Raymond Benson

by Hitman: Damnation

  47 feigned distress and groaned, rolling a foot closer to the weapon. Cromwell didn’t notice as he continued his rant. “I’m gonna enjoy killing you. My superior officer was a lot like you. Smug and arrogant and in it only for the glory. We were ordered to destroy a building that I knew was simply a preschool center. Nothing but women and young kids inside. But the lieutenant was convinced they were hiding weapons and al-Qaeda operatives. He ordered me to burn it to the ground.”

  Cromwell approached 47 and crouched beside him. He whispered, “So I did what I was told. We were armed with Mk 153 SMAW rocket launchers. We had thermobaric novel explosives, SMAW-NEs. We were loaded and ready to fire at the building. The lieutenant was trigger-happy, and he gave the order over the radio to go ahead and fire. But then I saw a woman with a child in her arms standing by a window. I told the men to wait. I decided to defy orders and investigate. I wanted to be sure, you know? So I ran to the building, followed all the rules of entry into a possible hostile space, and it turned out I was right. No one there but frightened women and children.”

  Cromwell paused, stood, and took a deep breath. 47’s watch read 12:00. Was Wilkins in his office for his ritual prayer? What kind of damage would the C4 do to this basement room, which was directly underneath the blast point?

  “But the lieutenant couldn’t wait. He gave the order to fire. My men knew I was in there, but they followed orders. They fired four rounds of powerful incendiary explosives. The building went up in flames. I lost an arm, my leg was badly injured, and my face was mutilated. But I managed to crawl out the back and run. The women and children weren’t so lucky. I had no desire to go back to my so-called fellow marines. The media said I’d died a hero. But no one in the marines admitted it was ‘friendly fire.’ Hell, it was deliberate!”

  The time was 12:01. It was now or never.

  “I hid in Iraq and allowed the world to believe I was dead. The only ones who knew were Dana and Charlie. At that point, I hated our government. I hated our policies and our arrogance. So I decided to do something about it. I had money stashed away, but it was Charlie who helped me. He gave me the means to start a new life. I had plastic surgery, made my way back to the States, and became who I am today. Through social-media websites, I tapped into the current dissatisfaction that existed all over the country and invited men to join me. They came by the dozens. Ex-military men, mercenaries, and civilians who simply wanted to make a difference. The New Model Army was born. And, thanks to Charlie’s support, we grew and began our assault. We started the New Revolution!”

  47 managed to speak. His voice cracked as he forced his mouth to form words. “Darren … Did you know … Wilkins … had your father killed … so he could be with your mother?”

  Cromwell blinked and slowly turned his head toward his prisoner.

  “What the fuck did you say?” Again, a jab of the picana.

  47 shouted in agony, then gathered the strength to groan when his tormentor pulled the instrument away. “You know that, right?… Wilkins bumped off your father and covered it up—”

  Again, the picana. Over and over.

  “You lie!”

  The fact of the matter was that 47 took a gamble by suggesting the notion. The photos Jade had sent were telling. In the 1973 picture, Wendy Shipley held Wilkins’s hand while looking up at him lovingly. The 1974 photo indicated even greater intimacy. The hitman might not have had much experience in relationships, but he knew how to read body language. He would have bet a fortune that Wilkins and Mrs. Shipley had an affair. It was in her expression. Eric Shipley was the clueless, cuckolded husband.

  “No! No! I’ll kill you!” Cromwell spent the next ten seconds jabbing the picana into different parts of 47’s body, plunging knives of anguish through the hitman’s senses.

  Apparently the hitman had touched a nerve. Perhaps it was the truth.

  And then the clock struck 12:02.

  THIRTY-THREE

  When Helen awoke suddenly at 11:25, she was surprised to find herself in bed, completely dressed. Then she remembered that Stan had carried her there. She had drunk a little too much wine and was exhausted to begin with; the combination knocked her right out.

  “Stan?”

