No, the problem—if any—would stem from the condition of the strip. Many years had passed since maintenance had been performed on the metal mesh the Libyans had laid down. Which meant a lot of sand had been blown over the top of it, and that raised the very real possibility that the C-27’s nose gear would hit a drift, bringing the plane to a calamitous halt.

Still, that was why they paid him the big bucks. And it was the chance Preston would have to take if he wanted to collect the rest of the $10,000 that Al-Fulani had promised to pay. Plus, there were the orphans to consider.

Mercenary though he was, the pilot had a soft spot in his heart for children. And despite his other, more questionable dealings, Mr. Al-Fulani still took the time to remove refugee children from truly horrible situations, and place them in his orphanage in Fez. Where, based on what the Moroccan had told him, they were well cared for.

So the key was to land in the shortest distance possible, thereby reducing the odds of hitting deep sand.

The gear went down with a palpable thump, the ground came up fast, and Franks began to pray out loud-a practice Preston found objectionable back during the early days of their relationship. He had since come to not only accept it, but take a certain amount of comfort from it. They were alive, in spite of the many forces that had conspired to kill them. He figured that meant help was coming from somewhere.

In any case, the prayer worked. Or perhaps it was Preston’s skill that brought the plane in for a perfect landing in spite of the sand that billowed up around them. The engines roared in protest as the props went into reverse, the hull rattled as if it were about to come apart, and the C-27 screeched to a shuddering stop. Then, happy to have kept his livelihood in one piece, Preston guided the plane over toward the point where his passengers were waiting.

Agent 47 stood, briefcase in hand, as the transport taxied up to a point about a hundred feet away and came to a stop. The engines made a loud whining sound as they wound down, a door opened just aft of the cockpit on the port side of the fuselage, and a set of fold-down steps appeared.

The assassin took that as his cue to approach the plane. Numo was right behind him. The cargo plane had been chartered by Al-Fulani, which might present a problem. But thanks to the briefcase full of money that 47 had recovered from the businessman’s Land Rover, there was a reasonably good chance that the person in charge would be willing to switch employers.

If not, they would be forced to cooperate, or, if absolutely necessary, the assassin could make an attempt to fly the C-27 himself. Although he hadn’t logged any hours on a Spartan, and really didn’t want to push his luck.

He had tried to contact The Agency to tell them what he had learned, but something was interfering with his transmission. Gazeau explained that it was a problem most travelers experienced in this part of the desert, but regardless of the reason, it lent new urgency to their trip back to civilization.

So the operative had a smile on his face as he approached the stairs and boarded the plane.

“Hello!” he said engagingly, as he arrived on the flight deck. “My name’s Taylor—and this is Numo. There’s been a change of plans. I hope that’s okay.”

Preston frowned. There was something different about the man who was standing in front of him. Something dangerous. And whenever he heard the words “change of plans” come out of a client’s mouth, trouble usually followed. Still, it’s often better to go with the flow, so the pilot would wait and see.

“Glad to meet you,” the pilot responded warily. “My name is Preston. Bob Preston. And the man who’s sitting in the cockpit, when he should be outside inspecting the landing gear, is my copilot, Evan Franks.”

“Nice to meet you,” Franks said, as he pushed by. He had reddish hair, lots of freckles, and a farm-boy grin. “Don’t worry-his bark is worse than his bite.”

Agent 47 smiled as the copilot exited the ship.

“What sort of changes did you have in mind?” Preston inquired suspiciously. “And where is Mr. Fulani?”

“He was…delayed,” 47 responded noncommittally, as he eyed the Browning 9 mm that dangled under the pilot’s left arm, “and won’t be able to join us. But I need transportation to Sicily, which, if I’m not mistaken, is well within the range of your plane.”

“Yeah, but that wasn’t part of the deal,” Preston objected sourly. “We were hired to fly to Fez. Six up front-with six on delivery.” That was two-thousand more than Al-Fulani had agreed to, but Preston saw no harm in amping the amount, just in case the man named Taylor was good for it.

“So we owe you six,” the assassin said agreeably, as he turned to place the briefcase on a fold-down table. The latches made serial clicking sounds as they were released. “Here’s six large,” he said, as he turned to offer the pilot a sheaf of currency. “And if you’ll fly me to Sicily, I’ll pay you six more on top of it. Agreed?”

Preston accepted the money, thumbed the stack to make sure there weren’t any blanks in the middle, and tucked the wad away.

“What about the children?” the pilot wanted to know. “Surely you don’t plan to leave them here?”

In all truth, the question of what would become of the children hadn’t even crossed 47’s mind. But seeing the look of concern on Preston’s face, the operative was quick to respond.

“No, of course not,” the assassin replied glibly. “That’s the whole point of going to Sicily. There’s an orphanage that’s ready to take them.”

Preston smiled. He had very white teeth.

“All right then!” the American said enthusiastically. “What are we waiting for? Let’s load the kids and get the hell out of here! Chances are my lazy copilot forgot to file a flight plan. So it would be best if we weren’t caught on the ground.”

With his transportation in place, Agent 47 left Gazeau and Numo to herd the children onto the plane while he went to check on Marla. Having been knocked unconscious during the battle with Al-Fulani’s security team, the Puissance Treize agent had been duct-taped into a sleeping bag, tied hand and foot.

But when the agent went to visit her, Marla was gone.

Judging from the way the restraints had been cut, it appeared that Marla was carrying a blade of some sort-one that had been small enough and so well hidden that they had missed it in their initial, cursory search. Once she came to, it would have been relatively easy for the woman to feign unconsciousness, wait for the rest of them to leave, and cut herself free.

Now, armed with any of the weapons that had been left lying about, Marla was hiding in the ruins. The assassin could go out and hunt her down, of course. But to what end? He had what he’d been sent to get—and there wasn’t any price on her head. So it made sense to let her go.

That didn’t mean Marla would be as understanding, however. So rather than risk a long-range rifle shot, Agent 47 loaded his luggage into Al-Fulani’s Land Rover and drove it out to the plane. Even though he parked the four-wheeler in a spot that would shield the bottom of the fold-down stairs, he would be exposed as he stepped onto the flight deck, but only briefly.

Even though 47 knew Gazeau and Numo would loot Al-Fulani’s vehicles prior to submitting a final bill to The Agency, he gave each man five thousand dollars anyway. Both as a bonus, and because he might have need of them in the future.

“Take care of yourself,” Gazeau said, as the two shook hands.

“Watch your back,” 47 responded. “Especially on the way out. Marla’s on the loose. And she’s armed.”

“Thanks for the warning,” the Libyan said, as he hooked a pair of aviator-style sunglasses over his ears. “Maybe I can buy her off with the Land Rover. Unless you object, that is.”