Raymond Benson - 2012 - Hitman: Damnation (35 page)

 
          
He
froze where he was.

 
          
Helen
was at the gate, talking to a guard. She was dressed, had her purse in hand,
and gestured as if she had lost something. The guard swiped his keycard and the
gate opened. She went through and headed toward the mansion.

 
          
No!

 
          
47
didn’t want her anywhere near her office. The C4 would go off in a little over
ten minutes!

 
          
As
usual, she didn’t go through the front entrance. She headed around the west
side of the building and down the path to the employee door. The
hitman
watched with horror as she knocked on it since she
didn’t have her own keycard. Helen waited a moment and then knocked again much
louder. The door finally opened, and none other than Wilkins greeted her. 47
heard her explain that she’d somehow lost her key, that she couldn’t sleep, and
she decided to do some work. The reverend stepped aside for her to enter, and
then the door closed.

 
          
But
it didn’t snap shut. Wilkins obviously hadn’t pushed the door hard enough, so
it stood slightly ajar. Not locked.

 
          
47
had to get her out. That decision surprised him, for in the past he would have
walked away and paid little attention to collateral damage resulting from a
hit. This time, however, the destruction included Helen. He did care about her.
As much as he’d used her and lied to her, he had sincerely connected with her
in ways that the world’s greatest assassin had never experienced.

 
          
He
bolted out of his hiding place and darted to the door. 47 quietly and slowly
pushed it open and peered inside.

 
          
A
short foyer ended at a T-corridor, stretching north and south. He moved
forward, hugged the wall, and glanced into the passageway. To the north was a
short empty corridor that took a right turn. To the south, he saw Wilkins and
Helen turn left and disappear into another hallway. 47 followed them.

 
          
When
he reached the turn, they had disappeared. Office doors along the hallway were
closed. Which one was Helen’s? In the middle of the corridor, another long
passageway cut south.
Exactly where Wilkins’s office would
be.

 
          
The
hitman
headed there, peripherally noticing the
religious artwork and sculptures that lined the walls. The door at the end was
open. 47 drew the
Silverballer
, flattened against the
side, and moved commando-style to the threshold. A quick look inside—and he saw
that the reverend wasn’t there. The room was full of plants and more religious
artwork. The luxurious space was dimly lit, just as it had been earlier. The
picture window looked out at darkness. The assassin figured that Wilkins
probably turned out the interior lights when he prayed so that he could get a
good view of the water.

 
          
He
looked at his watch—11:50.

 
          
“I’m
going downstairs and don’t wish to be disturbed,” announced a familiar smooth
voice. It came from the east–west hallway where the office doors were located.

 
          
Wilkins.

 
          
If
the reverend was “going downstairs,” did that mean he wasn’t going to pray that
night? Would the explosives be for naught?

 
          
Forget
about the C4.

 
          
The
assassin chose to kill the man as soon as he saw him.
A
double tap.
A bullet to the chest and one to the head.
He had to go to plan B. Improvise. It was what he was good at.

 
          
With
weapon in hand, 47 moved back up the ornate corridor and reached the
T-intersection. He saw Wilkins round the corner to the east. The
hitman
followed him, reached the end, and turned north. No
sign of the man, but there was a stairwell a few feet ahead and to the left.
The sound of Wilkins’s footsteps descending to a basement level echoed against
the walls. The killer took the stairs and crept to the lower landing, waited a
second, and then continued to the bottom. The only direction to go was an
east–west concrete hallway parallel to the one above. 47 followed it until he
reached yet another southward tunnel leading to a door identical to the one to
Wilkins’s office. Words on the outside read: PRIVATE—AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.
It was ajar, and flickering candlelight streamed through the opening.

 
          
47
skulked forward. There was music coming from the room beyond.
Classical music.
Schubert.
Ave Maria.
A piece that had many connections to the
hitman
and
one that was extremely personal to him.

 
          
A coincidence?

 
          
Too late to back out now.

 
          
The
assassin lightly pushed on the door, swinging it completely open.

 
          
The
entire room, which mirrored Wilkins’s office on the floor directly above it,
was lit by dozens of candles. Except for a fairly empty space in the middle of
the floor, there appeared to be hundreds of pieces of artwork stored there.
Stacks of painted canvases leaned against the walls. Statues littered the
place—reproductions of the Virgin Mary, Jesus,
Buddha
… The reverend knelt at a bizarre altar on the north end of the room, his back
to 47. The
hitman
had never seen anything like it. A
fresco adorned the entire north wall—it was a larger, near-perfect copy of a
detail from Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel painting in which God reaches out to
touch the index finger of Adam. Between the celebrity reverend and the fresco
were erected several other iconic religious images—a cross, the Star of David,
a Buddha, a green tapestry with the Arabic symbol for Allah, and others 47
didn’t recognize. Was Wilkins praying here instead of in his office?