  When he didn’t answer, she forced herself to sit up. Was he in the living room? She heard the television, so he must have fallen asleep on the couch. Still a little groggy, Helen managed to stand and leave the bedroom. Sure enough, the TV was on, but Stan wasn’t in sight.

  “Stan?”

  He wasn’t in the kitchen either.

  At first she thought she should be perturbed at him for leaving, although she was the one who’d fallen asleep on him. But, then again, he’d also shown no interest in kissing or making out or even going to bed with her. He was an odd duck, and now that he had left her alone, she wasn’t sure what to think about him.

  After going to the bathroom and splashing water on her face, she found her cellphone on the coffee table and dialed his number.

  “This is Stan. Leave a message.”

  “Stan, where are you? I woke up and you were gone.” She looked at her watch. “It’s eleven thirty-five. Call me back. I’m awake. Sorry I passed out on you. I wish you hadn’t left, though. Anyway … uh, yeah, call me back.”

  She sat on the sofa and switched off the TV with the remote.

  What was she going to do about him? It was clear to her that she cared a great deal for him, and at first he seemed to share that sentiment toward her. And yet he was a “cold fish” when it came to intimacy. It was as if he didn’t know how to be a lover. And after her return from Cyprus he had acted differently. His former warmth toward her had vanished. His attitude this evening was detached and distant. Was there someone else in his life? No, Helen didn’t think that was possible. How many hints did she have to drop? Didn’t all men want to have sex? She had already ruled out that he might not like women, but, again, that didn’t feel right either. She had heard of some people being asexual. Perhaps that was the case with Stan. Whatever it was, there was something in his past that prevented him from letting go and being totally with her.

  Who was Stan Johnson?

  Helen considered undressing and going back to bed, but the fog of sleep had lifted. Now she was wide awake. What she really wanted was—

  Oh, no.

  The idea of shooting heroin suddenly occurred to her. Though she felt the urge from time to time, it had been largely absent for a few years. Now, though, the urge to get high was stronger than ever. Was it the anxiety over Stan that caused it? The last few days had been very stressful. When she was under pressure, whether it was from work or personal matters, she craved the drugs she’d fought so hard to forget.

  Think of the Will! The Will inside the soul!

  As much as she attempted to block it, the craving was more powerful than anything she’d experienced since quitting. If she’d possessed some, she would have definitely used it. If she’d had a source to phone, she would have certainly called.

  Find the Will! Fight the evil!

  She had to get busy. Occupy her mind. Distract herself with something. Anything.

  There was all that paperwork still to do up at the mansion. Charlie was probably there, getting ready for his nightly prayer in his office. He was leaving on a campaign trip in the morning. Why not go up the hill and do some work?

  Helen returned to the bathroom and freshened her makeup. Then she poured tap water into a cup and drank it. There were tranquilizers in the medicine cabinet, but she didn’t like to take them. The side effects were very unpleasant.

  What the heck. Stan didn’t love her, she’d be a spinster the rest of her life, and she was a drug addict.…

  She got the bottle of Xanax and took one.

  Back in the living room, she checked her mobile. Stan hadn’t returned her message. She stuck the phone in her purse, put on a jacket, and left the apartment.

  Fall was in full swing. Brown, red, yellow, and golden leaves littered the ground.
A chilly breeze spread through Greenhill as Helen walked up the hill to the fence. It wasn’t one of her favorite times of the year. Things died in the autumn. It was also the harbinger of the holiday season, which she dreaded. She hated the commercialism and phony “good cheer” that everyone put on. All her life she had been an outcast, a misfit, someone who’d never received a kiss under the mistletoe or had family with which to share presents. No man had ever given her a gift, wrapped and tied with a red bow. She was never invited to Christmas parties. When Helen was in college, strung out on drugs, her roommate flatly told her that she was “no fun,” and that’s why she was left out of so many social activities.

  There had been one man. A boy, really. He had introduced her to heroin. They had been intimate. They were in love. For a while.

  Then he overdosed and she fell into the darkest depression. After she dropped out of school, the drugs turned her into a misanthrope nobody wanted to know. Or love.

  Why was she dwelling on this? Was she that upset about Stan?

