Raymond Benson

by Hitman: Damnation

  47 nodded at the bank of buttons, where only one number was lit. “Looks like you’re getting off where I am.”

  They rode silently. The hitman was careful to turn his body away from the bellhop to diminish the man’s ability to identify him later. When the car stopped, the employee said, “After you, sir.” 47 stepped out and held the doors open with his arm. “Thank you,” the bellhop said as he rolled the cart out.

  The assassin allowed the man to clear the elevator bay and start pushing the cart down the hall before setting out behind him. 47 followed the bellhop until the man reached the destination room. The hitman glanced around to verify that no one was looking, then moved swiftly behind the bellhop, wrapped his arm across the man’s neck, and applied pressure. The choke hold efficiently rendered the bellhop unconscious without a sound.

  The employee sagged in 47’s arms like a rag doll. The hitman unceremoniously dropped him on the cart, searched him for the keycard, unlocked the room, and rolled the cart inside. By now the bellhop started to stir. 47 dumped him on the bed and set to work removing the man’s uniform. When the bellhop regained ample consciousness, the assassin simply applied the choke hold again.

  In five minutes, 47 was dressed in the bellhop’s clothing. The hitman then removed sheets from the bed and used them to tie up and gag the employee. 47 left him on the bed, took his own discarded clothes in hand, and exited. He made a quick stop on his own floor to drop off the clothing in his room, then headed back to the first floor.

  The hitman used the bellhop’s keycard to gain entrance to the employees-only area. The place was crowded with hotel staff, so 47 kept his head down and moved with purpose, without looking anyone in the eyes. Hopefully others would just think he was a new employee.

  He found and stepped into an empty office and shut the door. It didn’t have a lock, so he’d have to take his chances. 47 sat behind the desk and booted the computer. After a moment, the Hilton splash screen appeared and he was inside the hotel records.

  47 worked quickly. The first thing he did was look up Wilkins’s account. He noted the reverend’s suite number and then studied the entire portfolio. Wilkins had reserved a conference room in the business center for the entire next day. Food for fourteen was being brought in. Wilkins planned to check out the following morning. Special comments indicated that Wilkins was a VIP and was afforded certain amenities others guests didn’t receive. For example, a Nicosia private security firm was providing additional protection, although Bruce Ashton was listed as the celebrity’s director of security.

  The hitman then looked up Helen McAdams’s account. He saw that her room was on the same floor as Wilkins’s. No special notes other than she was listed as part of Wilkins’s party. 47 then pulled up Bruce Ashton’s account. As expected, his room was on the same floor. The assassin smiled when he saw that the Colonel had reserved a massage in the spa for nine o’clock that evening. He’d been assigned a masseuse named Katharina. 47 quickly punched her cellphone number into his mobile.

  He checked the time—he’d been at the computer for ten minutes. 47 didn’t want to risk staying much longer, but he thought he’d quickly scan the names of all the guests registered that night. There were several hundred, of course, so he concentrated on any that sounded Russian. He found a few and memorized the names and room numbers. They were also listed as VIPs and had rooms near one another. The assassin then shut down the computer and left the room.

  He made it out of the employees’ area without incident, took the elevator to his floor, and went to his own suite. There he took his cellphone and activated the encrypted Agency app to search the database for the Russian names. One of them, Boris Komarovsky, was suspected to be the treasurer for the St. Petersburg Mafia. Another one, Vladimir Podovkin, apparently controlled funds for a criminal organization in Moscow.

  47 was astounded. The assignment was becoming more of a stink by the day. What was Wilkins up to? Why was he meeting with Russian criminals in Cyprus? Who were the other attendees? Jade had said the hotel had a few high-powered VIPs in attendance, including OPEC brokers and banking executives. Might they be involved with Wilkins too? What was going on?

  The killer thought about the bellhop he had left hogtied and gagged. Eventually the couple would come back to the hotel, go to their room, and discover him. Police would be brought in. The chances of being discovered would increase tenfold, especially with all the high-profile guests. Nevertheless, the hitman banked on the fact that it was a very large hotel. 47 was confident that, as long as he was diligent and made his moves with extreme caution, he would accomplish what he’d set out to do without being caught.

