Download - Walkthrough To Hitman Series

EAST OF N'DJAMENA, CHAD
There was no direct air service to the city of N'Djamena–not from Fez–so unlike Al-Fulani, who
had a private plane to call upon, Agent 47 had been forced to travel via a number of commercial
connections, thereby losing quite a bit of time in the process. But thanks to some assistance
from The Agency, a driver and a vehicle were there waiting when he landed.
And now, some six spine-jarring hours later, the operative and his paid companions were closing
in on the spot where Al-Fulani and his party had probably spent the previous night. Would the
Moroccan still be there? That seemed unlikely, but 47 hoped to confirm that he was on the right
trail. Especially since the desert was a big place, and The Agency's spy sats had lost Al-Fulani's
convoy during a dust storm.
The sub-Saharan landscape was divided between the bright, almost searing blue of the sky and
the khaki colored landscape that lay sprawled below. The growl of the Unimog's engine
dropped a full octave as Pierre Gazeau shifted down, released the clutch, and guided the truck
up the sand-drifted track toward the next rise.
The Libyan freelancer had thick black hair, a hooked nose, and a three-day growth of beard. He
wore wraparound sunglasses, a sleeveless khaki shirt, and a pair of matching slacks. Black hair
crawled down his arms and darkly tanned legs to a pair of beat-up desert boots. Though born in
Tripoli to an ex-legionnaire and a Tuareg mother, Gazeau had been educated in France, and
spoke English with only a slight accent.
“There are tracks, my friend. Someone else has passed through the area, and recently, too.”
The snub-nosed U90 Mercedes Unimog lurched as the right front tire mounted a large chunk of
rock, the vehicle tilted to the left, and an avalanche of junk slid across the dashboard, ran out of
room, and tumbled into Gazeau's lap. Only the statue of St. Francis remained where it was, his
feet anchored by a dollop of glue, his eyes firmly on the track ahead.
The Libyan rescued one of his many pairs of sunglasses from his lap, placed them on the center
console, and brushed the rest of the mess onto the already littered floor.
Agent 47 held on to a grab bar, and waited for the right tire to pass over the obstacle, before
making his reply.
“I'm glad to hear it. That's a good sign.”
“So,” Gazeau said out of the side of his mouth, “how close are we?”
Agent 47 consulted the Garmin eTrex Vista GPS receiver, checked the readout against a map,
and eyed the dry, rocky landscape ahead.
“The village should be about half a kilometer away.”
Gazeau took his foot off the accelerator, engaged the clutch, and stepped on the brake. The
truck came to an abrupt stop. Dust swirled up and drifted to the east.