  She reached the gate and dug in her purse for the keycard. It wasn’t there. Frowning, she opened the bag wider and thoroughly searched it. She could have sworn she’d put it there. It’s where she always kept it. Had it fallen out? Was it in her apartment?

  Annoyed, she didn’t want to walk all the way back to her building, but there was nothing else she could do. Then she noticed one of the night guards patrolling in front of the fence to the west.

  “Excuse me!” she called and waved. The guard acknowledged her and hurried to see what she wanted. “I’m sorry, I can’t find my keycard. I must have lost it, or it’s in my apartment, and I don’t want to go back and look. It’s cold out. Can you let me in? I want to do some work for Charlie.”

  “Sure, Miss McAdams,” the guard said. She might not have many friends at Greenhill, but nearly everyone knew her. He used his card to unlock the gate, and Helen pushed through. She thanked him and walked up the path. As usual, she took the right fork and hurried up the west side of the mansion. When she got to the employees’ entrance, she could have kicked herself.

  She didn’t have her keycard! Duh!

  So Helen knocked. Surely Charlie or someone else was inside and would hear her. She knocked again, louder. And again. Finally, she heard Charlie’s voice.

  “Just a second!” Then, when he was closer to the door, “Who’s there?”

  “It’s Helen, Charlie. I don’t have my key!”

  The door opened and the reverend held it for her. “What are you doing here at this time of night?”

  “I couldn’t sleep, so I decided to catch up on some work. Sorry to disturb you.”

  “It’s not a problem.” He let the door go behind them as he ushered her inside. Usually Helen made sure the door was shut tightly and locked, but Wilkins had an arm around her shoulders and escorted her out of the foyer and into the corridor.

  “It’s almost prayer time,” she said.

  “Yes, it is. Helen, you really don’t have to be here. Why don’t you go on back home and try to sleep? You know the Will allows you to drift off when you concentrate properly.”

  “Charlie, that never works for me. Sorry.”

  He nodded as if he understood. “No need to apologize. It’s like meditation. Some people get it, some don’t. You’ll learn.”

  They reached her office. She said, “Call me if you need me.”

  “I’m going downstairs and don’t wish to be disturbed,” he said. “But I’ll be back up in time to pray.”

  He left her and moved on. She opened her office door, went inside, shut it behind her, flicked on the lights, and booted up her computer.

  Wilkins was leaving on the campaign trail. There was a lot to do. She had to work on itineraries, set up meetings, and make copies of speeches he had written. She needed to coordinate all the traveling logistics with the campaign committee. Helen wasn’t sure how much she could do that late at night with most businesses closed, but she would try.

  The clock on her wall read 11:51.

  Where was Stan?

  Once again, she pulled out her mobile and dialed his number.

  “This is Stan. Leave a message.”

  She chose not to do so. Instead, she hung up and focused on her computer monitor. Opening a folder, she stared at the text on the screen and sighed. She didn’t feel like working at all. What was wrong with her? Too anxious to sleep and too apathetic to work.

  It was all Stan’s fault.

  The office phone rang. The blinking light indicated it was Charlie’s “hot” line, as opposed to the regular office line. He gave the number out only to important people to whom he’d want to talk no matter what. She picked up the receiver.

  “Charlie Wilkins’s office,” she announced.

  “Who is this?”

  “Helen McAdams, personal assistant to Reverend Wilkins.”

  The man spoke in a thick accent. “This is Inspector Karopoulos calling from Cyprus. I expected him to answer; I’m sorry. I need to speak to the reverend immediately. It is important.”

  Charlie didn’t want to be disturbed, but Helen thought this was serious enough to interrupt him. She asked the inspector to hold while she fetched him. Helen got up, left the office, and ran to the stairwell.

  “Charlie?” she called.

  No answer.

  She went down to the first landing and faced the basement floor below. There was no doubt the reverend was in the room that was off-limits to everyone but a few people. The storage space for all the alleged treasures.

  Louder. “Charlie?”

