Raymond Benson - 2012 - Hitman: Damnation (25 page)

 
          
“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.

 
          
“Frank,
I think he is dead,” I heard the driver say.

 
          
Frank
called to the truck guy, “Okay, Mac, let her rip!”

 
          
The
concrete mixer made a gurgling sound and started to sputter. Wet cement began
to pour out of the drum, down the chute, and into the foundation.

 
          
 
 
*

 
          
They
were going to bury me in concrete underneath a Charlie’s restaurant.

 
          
So
how was I going to play it? If I got up now, which I could do, it would still
take some time to get out of the restraints and climb up to ground level. By
then the guards could simply shoot me. They still had their side-arms on their
belts. Then there was the third guy, Mac. I didn’t know if he was armed too.

 
          
The
best course of action was surprise. I just hoped my improvised plan would work.

 
          
The
concrete dumped out fast. Already I felt the stuff inching up around my body.
In seconds I’d be covered with the thick muck. I waited … waited … until
exactly the right moment … when the cement was about to cover my face … and I
took a deep, deep breath.

 
          
A
minute later, I was completely covered. The wet concrete was heavy. They’d keep
filling the foundation until the cement was level with the ground. How much
time would it take? Could I hold my breath that long?

 
          
Concentrate
…

 
          
I
allowed my mind to drift back.
Back through the decades …