 
          
47
stepped inside.

 
          
Two
men on either side of the door stepped out of darkness and aimed automatic
weapons at him.

 
          
A
third man, dressed in military camouflage, appeared from behind a concrete
column on the west side of the room. He held a handgun in his left hand; his
right one was
a prosthesis
.

 
          
“Drop
your weapon,” he commanded.

 
          
47
had no choice. He did.

 
          
“Kick
it over to me and raise your hands.”

 
          
The
hitman
complied.

 
          
Then
Wilkins stood and turned to face the assassin. He stepped forward and looked
the captive up and down.

 
          
“The
legendary Agent 47,” he said. “I thought you’d jump at the bait.”

 
         
THIRTY-TWO

 
          
Agent
47 narrowed his eyes at the reverend.

 
          
This
was a setup?

 
          
He
looked back at the man with the prosthesis.

 
          
Cromwell.

 
          
His
was the abnormally waxy face that appeared on telecasts made by the New Model
Army when they claimed responsibility for an attack. The man’s features were
obviously altered by plastic surgery. It seemed clear that Cromwell had seen
serious combat at some point, since he had lost an arm and walked with a limp.
The
hitman
instinctively knew that the man should not
be underestimated or taken for granted: He commanded a fierce militant force
that had wreaked havoc across the United States and succeeded in establishing a
mystique that had captured the imagination of the American people. Cromwell was
not only a clever military strategist but also a highly intelligent leader.

 
          
And a terrorist.

 
          
47
quickly scanned his immediate surroundings for a way out of the predicament,
but the room was too large. Apart from physically attacking his captors, which
would result in being shot, there was nothing he could do. Instead, he bent his
upraised arms enough so that he could see his watch.

 
          
It
was 11:53. Nine minutes to go.

 
          
Wilkins
turned to Cromwell and said, “At last we have the man who assassinated your
sister, Cromwell.”

 
          
The
militant’s nostrils flared and his eyes burned holes into 47.

 
          
Now
the killer understood. The picture had been there in front of him but he didn’t
have the final piece of the puzzle. Cromwell was Darren Shipley.
The brother of Dana Linder.
The marine who was missing in
action and presumed dead had in fact gone into hiding and changed his identity.

 
          
“Did
you kill my sister?” he asked 47.

 
          
The
hitman
didn’t answer.

 
          
“Of
course he did,” Wilkins said. “He works for the CIA and President Burdett. As I
told you, he’s part of a government conspiracy to wipe out the New Model Army,
the Church of Will, and me. He is here at Greenhill to assassinate me,
Cromwell. He infiltrated the Church by deceiving one of my employees. I am also
convinced he was somehow responsible for the death of my friend, the Colonel.”
At this, he turned his attention to 47. “Ashton probably deserved it, though, for
disobeying my orders when he and his guards grabbed you the other day. I
expressly told him I wanted you kept alive until I returned from Cyprus, but
being a man of initiative, he got a little carried away.”

 
          
So
that explains the business with almost being buried alive in cement, 47
thought.

 
          
“Inspector
Karopoulos
in Cyprus has confirmed that a tall
bellhop matching his build was seen in the hotel gym the night the Colonel
disappeared. Cromwell, this man is a professional
hitman
.”
The reverend looked at 47. “Do you deny it?”

 
          
The
killer remained silent.

 
          
“We
shall call the police after you are shot dead by my security team. We’ll tell
them that you attempted to end my life and my men acted accordingly. The world
media will learn how the current administration hired you to kill Dana Linder
and then sent you here to murder me. Such pitiful and atrocious reelection
strategy! Burdett won’t have a chance after this. Agent 47, Mr. Johnson, or
whatever your real name is
,
you’re looking at the next
President of the United States. But before you die, we will—”

 
          
A
distant female voice interrupted him. “Charlie?”

 
          
Helen.
Most likely calling from the stairwell outside the door.

 
          
The
reverend stiffened. “What the—” He lowered his voice to an angry whisper.
“What’s she doing down here? We can’t let her see him.” He moved past 47,
Cromwell, and the two armed men, and shouted through the door, “Helen? I’ll be
right there! Wait for me upstairs!” Wilkins turned to Cromwell. “He’s all
yours. Hurt him as much as you like, just don’t leave any marks. I wanted to
watch, but I have to see what that stupid woman wants, and it’s almost time for
me to pray, goddamn it. Prolong his pain until I return. Then shoot him. Be
sure to make it look like you were protecting me.”

 
          
“No
problem, sir,” Cromwell said with a grin.

 
          
Wilkins
slipped out the door and slammed it shut.

 
          
47
could have called out and warned her. Run, Helen! Get out of the building now!
The reverend is insane!