.

The laugh was cut short as the BMW appeared next to the cab; the tattooed man pointed his semiautomatic pistol upward and began to fire. Both vehicles were still in motion, so precision was impossible, but there were nine rounds in the extended clip and 47 planned to use all of them.

Carlos uttered an involuntary grunt of pain as a.45 caliber slug punched a hole in the driver’s side door and buried itself in his left thigh. But the motorcycle rider was forced to back off as the Colombian stuck his 9 mm Beretta out through the window and triggered three rounds.

The truck was becoming increasingly hard to control, especially with the missing tire, and the street was beginning to narrow as it wound its way toward the plaza. It was time for him to downshift.

That forced the Colombian to bring his arm back inside and park the pistol on his lap. There were people now, lots of people, all streaming toward the public square. There were screams and curses as they scattered. Or tried to, but there was a sickening thump as one man fell, and the big wheels rolled him under.

Agent 47 dropped back, and brought the Beemer up next to the passenger side door, where he stood on the BMW’s pegs. Then, by bringing his right foot up onto the seat and pushing off, he was able to launch himself at the tanker.

The BMW fell away, hit a curb, and flipped end-over-end before crashing onto the pavement and sliding for another thirty feet.

Meanwhile, with both feet on the step, and having secured a grip on an external grab bar, Agent 47 fired through the open window.

Carlos jerked his head back as the bullet removed most of his nose, blood sprayed the steering wheel, and blew back into his face. Having heard the unsilenced report, the Colombian realized that the man with the gun was off to the right, and was fumbling for the Beretta as he turned to look.

Most of the Colombian’s face was obscured by a bloody mask, but his eyes were visible, and it was during the brief moment that they were looking at each other when 47 pulled the trigger. Then, certain that the job was done, he jumped clear.

Having been left to its own devices, the driverless tractor-trailer rig missed an important curve and sent music lovers running for their lives as the Colombian’s lifeless hands and heavy foot sent the fueler racing toward a spot where a block of substandard apartments had been torn down to make way for what the government promised would be something better.

There was a loud crash as the truck broke through the plywood panels erected to protect the construction site, followed by a brief moment of silence as the tractor-trailer rig sailed out over the pit, and a resounding BOOM! as the big gas tank finally exploded.

The opening ceremonies had just gotten under way, and Marla was on the stage with Al-Fulani when they heard the explosion and saw a huge fireball rise over the buildings to the north.

A chorus of discordant sirens began to bleat a few moments later, the music festival came to an abrupt end, and Al-Fulani was still alive.

It wasn’t until the next morning, when some of the facts surrounding the explosion appeared in the news, that the true nature of what had occurred became clear. A group of Colombians, all of whom were wanted for murder, had stolen a tanker filled with petrol. And given their histories—not to mention the fact that they were in the country illegally—it was clear that they had been planning an attack on the music festival. A political act, according to some accounts, but Marla and Al-Fulani knew better. The Otero brothers were well known to the Puissance Treize.

Of more interest to Marla was the man on the motorcycle who, according to most reports, was heavily tattooed. She had seen such a man the day before, had passed within a few feet of him, and never suspected a thing.

The air was warm out on Al-Fulani’s well-screened terrace, but the Puissance Treize agent felt a chill run down her spine, and knew why. It appeared that Agent 47 had orders to take Al-Fulani alive. It was her job to stop him, and she wasn’t certain she could.

“It’s time to come inside,” Al-Fulani called, as he appeared in the doorway of his darkened bedroom. “We’re ready!” A child could be heard sobbing somewhere behind him.

Marla swore silently as she stood, and let the white robe fall to the floor. There were moments when she would have been perfectly happy to shoot Al-Fulani herself. But he was the only person who stood between her and Mrs. Kaberov’s wrath. Which meant that the Puissance Treize had to do whatever the Moroccan wanted her to.