Raymond Benson

by Hitman: Damnation

  “Very well,” he said. “The assassin assigned to your operation is the legendary Agent 47. If you indeed travel in the circles you claim, then I’m sure you’ve heard of him.”

  There was a pause. “Yes. I have heard of Agent 47. I thought he was dead.”

  “You are mistaken. Agent 47 is very much alive. So perhaps the name alone will give you everything you need to get a description of his appearance from other sources.”

  “Yes. I can do that. And he is at the Church of Will compound in Virginia now? The hit must appear—”

  “As an inside job, we know that. I told you, he is in place and ready to act on your orders.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Is that all, sir?”

  “For now. I’ll be in touch.”

  The communications link was abruptly broken. Travis slammed a fist on the desk. “Damn it! Who the hell is this son of a bitch? How in blazes does he have the ability to find out where we are?”

  Jade shrugged. “I honestly don’t know, sir, but I will put someone on it right away.”

  He pointed a finger at her. “Pull out all the stops. We have to find out who this is and act now. I don’t care if he’s a top-paying client. He’s a threat.” He narrowed his eyes at his assistant. “This has got to be that nutcase Cromwell. He bumps off Dana Linder and then kills Wilkins and he’s got all of America gunning for the government. He’s got that nationwide militia and who knows what kind of technical expertise behind him. He manages to lead small armies across America, and the ineffective government can’t find him. I’m going to make a call to upper management. And I want you to get a message to Agent 47. Tell him Cromwell is suspected of being the client and that he should be aware that the operation is starting to smell.”

  Jade stood. “I’ll get right on it.”

  “For God’s sake, can’t our analysts do more with that voice capture? We’ve got some of the best engineers on the planet and they can’t trace that call? Tell them heads will roll if they don’t get cracking.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  She quickly left the cabin as Travis sat there and steamed.

  Was Agent 47 in danger? Perhaps it was risky after all to place such a singular person undercover in a tightly knit religious community like Greenhill. While 47 was a man of complexity, it was a hard truth that the assassin wasn’t “normal.” For such a lengthy undercover job, it was essential that one appear to be ordinary.

  And yet, so far, the hitman was doing fine. He had been at Greenhill for two weeks and made much progress infiltrating the Wilkins inner circle. For a moment Travis considered recalling the hitman and aborting the assignment. After all, the manager wanted 47 alive, willing, and able to do the next job the Agency had in store for him.

  Especially since a very important piece of his pet project was missing from the laboratory in Chicago. The most important piece.

  That was what was really pissing him off.

  And it had to be Diana Burnwood who was responsible. She was the only one who’d known what the package was and how to get to it.

  Travis had to get it back. If Jade’s latest report was correct, then it was likely that Diana had hidden the package somewhere in the Midwest.

  During the nerve-racking months since Diana’s defection, Travis had covered up what had happened. Upper management didn’t know about it. Travis had managed to convince them there was a scientific problem that was stalling his project’s advancement. He counted on finding Diana soon and retrieving the specimen before anyone was the wiser.

  If he didn’t, his ass was on the line.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Agent 47 used the secure call-in number on his cellphone to check for messages from the Agency. Jade’s message was interesting. If Cromwell was indeed the client, then it wouldn’t make sense that he was connected to the Church of Will. There was still no concrete evidence of that, though.

  He popped an oxycodone pill and met Helen in the cafeteria for breakfast as he always did before they both reported to their jobs for the day. She wore the same simple blouse and skirt to work but managed to look fresh and pretty on a daily basis. In contrast to her, he had on dirty, greasy blue jeans and a flannel shirt. They were indeed an odd couple.

  “I spoke to Mitch about your situation,” she said as they dug in to an all-American morning meal—eggs, bacon, hash browns, and pancakes. “I think he had a word with Stuart, so hopefully things will change for you soon.”

  “Really? You didn’t have to do that.”

