Hitman: Damnation is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Hitman is a registered trademark of Square Enix, Ltd.
Copyright © 2012 IO INTERACTIVE A/S. HITMAN, HITMAN: ABSOLUTION, and the HITMAN logo, IO INTERACTIVE and the IO logo are trademarks of Io Interactive A/S. EIDOS and the EIDOS logo are trademarks of Square Enix, Ltd. SQUARE ENIX and the SQUARE ENIX logo are registered trademarks of Square Enix Holdings Co., Ltd.
All Rights Reserved
Published in the United States by Del Rey, an imprint of the Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
Del Rey is a registered trademark and the Del Rey colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.
eISBN: 978-0-345-53585-6
www.delreybooks.com
Cover design: Phil Balsman
v3.1
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
PROLOGUE
The important thing was to keep Agent 47 alive.
That’s what Diana Burnwood had told herself for years, even though it wasn’t the Agency’s prime directive for handlers. The unwritten law was that operators in the field had to be disavowed and abandoned if there was the slightest danger of the Agency being compromised. And yet Diana had always felt a connection to 47—as much as it was possible that anyone could bond with the man. She wanted him to succeed in his various missions, and she took great pains to watch his back. It was her job.
Well, it was her job.
Diana planned to disappear after the current hit was completed. She had no choice. Considering what she was intending to do, the Agency would stop at nothing to eliminate her. The escape route was in place and the travel plans were set in stone. She would vanish for a while and then make her move. Returning to the laboratory in Chicago would be terribly perilous, but it was absolutely essential for her to snatch the “package” and spirit it away from the Agency.
The trouble started when Benjamin Travis was appointed to be her superior. Diana was immediately at odds with the guy. Although not the ultimate boss of the International Contract Agency, Travis had proven himself to be a more than competent manager. He was tough, opinionated, intelligent, and ambitious. It was no wonder he had been promoted to his current position. Diana held no grudge against the man for that.
What she didn’t like about Travis was that he was an unethical and dangerous asshole.
When Diana had confronted him about his new classified pet project, noting that it would cost many innocent lives, Travis scoffed and said, “Really? This, coming from a handler of an assassin? Give me a break, Burnwood. You alone have caused collateral damage in the hundreds. Don’t go all high-and-mighty on me all of a sudden.”
Normally she would have let it go and moved on. This time, however, the implications of Travis’s venture were more than simply disturbing. In her opinion, the man was threatening the integrity of the Agency.
Diana was already working on the Himalayan assignment with 47 when she had decided to take action. Originally she wanted to wait until the mission was completed, but the situation had become too volatile. Something had to be done quickly, and she had decided to risk her life to take the package and run. But first she had to go off the grid for a while and carefully plan her next move.
Did they realize she had betrayed them? Most likely. She knew they would come for her at any moment. She should have left Paris hours ago, but she owed it to 47 to see him through the current operation.
Finish the job and then get out quickly.
She opened her laptop and switched it on. The encryption software was already in place; there was no way anyone could hack into her network. As she connected to the satellite over Nepal, Diana checked the small video monitors once again. The two miniature cameras she had installed in the hotel hallway outside her room were undetectable and state of the art. They each pointed in an opposite direction, so she could see anyone who happened to appear in the corridor. A third camera, mounted near the elevators and stairwell, would alert her to any newcomers on the floor. It wasn’t perfect by any means, but at least the three monitors on the desk would give her fair warning should she come under attack.
The comlink securely connected to the satellite’s signal. An image of a snowcapped mountain materialized on the laptop—Kangchenjunga, one of the most difficult climbs in the Himalayas. Diana checked her watch. Just after six in the morning. That meant it was close to one o’clock there. Nepal Standard Time was unusual in that it was offset by forty-five minutes from Coordinated Universal Time. If she was correct in her calculations, then 47 would be in place and waiting for her.
She zoomed in to the blinking beacon on the side of the peak. The homer 47 carried was undetectable to the naked eye but easily picked up by the satellite. Quite ingenious, actually, Diana thought. The Agency did indeed have cool toys.
Another marvel the satellite provided was the ability to analyze physical structures, whether they were man-made or natural. In this case, the program detected where the rock surface of the mountainside ended and the thick layers of snow began, so that she could easily identify areas susceptible to avalanches.
“Hello, 47,” she said into her headset. “Do you read me?”
“Loud and clear,” came the reply. There was no inflection of warmth or pleasure that he had recognized her refined British accent. Typical of the hitman. He was a man of few words and absolutely no emotion.
“Is the target in place?” she asked.
“Can’t you see them?”
She moved the camera down the cliff and spotted the Chinese climbing party, some six or seven hundred feet below 47’s perch.