  After a moment, his voice came from behind the closed door. “Helen? I’ll be right there! Wait for me upstairs!”

  She did as he instructed, ascended to the ground floor, and lingered. Eventually he appeared. There was a strange, wild look in his eyes, and he didn’t appear happy.

  “What is it?” he snapped.

  “Inspector Karopoulos in Cyprus wants you on your hot line. He says it’s important.”

  Wilkins made a face and nodded. “Thank you, Helen. I’ll take it in your office, since that’s closer, if you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all.”

  She followed him as he hurried down the corridor to her open door. “Charlie? You haven’t seen Stan, have you?”

  Wilkins whirled around. “Who?”

  “Stan Johnson. You know, my friend? The new maintenance man?”

  “Oh, right. Stan. No, I haven’t. I’m a little busy, Helen.”

  He went into the office and shut the door, leaving her in the hallway. She could hear his voice inside but couldn’t understand what he was saying. Helen glanced at her watch. It was 11:59. Time for Charlie to pray in his office. Would he miss it? She supposed that it wasn’t a hard-and-fast necessity for him. After all, he could always pray at five minutes after the hour, or ten minutes after. What did it matter?

  The conversation in her office went on as she patiently waited. She felt awkward standing there. Perhaps she should go to the kitchen and get a cup of coffee or something. Maybe a snack. A candy bar out of the vending machine.

  The time was 12:01.

  She started to walk away when the door opened and Charlie stepped out. His face was red, as if he was struggling to keep an angry outburst in check.

  “Is everything all right, sir?” Helen asked.

  “Oh, yes, Helen,” he answered through clenched teeth. “Everything is just fine.”

  And then the clock struck 12:02.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  The entire building shook as if a tremendous earthquake had struck. The ceiling collapsed in huge chunks of concrete. The blast so surprised Cromwell that he dropped the picana and screamed like a baby. In his mind he was back in Iraq. Back inside that preschool center as it blew up around him.

  Despite my weakened state from the torture, I used that opportunity to leap for my Silverballer, which would have disappeared, buried under tons of falling rubble, had I not snatched it and continued to
roll toward the pillar. I was banking on the hope that the column was acting as a support and that perhaps it wouldn’t tumble, and I was right. Nevertheless, huge blocks of cinder hit me and showered around Cromwell. I hoped he’d be killed, but he kept on yelling and moving toward the door. I aimed the Silverballer at him, but a mass of ceiling dropped between us just as I squeezed the trigger. Looking back at the entrance, I saw that the two guards had been crushed to death by large lumps of concrete. The only way out was by climbing over the rubble to the door, which, surprisingly, still stood in its frame.

  Suddenly flames erupted around me. The explosion had ignited flammable material somewhere in Wilkins’s office or down here, and the whole room became an inferno. Once again, I heard Cromwell cry in terror. Fire must’ve been his Achilles’ heel, after his experience in Iraq. I couldn’t see him; the room was filled with smoke and dust. It was difficult to breathe. I knew I had to get out of there or I would perish in seconds. I shoved away from the pillar and blindly made my way toward the door. A large amount of wreckage blocked my way, so I scrambled up on top of it. From there I made out a dark human shape scrambling over the mountain of debris in front of the entrance. Cromwell. I pointed the handgun and fired. I was sure I missed as he disappeared on the other side. He was free. I stumbled and tripped off the junk I was on and landed in a patch of flames. My suit caught fire. Too pumped up on adrenaline to notice the pain, I simply rolled out of the blaze into a mound of dust and ceiling particles, which extinguished my burning clothes. I immediately got up and started climbing the ruins in front of the door. Once I made it down the other side, I found myself in the hallway outside the demolished room. I quickly took stock of my body. My clothes were singed and would need replacing, but I hadn’t suffered any serious burns. The Silverballer was still in hand. I had survived and was, as they say in America, ready to rumble.

  The space to the stairs was cloudy and thick with all that smoke and dust. It was still difficult to breathe. I thought the air would be better on the ground floor. The stairway was undamaged. No place to go but up.