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Agent 47 was just about to cross the open ground that lay between the trees and the wall when
he saw a sudden flare of light high in the bell tower, and realized a sentry had been posted there.
That was a problem, especially since the moon had risen by then and was casting a ghostly glow
onto the church and the area that surrounded it.
So 47 lifted the strap up over his head, lowered the guitar case to the ground, and knelt beside
it. The catches opened soundlessly, as did the lid, revealing the Walther WA 2000 nestled
within. The weapon was just under thirty-six inches long, which meant that the sniper rifle fit
into the guitar case with ten inches to spare, leaving plenty of room for the silencer and extra
magazines.
The first six-round clip was already seated, so all the assassin had to do was remove the rifle
from a bed of dirty laundry and work the bolt before bringing the finely tuned weapon up to his
shoulder. The Schmidt & Bender 2.5 10©56 mm telescopic sight was effective in spite of the
low-light situation. Agent 47 inched the highly magnified circle up the white bell tower to the
point where the red glow of a cigarette could be seen. It seemed to wink at the assassin as the
sentry took a drag.
The heavily silenced rifle coughed and gave the assassin a solid nudge as the 7.62 NATO round
left the barrel. The slug struck the sentry right between the eyes, passed through his brain at an
upward angle, and blew the top of his head off. Gore splattered the ancient bell, but lacked the
force required to ring it, as the dead body collapsed.
No one inside the church took notice, as a portable CD player continued to pump salsa music
into the nave, where Pedro and Manuel Otero were drinking tequila and two half-drunk Spanish
whores were attempting to dance.
Both brothers had thick black hair, dark brown eyes, and the best smiles money could buy.
There was a strong family resemblance, though Pedro had a scar on his forehead, while Manuel
was known as Muchacho bonito to his friends and associates.
Both women were topless, and their unrestrained breasts swayed to the music, as they stomped
their feet in a clumsy imitation of flamenco-style dancing, and began to circle each other. The
brothers shouted encouragement, and began to clap in time with the music.
* * *
Meanwhile, out in the olive grove, Agent 47 ejected the spent casing, and slipped the brass
cylinder into a pocket. The Walther went back into the guitar case, which, if everything went
well, would be retrieved on the way out. Then, concerned lest the dead sentry be discovered, the
assassin took a run at the wall.
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.
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