“Affirmative. How was the climb?”
“Cold.”
“All your carabiners and belay devices worked all right?”
“Yes.”
“Have you done much mountain climbing, 47?”
“Where do I place the boomer?”
She smiled to herself. Agent 47 always cut to the chase. “The computer is calculating that as we speak. Wait … okay, here it is. You’re very close. Move about forty yards to the east. You’ll find yourself on a ledge of what looks like ice, but it’s really very
compact snow. That’ll do nicely, and it’s right over the target’s head.”
“I see what you mean. Give me a few minutes to work my way over there.”
Diana watched the tiny figure use a rope, a pickax, and a series of carabiners to maneuver sideways across the face of the cliff. She admired how 47 seemed to be able to do anything. He was a superb athlete, trained to work in all the elements. Of course, he was genetically engineered to be a superman of sorts. Diana often wondered how strong his tolerance for pain and fatigue really was. The climb must have been terribly difficult, especially alone. Luckily, he wasn’t so high in altitude that the helicopter she had arranged to pick him up couldn’t reach him. If he had been another thousand feet farther up, 47 would have had to descend Kangchenjunga the hard way.
Then she saw them.
Diana furrowed her brow and squinted. She quickly maneuvered the mouse and zoomed in closer.
Two men. Almost directly above 47.
“47, I see two hostiles, maybe two hundred feet at one o’clock.” She focused the camera on the men as tightly as it would go. “They’re Chinese, all right.”
“I’m not surprised,” 47 said. “I suspected the target sent a scouting party up the mountain to precede his own expedition. He wanted to make sure the path was safe. They don’t like Nam Vo too much around here. Do they see me?”
“I can’t tell. I don’t think so … Wait—they’re on the move. They must know you’re there.”
“How much time do I have before they’re within shooting range?”
“Plenty. Just get the boomer in place and get the hell out of there. The helicopter will—”
A movement on one of the camera monitors caught her attention. Someone had come out of the elevator on her floor. No—two someones. They paused for a moment as the stairwell door opened and two more men came into view. They were dressed in suits and appeared to be ordinary businessmen, until one of them dropped a large bag on the floor and opened it.
“Diana?” 47 asked. “Are you there?”
“Hold on a second, 47,” she snapped.
One of the men pulled out four Kevlar vests, which the quartet began to don.
No!
The Agency had found her.
No time to lose. She immediately severed the satellite link, pulled the plug on her laptop, and rose from the desk.
The men on the monitor armed themselves with assault rifles, M16s from the look of them.
Diana quickly grabbed her laptop and small traveling bag, which was packed and ready to go. She moved to the fire-escape window, opened it, and tossed the computer outside. The machine fell six floors and smashed to pieces on the ground below. She glanced back at the monitors on the desk and saw that the men were creeping quietly toward her room. Diana then tossed her bag out the window and watched it drop to the pavement. No damage; there was nothing inside but clothes, passports, and money.
As the men kicked in the hotel-room door, Diana was already out on the fire-escape landing. The tall redhead, dressed in an expensive Versace suit, scampered in her bare feet down the metal stairs toward the street below. She heard shouts above her.
Faster!
She took three steps at a time. When she got to the first-floor landing, one of the men shouted, “There she is!” Diana took hold of the railing, deftly catapulted her body over it, and dropped twenty feet to the ground. She landed hard on the soles of her feet, winced with the pain, and kept moving.
That’s when the gunfire began.
She grabbed her bag, rounded the corner of the hotel, and ran into the traffic on the street. Drivers slammed on the brakes and honked horns. Bullets whizzed past her, dotting the pavement in her wake. By the time she was on the other side of Rue Froissart, the men were in hot pursuit down the fire escape.
Diana ducked into the Metro entrance at the corner, practically flew down the steps, and reached the platform as the train pulled in to the station. The timing couldn’t have been more perfect. She climbed aboard the train, pushed her way through the crowd of passengers, found a seat, and collapsed into it. The doors closed and she was away. Opening her bag, she found the Prada heels and put them on. Now she was just another ordinary classy Parisienne commuting through the busy city. She was confident that the Agency would not be able to trace her movements once she got to her destination. The route was secure and airtight. Perhaps fate really was on her side.
She took a deep breath and then felt a pang of regret. She hadn’t meant to abandon 47, but she’d had no choice.
Sorry, old friend, she thought. I hope you’ll understand one day. Send positive thoughts my way, if you’re capable of doing such a thing.
Goodbye—and good luck.
ONE
TWELVE MONTHS LATER
It was always a variation of the same dream.
