Mr. AK-47 looked surprised as the bullets hit him, and he fired a final burst of slugs into the clear blue sky as he pitched over backward, and skidded across some loose shell casings before finally coming to a stop.

The assassin might have left at that point, and very much wanted to, but knew he couldn’t. Not without retrieving whatever memory device the surveillance system was hooked to. Partially to protect his identity, and to obtain images of Marla, which would help The Agency identify her. That meant he would have to cross open ground, enter the mobile home, and deal with anyone who blocked his way.

But then a final gunshot was fired inside the barn, and an eerie silence settled over the farm.

A jetliner drew a white line across the sky as 47 crossed the open ground, and flies buzzed around the assassin’s head as he opened the screen door. An energetic white dog came out to greet him. The animal yapped madly and danced circles around 47 as the agent entered the double-wide’s living room, and his eyes adjusted to the gloom.

Empty beer cans sat everywhere, part of a motorcycle engine was resting on the coffee table, and dry dog turds lay scattered about. The lights were off, so what little illumination there was originated from cracks around the shaded windows, and the cartoon show on the flat-panel TV. The audio was turned down, which was why the assassin could hear the sound of a child crying. He followed it through the filthy kitchen and into the hall beyond.

Having passed a bathroom, 47 peered into what was clearly the master bedroom, and saw a half-naked woman stretched out on a messy king-sized bed. Judging from the drug paraphernalia that was scattered about, she was unconscious rather than asleep. A theory that squared with the crying baby, who looked up at the assassin with pleading eyes, and lifted its arms. The Big Kahuna’s child perhaps?