  “I know. But I could see you weren’t being treated fairly. Stuart can be … difficult.”

  47 shrugged and took a sip of hot coffee. “I appreciate it.”

  “Listen,” she said. “I’m leaving tonight with Charlie.”

  He looked up.

  “He’s coming back this afternoon and apparently we’re flying in his jet a little later. It’s for the campaign. He asked me to come along.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “I don’t know, he didn’t say! But he told me to bring clothes for warm weather and that I need my passport.”

  The hitman found that odd. Why would Charlie Wilkins leave the country if he were doing campaign business? At that moment, 47 decided that wherever Wilkins and his team were headed, he must follow. But it would be problematic. Greenhill’s airstrip was private. The only planes allowed in and out were Wilkins’s Learjet 85, a business-class aircraft capable of transcontinental flights, and guest VIPs with their own vessels.

  “Do you know when you’ll be back?” he asked.

  “It’s only for a couple of days, I think. Two or three nights.”

  “When do you leave?”

  “I’m supposed to be ready at the end of the workday. I don’t know if I’ll see you at dinner.”

  Stan Johnson placed a hand on her shoulder and said, “That’s all right. I’ll see you when you return.”

  She looked down at her plate. “I’ll miss you.”

  “I’ll miss you too.”

  When they finished their meals, 47 escorted Helen to the path leading up the hill, said an awkward goodbye, and then reported to the toolshed.

  Chambers told him that he’d be working in the mansion gardens for the day. Apparently Helen’s word to Carson had done the trick.

  “Winter’s coming, so you’ll need to clean up any of the already dead and fallen flowers,” Chambers outlined. “You’ll have a couple of hours in the restricted area. The other two guys will be mowing the lawn and raking leaves. You are not to venture anywhere near the house, do you understand? There are hidden security cameras, and I guarantee they’ll catch you if you try anything.”

  The man issued the instructions and warning as if 47 had a mental disability. The assassin said nothing. Inside, though, he was fuming, and he would have liked nothing better than to throttle the supervisor. Instead, the hitman merely nodded submissively and gathered his materials needed for the day.

  The toolshed was located behind and south of the apartment buildings, near a warehouse where large pieces of equipment such as the riding mowers were kept. 47 had been pleased to find the shed well stocked. Aside from the usual assortment of hammers, screwdrivers, and wrenches, there was a table saw, jigsaw, metal cutter, and lathe. A healthy supply of lumber was stored in the barn. But when 47 first started his job, the shed was a mess. One of his earliest duties at Greenhill was to reorganize the space and create outlined placeholders on the walls for every tool. He painstakingly arranged an improved, categorized bin-and-container system for holding nails, screws, electrical switches, and other hardware. He cleaned out excess rubbish and faulty equipment. When he took the initiative to repair some broken-down machinery, even Chambers was impressed. Thus, every day since he’d begun his job, 47 spent a little time in the shed perfecting what was becoming known as “Stan’s Place.”

  Now, finally, after two weeks, he was being allowed inside the electrified fence. With garden tools in hand, he marched south up the hill alon
gside his two mower-riding colleagues until they came to the gate. Chambers swiped his keycard, which produced a hard click, and then held the door open for the men to pass through. 47 noted that a couple of security guards stood in front of the guardhouse, watching them. They were armed and also carried batons on their belts.

  The gardens spread from the west side of the mansion to the back, where Wilkins’s office with the wall-sized window faced the lake. The first thing 47 did was perform a reconnaissance of the area. On the exterior mansion wall was an employee entrance and a paved path that led to the front of the building. There were a few windows. No security cameras that he could see. Perhaps the warning was bogus, just to intimidate workers. 47 was especially interested in the southern edge of the garden, where he could see and study the back of the mansion. There were plenty of manicured hedges on the garden perimeter that could serve as useful cover should he need it.