This time I was, what, thirteen years old? Yes. Thirteen. I recognized the asylum’s corridors and I passed a framed portrait of my father—one of them, anyway—Dr. Ort-Meyer. I saw my reflection in the glass, and it was how I remembered myself at that age.
But where was everyone? The asylum was empty. My footsteps echoed as if I were in a cavern.
I thought to myself that I should run. He was coming, but I hadn’t perceived him yet. Usually I felt him coming. It was a sensation I was unable to describe, but I knew he was there. Just around the corner. Coming for me.
So I ran.
And then he was behind me, appearing out of nowhere. I could practically smell him. I could feel the coldness. It was always cold when he was nearby.
I dared to look over my shoulder as I ran. The dark figure was faceless, as usual. Almost as if he were only a shadow, but I knew better.
He was Death.
No question about it. Death had been coming for me in my dreams for a long time now.
I ran faster. I was fairly certain I could stay ahead of him, but the temperature around me grew colder. He was closer. How did he come to move so fast? He was getting better at the chase. He was learning.
But I was learning too. Wasn’t I?
I turned a corner and faced an interminable hallway. It disappeared into nothingness, a long way away. Could I make it to the end before he caught me?
I pushed forward and felt my legs working to put distance between the shadow and me. Did I hear him calling me? How could he call me? I don’t have a name. Or did I? I don’t remember.
Things were always crazy in a dream.
Suddenly my legs struggled to move. As if I were waist deep in invisible quicksand. No matter how hard I tried, I could only step forward at the pace of a snail. The muscles in my thighs and calves hurt from the exertion.
The ice-cold breath was now on my neck. He was directly behind me, perhaps close enough to reach out and touch me.
No! I had to get away! I couldn’t let Death touch me.
I sensed his hand, outstretched and ready to clasp my shoulder. The only thing I could do was fall forward, as if I’d just toppled like a stack of building blocks. But I didn’t fall fast enough; it was more like I was floating! Then I felt the icy, stinging pressure of his fingers.
I screamed as I landed on the hallway’s tiled floor …
… and I woke up.
The disorientation lasted for a few seconds, as always.
That unpleasant ball of bees in my chest felt as if it might explode. Some might call it anxiety. I don’t know what it was for me. Whatever I chose to call it, I didn’t like it.
I immediately sat up in bed. The hotel room was dark. No, it was light outside. I had the curtains closed. The digital clock on the nightstand read 5:43. I’d meant to wake from the afternoon nap at 6:00. This had been happening a lot. My internal alarm clock was all messed up. At least I awoke early and not too late.
I had a job to do.
I stood and walked to the window. I carefully pulled back the drapes and peered outside. The Caribbean sun was bright and hot. I saw men and women in bathing attire. The resort’s pool was full
of guests, splashing and cavorting. I knew the beach would be crowded as well.
What would it be like to put on swim trunks, walk outside, and join the other people for fun? Ocho Rios, Jamaica! Didn’t every human being want to lie on a recliner and relax with a piña colada while the sun baked your skin and turned it into cancer cells? Attend the nightly dance and hook up with someone of the opposite sex? Enjoy a weekend fling in paradise?
What a stupid idea. I knew I wasn’t capable of that.
I released the drapes and plunged the room into darkness again.
I noticed that my hand was trembling. This always happened when I woke up. After so many hours without a pill I got the shakes. Naked, I walked into the bathroom and turned on the light. I reached for the plastic bottle I kept in a pouch. I’d tossed it onto the counter after I’d checked in to the resort. I tapped out a pill into the palm of my hand and popped it into my mouth. Then I turned on the faucet, cupped my hands, and filled them with enough water to chug down the medication.
My reflection in the mirror stared back at me. I was certainly no longer thirteen years old. I wasn’t sure how old I was, although I was “created” in 1964. That was the downside of being a test-tube baby.
I snapped the lid back on the pill bottle. There was no label. I’d obtained the oxycodone illegally, so there was no prescription information. Besides, no doctor in his right mind would have prescribed these powerful painkillers for as long as I’d been taking them.
I supposed people would say I was addicted, but actually I could quit anytime I wanted. I just didn’t want to. I was pretty sure that, because of how I’m wired, the oxycodone didn’t affect me as it would a “normal” person. I started taking the pills after the injury. I really needed painkillers at the time. But even after I’d healed, I found I liked the effects. The pills didn’t dope me up the way they would most people. Instead, they cleared my head and calmed me down.
Granted, if I didn’t take one after so many hours, I got a headache that was unbearable, I became anxious and jittery, and I had vivid nightmares. I never used to experience anxiety. Never. Now I did if I didn’t take the pill. Did that mean I was addicted? In my own way, perhaps.
Raymond Benson Page 1
