Raymond Benson - 2012 - Hitman: Damnation (34 page)

 
          
My
presence seemed to be some kind of solace to her, for she easily drifted back
to sleep. I waited a full ten minutes, until she was breathing slowly and
deeply, before I quietly got up and left the room.

 
          
I
found her purse in the living room, rummaged through it, and took her keycard.

 
          
As
I went from her apartment to my own, I thought about what I was doing. There
was no question that I was using her. My original scheme had succeeded. I had
become close to someone within the Church of Will and gained access to her
privacy. I had secured her trust and deceived her.

 
          
How
did I feel about that? Honestly, now that I was off the painkillers, I didn’t
care.

 
          
I
was back to my old self.

 
          
I
supposed I might be a cad, a charlatan, a liar … but I was also an assassin.
That’s what defined me.

 
          
And
yet a small part of me—an ounce of my heart, some grain of my soul—belonged to
Helen. She had reached inside me and touched a hidden nerve I never knew
existed. I was grateful for that.

 
          
It
proved to me that I was more than a machine, more than a genetic monster.

 
          
And,
right then and there, I vowed that I would not allow any harm to come to Helen
McAdams.

 
          
In
my apartment, I armed myself with the one
Silverballer
I’d taken from that locker at the airport. I’d also procured the C4, blasting
caps, and stopwatch I got from Birdie. I always knew these items would come in
handy. I was glad I’d left the briefcase in the locker. I had a feeling I
wouldn’t be returning to the apartment.

 
          
By
the time I left my place, it was eleven o’clock.

 
          
Charlie
Wilkins sat at the desk in his office every night at midnight so he could
“pray.” I don’t know what he got out of such a deed. It wasn’t my place to
judge someone’s beliefs, whether he or she was a good person or not. What
mattered to me was that his habit was a perfect opportunity to accomplish my
mission.

 
          
Outside
it was pitch black and the temperature was quite cool. The moon had disappeared
behind heavy clouds. The compound’s streetlights illuminated the various public
paths, but between buildings it was very dark. That would be my route.

 
          
Using
stealth techniques I had learned when I was a boy at Ort-Meyer’s asylum, I
moved from structure to structure like a black cat.
Silent
and swift.
Most of the residents were indoors. I heard some voices and
laughter in the distance, in the Main Street area, probably in the recreation
hall, where members could play pool, Ping-Pong, and other games until midnight.
There wasn’t a bar in Greenhill.

 
          
The
path up the hill to the electrified fence and gate was exposed and well lit.
That was unfortunate, but there was nothing else to do except walk with
purpose, as if I knew what I was doing. After all, I was a maintenance man. I
was sure I could come up with an excuse if a guard happened to stop me.

 
          
As
a matter of fact, a sentry patrolled the area outside the fence. I spotted him
as he passed the gate and slowly moved in the direction of the
toolshed
. He appeared bored and cold. He probably thought
it was unlikely there could ever be any trouble at Greenhill. But I didn’t want
him to see me, so I moved through the shadows to the shed and crouched on one
side. The man walked toward me and I waited. He paid no attention to his
surroundings. He was more interested in the lake and the black sky than
anything else. When he was within six feet, I made my move.

 
          
Pouncing
like a leopard, I moved in behind him, wrapped the
Fiberwire
around his neck, and pulled the ends.

 
          
Fast,
silent, and easy. He was out, but he’d live.

 
          
I
grabbed him under the arms and dragged him to the shed. I quickly unlocked it
and pulled the man inside. After stuffing him behind the lathe, I left and
secured the door behind me.

 
          
My
watch said it was 11:15. Not much time left.

 
          
I
strode with impunity up the path to the gate. Not wasting any time, I swiped
Helen’s keycard and went through. But as I headed toward the mansion, noises
from the barn attracted my attention. The lights were on in the building and
the doors were ajar. Someone drove a yellow school bus from the back and
stopped in front of the doors. A man got out to open the doors wider. The
driver then drove the bus inside.

 
          
I
wasn’t sure what that was about, but it made me curious enough to investigate.
Besides, I didn’t want to proceed with my plan if there was a chance that men
were up and about around the mansion.

 
          
So
I kept to the shadows and darted from cover to cover until I reached the side
of the building. I heard men talking inside. With my back to the exterior wall,
I inched to the corner and stood at the edge of the opening. I dared to lean sideways
and peer into the place.

 
          
There
were three school buses. I counted six men moving around them. On one side of
the space were several portable clothes racks made of steel pipes.
Dozens of uniforms on hangers.
U.S.
National Guard uniforms.

 
          
Interesting.

 
          
Were
these guys National Guardsmen? Somehow, I didn’t think so.

 
          
I
thought it best to stay on task, so I quietly moved away from the barn and
dashed back to the mansion. Now I was on the east side. Not much to look at
except a door that must have been an employee entrance or something, just like
what was on the west side of the place facing the gardens.
A
few windows.
I scanned the building for security cameras but didn’t see
any.

