Download - Walkthrough To Hitman Series

That could come in handy, he mused.
Having made a mental note of what time the center opened, 47 walked east, turned into a
waterfront shopping complex, and entered an upscale restaurant. Predictably enough the interior
boasted a nautical theme, the menu emphasized seafood, and the waitstaff wore blue polo shirts,
white slacks, and deck shoes.
The assassin ordered wild salmon and a glass of ice water, then settled back to wait. It was dark
outside the windows, so there was nothing to do but watch the people seated around him;
individuals whose existences focused on office politics, leaky roofs, and demanding children–all
of them variables to be circumvented or exploited. Unpredictable objects that could block a
shot, suddenly morph into a counterassassin, or be used for cover should it become necessary.
There had been a relationship with another living being once. Not with a human, but with the
mouse that had lived in the wall near his bed and emerged each night to collect the crumbs the
little boy brought him from the asylum's spartan dining room. Though never really tame, the
rodent would stare up at its benefactor through beady black eyes as it ate whatever treat it had
been given.
The relationship lasted for about a month, but came to an abrupt end when 47 returned one
evening to find the dead mouse lying across his pillow. Its head was matted with dried blood,
and its eyes were glassy. That was when one of his clone brothers erupted into laughter, the rest
of them followed suit, and the bond between 47 and his pet ended the way all relationships
must. In death.
“Here's your salmon, sir,” a female voice said, and 47 snapped back into the present as his food
arrived. The meal was better than he had expected.
The night in the motel wasn't.
* * *
It was raining when the assassin arose the next morning.
Seattle was known for its rain, which often manifested as little more than an intermittent mist,
but this was the real thing. The Volvo's wipers made a soft slapping sound as he drove to the
local Denny's restaurant, which in the absence of a mom-and-pop option, would have to do.
After a “grand-slam” breakfast, it was time to return to the Center for Wooden Boats, park the
sedan, and make his way down onto the floating dock.
Classic wooden boats were moored to the right and the left. Many had rainwater sloshing
around under the floorboards. A seaplane roared as it passed overhead and made a neat
two-point landing on the steel-gray lake beyond, one of a fleet of such planes that ferried people
to and from the San Juan Islands, about 80 miles to the north.
A left, a right, and a short walk carried 47 out to a cedar-sheathed structure labeled BOAT
HOUSE. The door to the office stood open, and with the exception of a single attendant, the