Raymond Benson

by Hitman: Damnation

  I returned to the room. I had a boat to catch. I had a target to eliminate. I had a job to do. Time to get dressed.

  I knew I wasn’t operating at 100 percent. I wasn’t at the top of my game. Ever since the accident. Ever since Diana … It wasn’t good for me to think about it, but sometimes I couldn’t help it.

  The difficulty was avoiding the Agency. They’d been trying to reach me. Messages had come through the usual channels. I didn’t answer them. I had no desire to work with ICA anymore. I was past my prime. I wasn’t the assassin I once was. I knew that. It’s why I worked freelance now. It’s why I supported myself with easy assignments like the one tonight.

  Hector Corado. Mediocre scum who specialized in human trafficking. And my employer, Roget, was just as sleazy. But it was a job. And it was money. Not as much as I made with the Agency, but it was enough. I really didn’t care about the money. As long as I had the means to carry on each day and dress the way I liked, I was happy.

  Happy. What a concept.

  If I could laugh, I would have.

  TWO

  The festivities were palpable on the beach of the Sandals Grande Ocho Rios Resort. Swimsuit-clad men and women ran in and out of the warm blue-green water, others played volleyball on the sand, and the rest reclined with drinks in hand as the sun slowly descended to the horizon. It was the magical hour of the day in Jamaica, the twilight time when the sky was painted orange-red, before it turned coal black and was dotted with the twinkling of stars.

  Agent 47 ignored it all as he made his way to the dock to board a small ferry that would carry select VIPs to Fernandez’s yacht. Dressed in a black suit made of the highest-quality light wool, a white cotton shirt, black leather gloves, and the added accessory of a crimson-red tie, 47 knew that he looked exceptionally sharp. The assassin took great pleasure in what he wore. After all, there were so few things in the world he did enjoy. With his tall stature, sleek bald head, and an enigmatic bar-code tattoo on the back of his neck, 47 was indeed a striking figure. His appearance was appropriate for the occasion, since the party aboard Fernandez’s yacht was by invitation only. The island’s rich, famous, and infamous were to be the exclusive guests. 47’s employer, a man he knew only as Roget, had secured an invite for 47 under the name “Michael Brant.” His cover was simple—he was a European of undeterminable origin who had made a fortune in water. It was a subject 47 didn’t have to know much about—water was water, and it was easily bottled and sold. He would have no trouble fooling Emilio Fernandez, the playboy billionaire who owned the yacht. Fernandez, who made his money through dubious means, normally resided in Nassau but spent most of his time on the boat, traveling from island to island and throwing extravagant parties.

  47 didn’t care about Fernandez or the party. His only interest was Hector Corado. The intel assured him that the criminal would be aboard as Fernandez’s special guest.

  It was a good thing 47’s employer had warned him that guests would be frisked and would have to pass through a metal detector at the dock before boarding the barge. Thus, 47 had left any and all weapons behind. He was armed with only the clothes on his back and a thin line of carbon-fiberwire, which wouldn’t be picked up by the metal detector or even a very intimate frisking. In many ways, the Fiberwire was 47’s trademark weapon.

  Approximately thirty people stood in the security line on the dock. Beefy guards armed with automatic pistols on their belts ushered the men and women onto the barge after clearance. Everyone was dressed to the nines. The men were handsome and exuded power and wealth; the women were beautiful and exhibited entitlement and wanton sexuality. The ferry had already made two round-trips to the yacht to deliver party guests. Nearly three hundred people were expected aboard the massive vessel. That was useful for 47. The more crowded the party was, the more likely his job would go unnoticed. More important, the barge would continue to make the return trip to shore every half hour for revelers who had reached their partying limit.

  As the boat sailed slowly toward the yacht, 47 couldn’t help but be impressed. He reckoned the Daphne was between three hundred seventy and four hundred feet long and its tonnage most likely around five thousand. He’d been told the Daphne traveled at nineteen knots per hour, which, given the size of the cruiser, was quite fast. Built and designed by Lürssen in Germany and outfitted by Blohm & Voss, the Daphne sported a large deck for parties, two swimming pools, and luxury cabins, which were usually off-limits to anyone but Fernandez’s special overnight guests. There was also a helipad, and 47 could discern the outline of the Bell 206 sitting upon it.