 
          
Slipping
around to the back, I heard the water lapping on the shore. The lake was very
near, and it wouldn’t be difficult to slip and fall in. There wasn’t anything
on the ground to protect someone from doing so. I guess they figured no one
would—or should—go to the back of the mansion, where Wilkins’s office was
located.

 
          
There
it was.
The wall-sized plate-glass window.
Bulletproof. The office was empty. I could see inside because it was dimly lit
with a single lamp. There was no exterior illumination; that would interfere
with Wilkins’s scenic view. I wondered where he was at that moment.
In his bedroom?
When would he come to the office to prepare
for his meditation? Whatever, I figured I needed to work quickly.

 
          
I
set about affixing the C4 bricks along the wall below the big window and across
the very bottom edge of the glass.
One at the east end, one
in the middle, and a third at the west end.
The C4 came with an adhesive
that stuck to anything when the thin film cover was removed. I inserted the
blasting caps into the puttylike substance and ran the wire along the ground,
connecting each brick and culminating at the third explosive. I then fastened
the wire to the stopwatch, which I programmed to go off at exactly 12:02 A.M.

 
          
Done.
Now to get back to Helen and—

 
          
My
cellphone
buzzed. I had it on silent ring, but I felt
it vibrate. I pulled it out of my pocket and checked the caller ID.

 
          
Helen.
She must have woken up and wondered where I’d gone. That was inopportune. I
didn’t answer it.

 
          
Looking
back at my handiwork, I checked that everything was in place. I was confident
the bricks were low enough on the window that Wilkins wouldn’t see them. Then I
moved to the southeast corner of the mansion, prepared to slip off into the
darkness and make my way back to Helen’s apartment. I was sure I could come up
with some excuse to tell her. I couldn’t sleep. I went for a walk. I had to go
back to my apartment for something.
Anything.
It
wasn’t a big problem.

 
          
But
as I rounded the corner, one of the mansion guards appeared near the front of
the building.
Out doing his rounds.

 
          
Between me and my path to safety.

 
         
THIRTY-ONE

 
          
It
wasn’t clear in which direction the guard was heading, so Agent 47 reversed his
route and headed for the back of the mansion. He took the chance to cross west
along the large window to the other side of the building. He thought perhaps
going through the gardens would be a safer route to the gate. Glancing inside
the office, he saw that Wilkins still had not arrived for his midnight prayer.
Surely the reverend wouldn’t skip his appointment that night?

 
          
Someone
had been watering the gardens, or maybe it had rained while the assassin was in
Cyprus. The ground was wet and muddy. He couldn’t help stepping in it. Not
good. Nevertheless, he reached the shrubbery and hid. The guard had been at the
mansion’s northeast corner. Would he patrol along the east side toward the back
of the house? Or would he cross in front to the west side? 47 thought it best
to stay put until he knew for certain. He checked his watch—11:38. Placing the
explosives had taken longer than he’d expected.

 
          
He
winced when he saw the guard appear at the northwest corner of the house. The
man began moving down the sidewalk on the west side between the mansion and the
gardens, toward the employee entrance there. How far would he go? Would he
notice the footprints the assassin had left in the mud? Would the man check the
back of the house? Would he see the C4?

 
          
Agent
47 held his breath and stayed still and silent.

 
          
The
guard approached the employee entrance.

 
          
Go
inside! The
hitman
silently willed.

 
          
The
man continued walking toward the back. He was almost to the end.

 
          
Maybe
the guard was daydreaming and not concentrating on his job, like the first man
47 had encountered that night.

 
          
The
sentry came to the end of the walk, right at the edge of the muddy spot at the
back. He stopped. He grabbed a flashlight from his belt, flicked it on, and
shone it on the ground.

 
          
He’d
seen the footprints.

 
          
Now
curious, the guard moved on, crossing the mud to the south side of the house.
He pointed the torch along the shore. Then he cast the light at the large
picture window.

 
          
That
was it. He would see the explosives.

 
          
Agent
47 removed the
Fiberwire
from his pocket and rushed
out from behind the shrubs. Moving quickly and stealthily, he reached the
guard, wrapped the wire around the man’s neck, and pulled hard. The sentry
dropped the flashlight and tried to scream, but the garrote mutated the sound
into a gurgling sputter. The man struggled and did his best to elbow and kick
backward at the assassin, but 47’s grip was too strong.

 
          
The
guard collapsed in the
hitman’s
arms in less than a
minute.

 
          
No
time to lose. 47 dragged the guard back to the garden and dumped the body
behind the shrubbery. His watch now read 11:46.

 
          
He
moved north through a row of shrubs toward the front of the mansion, reaching
the edge of the garden. He’d quickly dash to the gate and hustle back to
Helen’s apartment before—