Download - Walkthrough To Hitman Series

The much abused structures stood shoulder to shoulder, like drunks who rely on each other in
order to remain upright, and bled rivulets of brown wastewater into the unpaved street. The
effluvium stank to high heaven, and merged into sluggishly flowing streams that followed the
gentle gradient down toward the other end of town.
None of which seemed to bother the men of Mongo, most of whom appeared to be unemployed
and stood in doorways, sat on stoops, or perched on the hoods of half-stripped vehicles. They
watched the Mog pass with the same alert intelligence possessed by scavengers everywhere, as
they listened for early signs of mechanical distress, and calculated what such a handsome vehicle
would fetch on the black market.
In the meantime their women, busy in the way third-world women are always busy, struggled to
cope with hordes of quarreling children, tons of filthy clothes, and an endless succession of
meals. Some were Arabic, commonly referred to as “northerners,” and wore conservative
clothing. Others–those dressed in more colorful attire, and commonly referred to as
“southerners”–were generally non-Islamic.
But regardless of their origins, all were locked in a battle with poverty, ignorance, and disease
and went about their chores with downcast eyes, as if fully aware of the forces that opposed
them, having already conceded defeat.
Gazeau glanced at the man seated next to him.
“It's depressing, isn't it?”
The operative shrugged.
“I've seen worse.” Again the Libyan's eyebrows rose.
“There's the police station,” Gazeau said, and he pointed through the dirt-smeared windscreen.
Agent 47 looked. The police station was a squat-looking affair, set apart from the other
buildings, and surrounded by a nine-foot-tall cyclone fence topped by coils of razor wire. Three
desert-equipped 80-series Land Cruisers sat by the gate. Two appeared to be operable, and the
third was up on concrete blocks. Judging from the scattering of mismatched tools that lay about,
not to mention the scrawny legs that protruded from under the vehicle, it appeared that one of
the local mechanics was hard at work trying to repair it.
Of more interest was the police model Eurocopter EC 135 that sat on a pad within the
enclosure. The aircraft was so new, so valuable, that it rated its own sentry.
Gazeau braked, pulled into the parking area, and killed the Mog's engine.
“You're sure this is a good idea,” 47 said doubtfully.
“No,” Gazeau answered cheerfully, “I'm not. But real geologists would stop and pay for a
permit to take samples out of the country. And if Al-Fulani passed through here, the police will
know about it. The problem, if we run into one, will relate to the size of the bribe. If the fee is