  The hitman set to work, mostly cutting away dead foliage and clearing leaves that had blown in from the trees. 47 found it relaxing. It also reminded him of the time he had spent in Italy, gardening for a priest who became a friend for a short time. At one point, the hitman found a rabbit hole, which he probably should have plugged, but 47 chose to leave it alone. He recalled his early-childhood pet rabbit that he’d nurtured at the asylum. The only time 47 had ever cried as a boy was when the animal died.

  “Johnson!”

  47 looked up. Chambers stood at the northern edge of the gardens with the two security guards he’d seen earlier.

  “Yeah?”

  “Come here! Now!”

  47’s senses prickled. Something was up.

  “Sure. Let me get my tools.”

  “Leave ’em! Just come here!”

  The assassin stepped out of the garden and walked alongside the mansion to where Chambers and the men waited.

  “The Colonel wants to see you.”

  47 played dumb. “Who’s he?”

  “You haven’t seen the Colonel? The military guy. Wears army clothes.”

  “Why does he want to see me?”

  “He wants to talk to you. These men will escort you.”

  The assassin looked at the two beefy guards. One of them jerked his head toward the guardhouse.

  “Is there a problem?” 47 asked.

  “Let’s go, bud,” one of them said.

  “Nothing to worry about, fella,” the other added.

  As they walked away, 47 looked back at Chambers. The man had a smirk on his face.

  There was no reason to believe he was in trouble, but 47’s instinct was to ready a weapon. Unfortunately, he had none on his person. If need be, he’d improvise.

  The guardhouse was a small, nondescript one-story ranch. When the trio walked inside, 47 was confronted with another uniformed man, who sat behind a desk. A door marked AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY and a security camera were the only features on the wall behind him. A few chairs in the space constituted a waiting area.

  One of the guards pointed to a chair and said, “Have a seat. The Colonel will be with you in a minute.” He swiped a keycard and went through the door, leaving the other guard standing next to the desk, watching 47. The hitman shrugged and sat.

  “You have any magazines?” 47 asked the guard behind the desk. The man shook his head but said nothing.

  The place was awfully quiet. A clock ticked somewhere.

  47 considered what he could use for a weapon. In his hands, even a magazine could be a deadly instrument. So could his fists, for that matter.

  Five minutes passed and the first guard returned. He held the door open and said, “Johnson. Come this way.” 47 stood and obeyed. The second guard stepped in behind the hitman and followed him through. On the other side of the door was a small hallway with two doors on one side and a single one at the end. The guards marched 47 to the end and knocked.

  “Come in,” barked a voice.

  The lead guard opened the door and let the assassin inside. The place looked more like a police interrogation room. Bare concrete walls and a single desk against the wall. Colonel Ashton sat behind it, a closed file folder and a notepad in front of him. The two guards stood in back of 47 after closing the door. There were no extra chairs.

  Ashton squinted at him. “Stan Johnson?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Sorry to take you away from your duties. It’s my job to have a chat with all new personnel, especially ones working in the restricted area. This is your first time in the restricted area?”

  47 nodded. “Yes.”

  “Where exactly are you from, Johnson?”

  “Iowa. Just outside Davenport.”

  “I understand you have—or had—a farm there?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Please tell me its location.”

  47 told him and Ashton jotted it down. There was, in fact, a closed farm at the address, and anyone who was curious enough to look into its ownership history would discover Stan Johnson’s name. Such was the efficiency of the Agency.

  “May I see your identification?” Ashton asked.

  The hitman patted his pockets. “I’m sorry. I don’t have it on me. It’s in my room. I normally don’t carry a wallet to work.”

  “You need to keep your ID on you at all times while you’re at Greenhill, Johnson. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Especially since you’re not who you say you are.”

  A shot of adrenaline burst through 47’s veins. “Sir?”

  Ashton slowly stood and added, “I said, especially since you’re not who you say you are, Agent 47.”

  Before the assassin could react, one of the guards clubbed him hard on the back of the head with his baton.