  Corado’s helicopter.

  The party was already going full swing by the time 47 stepped onto the Daphne’s deck, located forward, near the bow. A live band specializing in reggae and calypso tunes blasted Bob Marley hits and other familiar numbers as couples and non-couples alike covered the area designated as a dance floor. The liquor flowed freely from open bars located at stations around the deck. Guests also had no qualms about consuming drugs in front of anyone. Marijuana and cocaine were in plain sight. After all, this was a private party, with no chance of law enforcement showing up. None of this made any impact on 47. He had no interest in dancing or recreational drugs. He occasionally drank but never in excess. What captured his attention was the monumental layout of gourmet food—sauteéd ackee, seafood, and steaks, steamed and sautéed vegetables of every color and type, a variety of salads, conch chowder, Jamaican jerk chicken, curry goat, fried plantain, and an abundance of tropical fruits. For dessert, guests could try other Caribbean delectables such as gizzada, grater cake, potato pudding, and banana fritters, along with the more traditional fare of chocolate cakes and fruit pies. 47 hadn’t eaten dinner, so he allowed himself to blend with the crowd, fill a plate, and take advantage of the host’s hospitality before he got down to the business at hand.

  The hitman moved to a tall dining station, around which guests could stand and eat. From there he could survey the entire deck. Roget’s intel was correct. Fernandez had employed several guards—all of whom were armed—and positioned them at key points on the ship. It was forbidden for guests to bring weapons aboard, but his own men? No problemo.

  That was good. All was going according to plan.

  47 scanned the crowd and didn’t see Corado. But he spotted Emilio Fernandez, surrounded by young, gorgeous females, making his way through the throng and greeting familiar faces with handshakes and smiles. The man was about forty, resembled a friendlier version of Al Pacino in Scarface, and oozed smarminess. As the billionaire moved closer, 47 prepared himself for the cue to go “onstage.”

  “And hello to you, señor,” Fernandez said to him.

  “Good evening.” 47 gave him a smile. He could play a part well if he had to. What was uncomfortable for 47 when he was himself, he was smoothly able to fake when on a mission. In many ways, it was something like a game to him. Could he pull off the deceit? That was the thrill.

  “Emilio Fernandez. I don’t believe we’ve met.” The man held out a hand.

  “Michael Brant.” 47 shook his palm. The man’s grip was somewhat clammy. Fernandez was obviously someone who got where he was through his money, not by any strength or machismo. Unlike Corado, wherever he might be.

  “Oh, Mr. Brant. You’re in …” Fernandez snapped his fingers in succession, trying to remember what he’d heard about his guest.

  “Water. I have a water company in Luxembourg.”

  “Right! How canny of you to invest in water. How long ago did you do it?”

  “My family has been in water since before I was born. I inherited the business.”

  “I see. Well, smart family! We all need water, don’t we? Welcome aboard, Mr. Brant.”

  “Gracias. You have a lovely yacht, sir.”

  “The Daphne is my pride and joy.” The man spotted someone he knew and waved. “I must move on. Please enjoy yourself, Mr. Brant. Many of the women aboard the yacht, I understand, are more than willing to make the acquaintan
ce of a man such as yourself.” He winked lasciviously and walked away with his harem. One of the girls, a dark-skinned, lithe model type, gazed at 47 over her shoulder as they disappeared.

  An invitation?

  47 paid no attention. Now sated, it was time for the hunt.

  He circled the deck and finally homed in on Corado. The man sat with a lovely young Hispanic woman at a table near the bulkhead entrance to the cabins and lower levels of the ship. Two burly bodyguards accompanied him; both men stood behind Corado, with their arms folded in front of their broad chests. Corado was a small man, probably in his late forties. Most likely had a Napoleon complex. He had a walrus mustache and slicked-back black hair with touches of gray. A big fat Cuban cigar dominated his mouth. All three men wore tailored suits. 47 wondered if Fernandez had allowed them to be armed. Surely a wretch like Corado would never go anywhere without firepower for protection.

  Right. Time to set the plan in motion.

