Yes, 47 thought. Not that it makes much difference.

Leaving the master bedroom the assassin followed the filthy shag carpeting back to a second bedroom that functioned as an office. Rather than take the time required to examine the items on top of the cluttered desk, or rifle through the three-drawer filing cabinet, Agent 47 focused his attention on a video monitor perched on top of a cheap plant stand. The picture showed part of the driveway outside, but quickly dissolved to a shot of the barn’s body-strewn interior. Then, having held that view for about five seconds, it switched to another scene. All of which reinforced the assassin’s suspicion that images of the barn battle had been stored on a retrieval system of some sort.

There was a beep from behind, and he whirled-guns at the ready-only to discover that the Big K was receiving a fax.

His heart continued to beat like a trip-hammer as he searched for the storage unit-perhaps a computer, or a DVD burner. There was a rat’s nest of wiring and dusty black boxes to paw through, but it wasn’t very long before the assassin found the digital video recorder, and freed it from the system.

Then, having shoved a mini-Uzi into one of Johnson’s empty holsters, Agent 47 tucked the DVR under his left arm and exited the office. He made his way past the wailing child, entered the living room, and was reaching for the door handle when the dog saved his life.

As the animal began to yap at the door, 47 threw himself sideways. He heard the sound of a 12-gauge shotgun a fraction of a second later. The double-aught-buck blew a fist-sized hole through the screen door and the opposite wall, to reveal daylight beyond.

Having dropped the DVR, the assassin fisted the second Uzi as he came to his feet and glanced through one of the kitchen windows. That was when he spotted Skinner. Judging from the congealed blood on the right side of the biker’s face, and the kerchief tied around his right thigh, he had been wounded during the melee. He was game, though, and determined to exact some sort of revenge for what had taken place.

“I know you’re in there!” Skinner shouted. “There’s no place to go. Come out and fight!”

Never one to refuse a polite invitation, 47 threw a greasy frying pan through the window, and as Skinner swung the shotgun in that direction, the assassin had the opportunity he needed. The bullets passed through the screen door and punched half a dozen holes in the biker’s chest.

The biker went to his knees as if praying for help, but having received no response, collapsed facedown on the oil-stained dirt.

The dog yapped excitedly and danced about.

Agent 47 holstered both machine pistols, went back for the DVR, and saw that a bag of dry dog food had been left on the kitchen counter. The assassin paused long enough to dump the entire contents onto the ground on his way out. The dog liked that, and began eating greedily, as his benefactor returned to the car park.

The red Mercedes was gone, which probably meant Marla was driving it.

Most of the safety glass was missing from the truck’s side windows, so 47 removed the rest, in hopes that people would assume that the windows were rolled down. The bullet holes in the driver’s side door weren’t so easy to disguise, however. All he could do was get in, place the DVR on the seat beside him, and drive away.

Two bikers lay sprawled in the road next to the first checkpoint, where Marla had dropped them on her way out.

The grader blocked the road farther on, but if Marla had been able to bypass the machinery with her Mercedes, then 47 knew he could do so as well. There was a slight bump as the big off-road tires passed through the ditch that bordered the road, followed by a momentary roar as the agent gunned the engine and steered the rig back onto the gravel road.

Then, with nothing to stop him, 47 hit the gas.

The Big Kahuna was dead, but the operation could hardly be called a success, given how messy the outcome had been. So, rather than take a few days off as he had originally planned, it was time to go back to the motel and lick his wounds. One of which, judging from the persistent pain in his left arm, was quite real.

He arrived at an intersection ten minutes later, paused to let a sixteen-wheeler pass, and pulled onto the two-lane highway. A barn, silo, and farmhouse were visible in the distance, but that was all that broke up the landscape, other than the green-apple orchards that bordered both sides of the road.

In spite of the fact that he had been to the United States dozens of times, the assassin never failed to be amazed by how large the country was. After eliminating a target in Belgium, he could generally be in Great Britain a few hours later, but not here. Whenever he had an assignment in the States, some sort of base was necessary.

In this particular case, Agent 47 had staged his activities at a second-rate motel on the outskirts of Yakima, Washington. The sort of mom-and-pop enterprise that had been largely replaced by low-cost hotel chains over the last decade, but still existed here and there, and suited him to a tee. There were exceptions, of course, but most of the small motels didn’t require ID at check-in, and they rarely had surveillance systems. Not to mention the fact that it was often possible for guests to park directly outside their rooms.

But before 47 could return to the slightly seedy embrace of the Blackbird Inn, there were some things to get rid of. Including the Mel Johnson disguise and the newly ventilated truck. So as he approached civilization, he turned into a sprawling apartment complex and pulled into the most remote slot in the parking lot. Perhaps The Agency would be able to recover the vehicle before the manager had it towed. If not, the cost of the truck would be added to the fee paid by the person or persons who wanted the BK dead.

The Colombians perhaps?

Probably, although 47 didn’t really care.

Fingerprints weren’t a concern as he prepared to abandon the vehicle, since he had worn gloves throughout the operation. Nor was DNA likely to be an issue, since the agent wasn’t about to leave any cigarette butts, pop cans, or used Kleenexes in the cab. So all he had to do was pull the cleanup kit out from under the seat, and use the contents to remove both the beard and the blood that had dried on his wounded arm. Having pulled a plain blue T-shirt down over his head, 47 checked to make sure that his left sleeve was long enough to cover the bullet wound. He dumped everything except the DNA-bearing wipe into a plastic sack, which went into a gym bag next to the machine pistols and the DVR.

As 47 exited the truck and made his way across the parking lot, he looked like an average guy on his way to a workout at the gym. It was a short two-block walk from the apartment complex to the motel, which was good, because Americans rarely walked when they could ride. That made pedestrians something of an oddity, and oddities are memorable, which was the last thing the assassin wanted to be.

The black Volvo S80 was right where he had left it, in front of room 102. Rather than look out of place, as one might expect at a low-rent hostelry like the Blackbird Inn, the sedan wasn’t even the most expensive vehicle in the lot. That honor went to a white Escalade parked a few doors down. Because just about anyone can buy a fancy car in the United States-so long as they don’t mind living in a crummy flat.

The DO NOT DISTURB sign was still dangling from the doorknob, but that didn’t mean much, so 47 checked the nearly invisible thread that had been spit-welded across the doorjamb. It was still there. A good sign. But knowing how dangerous assumptions could be, the assassin took the extra precaution of slipping his right hand into the partially open gym bag that dangled from his right shoulder. Then, with a firm grip on one of the Uzis, he turned the key.