  By the time 47 collapsed onto the floor, he had lost all consciousness.

  TWENTY-THREE

  The first thing I was aware of was that it was dark. Night.

  The second thing was the rumbling, the vibration. I was in a moving vehicle, lying on a metal floor with my hands tied behind my back.

  I peeked through slitted eyes. My head was splitting with pain. I was careful not to move, though. If I was being watched, I wanted my captors to think I was still unconscious.

  It was a van. I was in the back of a van.

  The back of my head felt like it’d been chopped into two pieces. Did I have a concussion? Even though I had genetic superiority over my captors, I wasn’t infallible. I felt nauseated, but I fought the urge to vomit.

  My hands were tied—with what? Not rope. Not cuffs. Something thin and plastic but strong. Zip ties. Heavy-duty zip ties. Killers often used them to restrain their victims. Cheap and easy to find at the local hardware store. Even Birdie carried them.

  Two men in the van. A driver and a passenger. The two guards from Ashton’s office. Where were they taking me? I must have been out for hours, since it was now night. How long had we been driving? How far away from Greenhill were we?

  A flood of anxiety almost made me grunt aloud. But I held it in.

  The pills. They caused this. I never would have fallen for such an obvious trap before … before last year.

  Helen was right. I had to stop. They affected my brain after all. Made me slower. Made me dumber. I had to quit them. Throw them away. Go cold turkey.

  But I’d worry about that later. I had to deal with the current situation first.

  The van made a turn, and the feel of the road changed. The driver had exited a highway. I could see a little of the surroundings through the back window. Dark sky. Streetlights every now and then. We weren’t in a city, though.

  I thought about Helen. She was on her way somewhere in an airplane with Wilkins. What was going on at Greenhill? Was the client Cromwell, as the Agency now suspected? Who ratted me out? Did Wilkins know?

  The van slowed. We moved past a tall freestanding sign. I recognized the logo: A man’s white hair. The word CHARLIE’S beneath it. The message read: ANOTHER CHARLIE’S COMING SOON TO THIS LOCATION!

 
The passenger said something to the driver I couldn’t understand. The driver responded, “Is he still out?” I closed my eyes. I heard the passenger reply, “Looks like it. You sure you didn’t crack his skull?”

  “What does it matter?” the driver said. “Dead is dead.”

  The vehicle pulled to a stop. Both men got out of the van, went around to the back doors, and opened them. I stayed motionless.

  “Hey, Mac! Start her up!” one of them shouted.

  Some twenty or thirty feet away, I heard the sound of a vehicle rev up. Some kind of big industrial thing, like a semi truck.

  “Sleeping Beauty’s still out.”

  “Come on, let’s grab his legs.”

  I felt their hands grip my ankles and pull. With my hands tied behind my back, I couldn’t do much but let them. I needed to assess the situation before I attempted anything.

  They didn’t bother to grab my shoulders to carry me. My upper body fell to the ground, which was covered with gravel. Then they started to drag me by the legs, faceup. It wasn’t pleasant. The rocks and debris dug into my forearms and hands. I managed to peer out the slit of an open eye.

  It was a construction site at a rest stop on an interstate highway. The foundation for the restaurant had already been laid, but nothing else had been built on top. It was only a big pit in the ground, maybe eight or ten feet deep, with utility pipes and stuff in it. The truck noise I heard was a concrete-mixer transport. The big drum was rotating. Its chute was aimed at the pit, ready to fill it with cement. A third guy was sitting in the driver’s seat. A couple of floodlights were trained on the area so they could see what they were doing. From the road, I’m sure, nothing appeared suspicious. Just looked like workers doing night construction.

  They dropped my legs when I was at the edge of the foundation. Then one guy kicked my shoulders hard and I rolled off into the pit. I landed like a ton of bricks on the concrete floor. It took tremendous effort not to make a sound, even though it hurt—really hurt.