The choppers threw up a cloud of dust, and quickly moved into the lead, so 47 eased his foot off the gas and let the pickup fall back a ways. That allowed him to see better as the threesome blew through a second checkpoint and sped toward the odd collection of structures where the meeting was being held.

A metal silo stood next to a run-down barn that was fronted by a new double-wide mobile home. A variety of small sheds in various states of disrepair were nestled here and there, as a forest of tall weeds did what it could to consume a row of junked cars. The big motor coach that Agent 47 had seen earlier, a red Mercedes, and four brightly painted motorcycles were parked off to the west side of the seedy complex. All of them wore a fine patina of Yakima road dust.

A black-clad biker appeared as Nix and Joey came to showy stops and sprayed the area with loose gravel. The assassin turned the truck into the makeshift car park and positioned it for a quick getaway. The man in black was waiting as 47 opened the door and dropped to the ground. Johnson’s saddlebags were draped over his left shoulder, and they bounced as he landed.

“The name’s Skinner,” the long-faced man announced laconically. “Welcome back to the real world. The brothers are waiting. Follow me.”

Agent 47 expected Skinner to object to the six-guns that were strapped around his waist. But judging from the Glock that protruded from the back of the biker’s leather britches, personal weaponry wasn’t just acceptable, it was expected. The fact struck the assassin as both comforting and worrisome as he followed his guide past the off-white mobile home, up a deeply rutted driveway, and toward the looming barn. Which, judging from the thump, thump, thump of music that issued from inside the ancient structure, was where the meeting was about to be held.