Raymond Benson - 2012 - Hitman: Damnation (24 page)

 
          
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 alongside 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?”