  At eight-thirty, 47, still dressed as a bellhop, went to the hotel spa and gym. Three private rooms were set aside for massages. Two were in use, so he went in to the empty one to check it out. There was a table, of course, covered in a sheet. A counter held different types of oils and lotions. Guests could hang clothing in a small closet. 47 studied the room for a moment and then stepped back into the gym. It wasn’t particularly large, but it contained a separate sauna, exercise equipment, Nautilus machines, and even a small track around the perimeter for walking and running. Since Cyprus was primarily an outdoor destination, the swimming pool and a larger track were located outside. Nevertheless, a number of guests were utilizing the facilities. 47 knew from experience that most people didn’t notice the majority of what went on around them, especially when they were involved in activities such as exercise or were concentrating on external stimuli such as iPods or the flat-screen televisions on the walls. The general population also tended to ignore menial laborers, such as waiters, janitors, maids—and bellhops.

  Next to the spa was a towel room. Clean, folded white towels embroidered with the Hilton logo were stacked on shelves, and a large bin for used ones sat on the floor. 47 set to “work” separating towels, folding them, unfolding them, and basically doing nothing except trying to look busy. As expected, no one in the gym paid any attention to him.

  The masseuse entered the gym at 8:50. Katharina was an attractive brunette, probably in her forties, attired in scrubs similar to what a nurse might wear. She went into the empty massage room, turned on the light, and then came over to 47 in the towel dispensary.

  “Hello,” she said as she grabbed a handful.

  47 grunted in response.

  She left and went back to her station.

  Five minutes later, Colonel Ashton appeared in the gym. He was dressed in a terry-cloth robe and slippers. He looked around, saw the massage rooms, and marched to the open door. 47 saw the masseuse shake his hand and gesture for him to lie down on the table. She then closed the door.

  The hitman waited five minutes and then dialed Katharina’s number on his mobile.

  “Yes?”

  “Is this Katharina?”

  “Yes?”

  “This is the concierge. You’re wanted in room 433. You’re late for an appointment.” He deliberately gave her the room number of one of the Russians.

  “What? I have an appointment. I’m with him now.”

  “There must be some mistake. This is a VIP’s reservation. The massage is booked in his suite. He specifically asked for you. Please go to him now. I’ll send another masseuse up to the gym immediately to take care of your client.”

  She sighed. “Very well. Room 433, you say?”

  “Yes. Please hurry. He’s already called twice.”

  “All right.”

  47 hung up and watched. After a moment, Katharina emerged from the massage room and closed the door behind her. Once she was out of the gym, the hitman made his move. He grabbed a handful of towels, strode across the floor with purpose, and opened the door. He shut it behind him after stepping inside.

  Ashton was lying naked on the table, facedown. He started to rise and turn his head so that he could approve the beauty taking Katharina’s place, but before he could register what was happening, 47 rammed the bundle of cloth into the man’s face. The hitman
then leaped onto the table and straddled Ashton’s back, simultaneously pulling the towels on either side of the Colonel’s head. The man’s scream was sufficiently muffled.

  But the assassin hadn’t counted on Ashton’s highly tuned reflexes and tremendous strength. He was a man in excellent physical shape, whereas 47 was suffering from oxycodone withdrawal and had spent the last year going a bit soft. Ashton managed to buck the hitman off him, knocking 47 to the floor. The naked man pulled the towels from around his face, threw them against the wall, and then climbed off the table.

  47’s cap had fallen off. He lay on his back, slightly dazed. Once again, the symptoms of sickness enveloped him, causing a momentary inertness.

  “You!”

  Ashton’s surprise at seeing a man he thought to be dead worked to 47’s advantage. The Colonel faltered too, for the man didn’t realize how vulnerable he was as he stood over the assassin. The pause provided 47 the precious seconds he needed to recover from the stun and see things clearly. The plan of attack was obvious.