  47 needed a weapon.

  He turned away from Corado’s table and walked along the starboard side toward the stern, where the helipad was located. As expected, one of Fernandez’s guards blocked his passage midway. 47 glanced behind him to make sure no one else was watching.

  “Guests are not allowed aft, sir,” the man said.

  The noise from the party was nearly deafening, even that far away from the band and excitement. 47 put on his best act as a happy partygoer. “What did you say?”

  The guard spoke louder. “Guests are not allowed aft.”

  “Oh, I wanted to have a look at that marvelous helipad. Is that Emilio’s helicopter? I’m something of a chopper enthusiast. That’s a Bell 206, isn’t it? I thought those were used exclusively by the military and law-enforcement personnel.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, you’ll need to go back to the deck.”

  47 slipped his hand into his jacket pocket and grasped the Fiberwire. “Aw, man, you can’t let me see it?”

  “No, sir, I’m sorry.”

  The assassin jerked his head toward the helipad. “Then how come those people get to go back there?”

  The guard turned to see what the bald man was talking about. 47 swiftly threw the Fiberwire around the man’s neck and tightened it with both hands. Since the device had small grips on each end, it didn’t take much strength for 47 to choke the man to death.

  It took all of fifteen seconds. The guard slumped into 47’s arms. The hitman turned his head around again—all clear. Should he throw the man overboard? No, the body might be spotted as it floated away. A door leading to the hold was directly to his right, so 47 wrapped his arms around the corpse’s barrel chest and dragged it inside.

  The place was a storeroom full of life jackets. Hopefully, 47 thought, no one would need any and the guard wouldn’t be discovered. He laid the body in the corner and covered it with several jackets, but only after he had taken the man’s Glock 17. Not a bad weapon at all. 47 figured he could have done much worse. He checked the magazine, stuffed the gun into his waistband beneath the jacket, and, satisfied, left the room.

  47 went back to the party and stood next to the bar closest to Corado’s table. Most of the guests had to stand in line at the various bars to pick up drinks, but a designated waiter had been assigned to Corado. When he wasn’t attending to the criminal, the servant stood at the bar with his eyes on the long, tanned legs of a tall blonde dancing nearby. But when Corado waved his hand, the waiter rushed to the table and took another order. The man then hurried back and barked the instructions to the busy bartender.

  47 picked up a cocktail napkin and a pen from the bar and wrote a message in Spanish on it.

  JUST LEARNED POLICE ARRIVING IN 10 MINUTES TO ARREST YOU! PLEASE LEAVE AS QUIETLY AS POSSIBLE, GET TO CUBAN AIRSPACE IN MINUTES, AND THEY WILL NEVER KNOW YOU WERE HERE. I AM SORRY, MY FRIEND. SEE YOU SOON. EMILIO.

  When he was done, 47 put the pen down next to a circular drink platter and kept the napkin in his hand. The bartender placed a new napkin and one drink on the tray. “Here’s the girl’s,” he said. The waiter ignored him, for he was once again gawking at the blonde’s legs. The bartender quickly shook a martini, poured it, added an olive, and placed another napkin and the glass on the tray. “And here’s the man’s,” he said. The busy bartender then turned away to serve other guests.

  47 quickly picked up the martini glass, set his napkin with the note on top of the clean one, and replaced the drink.

  The waiter finally turned away from the blonde, grabbed the tray without noticing the hitman’s napkin, and hustled back to Corado’s table. 47 watched as the man first served the girl’s drink and then placed Corado’s martini—with 47’s napkin—on the table. Corado barely acknowledged the waiter.

  47 moved to a different position, still in sight of his prey. The criminal took a sip of the drink … and then saw the scribbling. He picked up the napkin, read the message, and gestured to one of the bodyguards. The armed man leaned over, scanned the note, and the two men conferred. Corado furrowed his brow. He said something to his girlfriend and stood. She made a face of protest, but he roughly grabbed her arm and pulled her up.

  Agent 47 quickly headed back to the starboard side of the ship and made his way aft. The music was as loud as ever, which suited him fine. No one would hear what he was about to do.

  He reached the helipad before Corado and his entourage did. 47 flattened himself against the bulkhead, the Glock in his hand. He didn’t have to wait long.

