“That’s a nice piñata you have there,” the assassin said lightly. “Who’s the birthday boy?”

There was a moment of silence, followed by the sound of raucous laughter as a man in a well-cut white suit emerged from the gloom. Good clothes were one of the few luxuries a professional assassin could enjoy, so Agent 47 knew an Yves Saint Laurent suit when he saw one. Even if it was a bit grimy.

Based on data provided by The Agency, that suit was the signature “look” the Big Kahuna had chosen for himself. A pair of stylish sunglasses hid the crime boss’s eyes, but the rest of his broad, moonlike face was plain to see, as was a body that harkened back to his days as a professional wrestler. He was surprisingly light on his feet, and seemed to float just above the dirt floor as he came forward to embrace the newcomer. The result was a quick man-hug, in which their chests collided briefly before they both took a step back.

BK and the Reaper were acquaintances, according to a file that 47 had been given, but nothing more, which was important to remember if the assassin was going to fool him.

“Haven’t seen you in four years-but you’re still one ugly son of a bitch,” the Kahuna growled affectionately. “What happened? I’d swear you were a good thirty pounds heavier the last time we saw each other.”

“Prison food sucks,” 47 complained. “But I’m starting to bulk up again.”

“There you go!” BK agreed approvingly. “What you need is some meat and potatoes! Come on. We’ve been waiting for you.”

“So, who’s the party favor?” the assassin inquired, as the former wrestler led him past the body.

“We don’t know his real name,” the Big Kahuna answered matter-of-factly. “But Marla pegged him as an FBI agent—and she was right.”

Agent 47 was just about to ask who Marla was when a woman stepped up beside them.