  The hitman viciously kicked his leg up and slammed his shoe into Ashton’s groin. The Colonel yelled, this time a little too loudly for 47’s comfort. The killer jumped to his feet as his prey fell to his knees. Ashton’s face turned red from the agony, and his hands reflexively covered his privates, leaving him completely unprotected. 47 made a fist and delivered a right hook to the Colonel’s jaw, knocking the man against the massage table.

  The hitman retrieved the towels and continued what he’d started earlier. He wrapped a couple of them across Ashton’s head, then jerked the two ends of the towel with all his might, whiplashing his victim with such force that the neck snapped and severed the spinal cord. The Colonel went limp.

  47 took a breath and opened the small closet. It was empty. Ashton was heavy, but the hitman managed to carry and drop the body inside the cabinet. He had to stuff the man’s arms and legs within in order to properly shut the door. Then 47 smoothed his uniform, adjusted his cap, and left the massage room. Again, none of the guests using the exercise equipment paid any attention to him. They had not heard Ashton’s anguished cry of pain.

  Satisfied, the hitman strode across the floor and exited the gym—only to bump into Helen.

  Face-to-face.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  I rarely let the unexpected throw me, but that sure did.

  There she was, standing two feet in front of me, staring me right in the face. There was a moment, one of those awkward instances, when I wasn’t sure how to react. Probably a remnant of the drug withdrawal. I wasn’t thinking on my feet as quickly as I should have been.

  At any rate, I muttered, “Excuse me,” and moved past her. As if it were one of those clumsy incidents when you turn a corner and accidentally bump into someone.

  Then, behind me, I heard her call, “Stan?”

  I kept going. Didn’t even acknowledge it. Just continued my stride toward the elevators. I was wearing the bellhop uniform and cap. Perhaps she would think I merely resembled the Stan Johnson she knew, after which she’d realize I couldn’t possibly be him. A bellboy at a hotel in Cyprus? Impossible. Her imagination got the best of her.

  When I reached the corner and turned toward the elevator bay, I glanced back. She was gone. Apparently I was right. She must’ve chalked it up to a mistake on her part and moved on. I wondered if she was looking for Ashton? She wasn’t dressed for exercise.

  I took the elevator to my floor and went to my room. There was nothing more I could do until tomorrow. With Helen running around the building, I knew I had to be extra cautious. I didn’t want to run into her again. She might actually try to talk to me, the bellhop, and then I’d really be in trouble.

  It would be so much more convenient if I were given the green light to kill Wilkins now. I could accomplish it here and be done with it. I didn’t understand what the holdup was. I didn’t understand anything about this crazy assignment. The reverend did have me curious as to what he was doing in Cyprus, meeting with criminal types. And moneymen. I didn’t know much about American politics, but I thought it would be considered pretty shady for a presidential candidate, especially someone from the isolationist America First Party, to accept campaign dollars from such sources, if that’s what he was indeed doing.

  How long would it be before Ashton was missed? Would someone find him in the closet tonight? Tomorrow? What would Wilkins do?

  I also wondered how safe it was for me to go back to Greenhill. They were missing two security men, and their maintenance supervisor had broken his neck falling down some stairs. If Ashton had kept my identity to himself, then I was probably all right. The big question was whether or not Wilkins knew. I had to assume that he did and play my cards accordingly. On the other hand, I had to take the chance of going back in as Stan Johnson. It was still my best bet to get close enough to the reverend to take him out.

  There was also unfinished business with Helen. I had to risk returning to Greenhill for her. She was worth the gamble, and although it went against my grain, I thought I needed to protect her.

  When I bumped into her, I felt as if someone had hit me in the chest with a hammer. I’d never experienced that before. I was smart enough to know it was not a physical reaction but an emotional one.

  Emotions. I had some after all. Who would have thought?

  In the shower, I held my hand out flat in front of me. The shakes had diminished considerably. In fact, it was about as still as I’d seen it in months. Maybe I was kicking the painkillers faster than I thought. Then I realized the headache had disappeared as well. I hadn’t noticed that before. That was a good thing.