  Corado, the girl, and the two bodyguards appeared from the yacht’s port side. They moved quickly and quietly, but Corado was obviously distressed, the girl angry. One of the bodyguards made for the pilot’s side of the chopper. Corado had to pull on the girl as she struggled against him. She cursed at him in Spanish, and then Corado turned to slap her hard. That shut her up.

  The bodyguard/pilot opened the door and started to climb in.

  Now.

  47 stepped into view, leveled the Glock in front of him, and shot the bodyguard in the pilot’s seat through the open door. Before the victim could register that he was shot, 47 swung his arm over, trained the sight on the second bodyguard, and squeezed the trigger. The man jerked and crumpled to the deck. It took precisely 2.3 seconds to eliminate Corado’s protection.

  47 was confident the gunshots and the girl’s subsequent scream couldn’t be heard on the other side of the ship.

  Corado reached inside his jacket and fumbled for a pistol hidden there. Apparently he wasn’t used to having to defend himself—he always had others nearby to do the job.

  The hitman shot him with a double tap—one in the chest and one in the head.

  Easy.

  That left the girl, who was now hysterical. She started to run back to the port side, yelling bloody murder.

  47 raised the gun again to eliminate her from the equation—but his hand unwillingly trembled. Nevertheless, he squeezed the trigger.

  A miss! How could that happen?

  By then the girl had disappeared behind the bulkhead, running along the port side toward the bow.

  47 took off after her.

  Even though she had long, muscular legs, 47 was taller, stronger, and was genetically engineered to be a superior athlete in every way. He caught her in six seconds, and they weren’t halfway to the ship’s midpoint.

  The assassin picked her up by the waist, even with the Glock in his right hand. She continued to scream and struggle.

  Only one thing to do.

  Agent 47 lifted and threw the girl over the rail into the sea.

  He paused for a moment to look aft and toward the bow. Luckily, a guard, some forty feet away, was facing forward and didn’t witness the act.

  47 tossed the Glock overboard and then calmly walked back to the helipad. He picked up and piled the dead men, one by one, into the helicopter. The corpses slumped to the floor and wouldn’t be discovered immediately. Satisfied, the hitman circled around to the starboard side and returned to the party. He smoothly merged into a
line dance in progress. 47 put on his best happy face, performed the step in rhythm, and got lost among the partygoers.

  The job was a success; nevertheless, 47 was angry with himself. The trembling hand had nearly cost him the mission. Was it the painkillers? Of course it was. The hitman knew it was so, and yet he obstinately refused to acknowledge the message this portended. Instead, he reached into his jacket pocket, found the plastic bottle, opened it, threw a tablet into his mouth, and swallowed it without water.

  Over the next half hour, he calmed down and continued to act as one of the privileged guests at an exclusive Caribbean party. 47 saw no indication that his handiwork had been discovered. No one had a reason to go aft. If Fernandez missed his friend, he would figure the criminal and his girlfriend had gone below to a cabin.

  Eventually, the assassin boarded the barge with twenty other exhausted and very drunk guests, and he sailed back to Ocho Rios and safety.

  As big noisy parties went, 47 decided this one hadn’t been too bad.

  THREE

  Another superyacht, coincidentally also built by Lürssen, slowly and aimlessly drifted in the waters west of Spain. At three hundred sixty feet long, the Jean Danjou II was not unlike the luxury vessels owned by the many wealthy socialites in Spain or France. After all, the Costa del Sol, especially the port of Marbella, was one of the most exclusive sailing destinations for the rich and famous. Thus, multimillion-dollar pleasure boats were a dime a dozen. Many of them navigated through the Strait of Gibraltar from the Mediterranean, into the open Atlantic, and back. The Jean Danjou II was no exception. Law-enforcement agencies knew she docked in Marbella but was registered to a corporation based in Switzerland. The owner was allegedly a major player in OPEC. This, of course, was false. The Swiss company was in reality the front for yet another business based in Portugal. This organization, too, was simply a cog in a third layer of deception, but it had connections to a conglomerate of banks in the Cayman Islands. In short, no one had any idea who really owned the yacht.