  I got into bed and fell into a much-needed sleep.

  The dreams were still vivid, though.

  I was back in my eight-year-old body. Little 47. From my name alone, I should have known from an even earlier age that something wasn’t right with me. Who named a child “47”? When I was much older, I learned I was called that because the last two digits on my bar code were four and seven. My bar code.

  So I inhabited my eight-year-old self again. I remembered the moment in question as if it were yesterday. I sat in the asylum garden near the big fountain. I’d finished with my training for the day, and I felt perturbed. I didn’t understand yet why the good doctor was making me do all that stuff. I didn’t like him. I didn’t like the staff. I didn’t like anybody.

  Then I saw it in the grass. A little snake. Slithering along, minding its own business.

  But I hated it. Why should that measly creature be free, when I wasn’t? I was stuck in the asylum and wasn’t allowed to leave. The snake could come and go as it pleased.

  With lightning-fast speed that surprised me, I jumped at the reptile and caught it in my bare hands. It was gray and about ten inches long. The creature slinked around and through my fingers. I’d never touched a snake before that. It was smoother than I expected, and yet it felt scaly and rough too. A very strange combination. I studied the thing and looked it directly in the eyes. A forked tongue rapidly slipped in and out of its mouth. It was almost as if it was asking, “Who are you? Why are you holding me? Are you my friend?”

  No. I was not your friend. Especially after you bit me.

  The anger rose in me. Frustration. Confusion. Coldness.

  Without thinking about it, I squeezed and crushed the snake in my hands. Its guts and bloodlike icky fluids dripped out over my skin.

  I wasn’t repelled.

  I threw the snake’s remains as far as I could. Then I sat down on the edge of the fountain and studied my palms. What had I just done? I’d killed a living thing. It bit me and I defended myself, but was that a good reason?

  Right then and there—I knew. It all became clear to me. I understood why I felt like an outcast. A lab specimen. A nonhuman.

  I was a born killer. I was engineered to do what I’d done.

  At first I was very depressed. Sad. But a minute later the anger returned. Real fury. And I stayed incensed for weeks. Dr
. Ort-Meyer kept asking me what was wrong. I told him I hated him. Several times. He laughed and patted my back, as if I was behaving exactly as he wanted. “Very good, very good!” he’d say.

  Then, in the dream I was having, I tried to escape the asylum much sooner than I really did. But everywhere I turned, there were iron bars blocking my way. I ran down a hall to flee from the violence I’d inflicted in my fantasies. Dead end. I turned around and tried a different route. More obstacles.

  I couldn’t get away from what I was: a killer.

  And then—there he was. Waiting for me at the end of a corridor.

  The Faceless One. Death. He beckoned me to come closer. I refused. I sensed that he was communicating with me. He was offering me a way out of my predicament.

  “What? How?” I screamed at him in my eight-year-old voice.

  Death held out his hand. He had one of my Silverballers. Loaded. Ready to go. Its beauty attracted me. The sleek gunmetal finish, the pearl handle, the pure art of its design. I moved closer to Death. Reached out. Took the weapon. It was heavy in my small hands. But it felt … wonderful.

  I peered up at Death, again trying to penetrate the blankness that covered his face. Who was he really? I was positive that he was someone I knew. Somebody familiar.

  You know what to do. He didn’t speak aloud, but I heard him in my head.

  The way out.

  Yes, I knew what to do, all right. I lifted the Silverballer and pointed the barrel at my right temple. All I had to do was squeeze the trigger and it’d all be over. I would be just another one of Ort-Meyer’s failed experiments. Let 48 or 49 or 50 be his pride and joy. Not me.

  Just pull the trigger. End it all.

  Now.

  Again, I woke up in a sweat.

  So the withdrawal symptoms hadn’t completely gone away.

  I held out my hand. No trembles. I mentally examined my body. No headache. No fatigue.

  Only the dreams. That’s all that was left.

  I had to beat them. I couldn’t stand them anymore. And there was only one way to do so.