Raymond Benson - 2012 - Hitman: Damnation (38 page)

 
          
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.

 
          
As
soon as I reached the top, one of Greenhill’s guards rushed past. I swiftly
pointed my gun at him, but he kept on running to the south. He was probably
intent on finding Wilkins and missed seeing me altogether. I figured he was
headed in the right direction, so I followed him. I darted to the corner and
looked west. About eight feet away, the same guard was aiming a Browning 9mm at
me! He must have heard me after all.

 
          
I
dropped to the floor as he fired. The bullet sliced the dusty air above me. In
less than a second, I aimed the
Silverballer
at him
with both hands by supporting my elbows on the floor. My two rounds struck the
chest and head. Double tap.

 
          
On
my feet again, I navigated toward the T-intersection to see if Wilkins was in
what was left of his office. The air was the worst that close to the blast
point. The long corridor was full of even thicker smoke and dust. All that
expensive artwork that lined the hallway—ruined. As far as I could tell, there
wasn’t much left of the south wall of the mansion, and Wilkins’s office was
completely destroyed. There was absolutely no way a human being could have
survived there.

 
          
I
turned back, reached the T-intersection, and ran into—

 
          
Helen and Wilkins.
Together.

 
          
They
appeared frightened.
In shock.
They seemed disoriented
and were coughing a lot but were otherwise unharmed.

 
          
I
should have raised the
Silverballer
and fired right
then and there. But Helen was standing next to him and was staring at me as if
she were looking at a monster. I have to admit that seeing her threw me. I
hesitated.

 
          
Wilkins
pointed at me and shouted, “There he is, Helen! The one I told you about! He’s
responsible for this! Agent 47! He’s a hired assassin from the government!”

 
          
I
held out my left hand. “Come with me, Helen, I’ll get you out of here.”

 
          
Tears
were in her eyes.

 
          
“Is
it true?” she asked.

 
          
“Come
on, Helen, there isn’t time. You have to get out of here.”

 
          
She
shook her head. “The inspector in Cyprus just confirmed who you are. The
bellhop you left tied up in a room identified you from photos. Stan, is it
true?”

 
          
I
saw two guards, way in back of her at the end of the hallway, running toward
us.
Guns drawn.
With my left hand, I instinctually
moved in and grabbed her by the wrist—one she had once taken a razor blade
to—and pulled her toward me. I raised the
Silverballer
while forcing her down at my side.
Two shots.
The
guards fell.

 
          
I
guess that answered her question.

 
          
She
cried out as if I’d stabbed her in the heart.

 
          
Actually,
I guess I had done that.

 
          
Never
mind. Wilkins had already taken off down the hall to the east. Helen wriggled
out of my grip and ran west. Both directions led to exits on those sides of the
house. Confident that Helen would make it to safety on her
own,
I chose to run after Wilkins.

 
          
The
atmosphere was so different outside it was like strapping on an oxygen mask and
breathing sweet, fresh air from a tank. Still, I didn’t rush out the door
without stopping first to see what was waiting for me out there. Sure enough,
two more guards were headed my way. I went down on one knee, held the grip with
both hands, and fired twice. The guards fell.

 
          
I
ran out onto the grass.

 
          
Wilkins
had already made it down to the gate. Helen had crossed from the east side of
the mansion to the front and would reach the gate in a few seconds. But I was
forced to abort the mission. There was no way I could follow them into the
compound. It seemed that the entire population of Greenhill was on the other
side of the fence. And a couple of dozen armed men were charging out of the
barn. But I knew who they really were.

 
          
The New Model Army.
And Cromwell was there, commanding them
to kill me.

 
          
So
I ran toward the lake. I’d survived in cold water before.

 
          
I
could do it again.

 
         
THIRTY-FIVE

 
          
When
he jumped into the frigid water, Agent 47 quickly tucked the
Silverballer
into the waist of his trousers and swam. He
swam, knowing his life depended on it. The men on the shore were looking for
him, but it was too dark on the water for them to see the escaping figure. He
figured they didn’t have a spotlight on hand to shine on the surface, or they
would have.

 
          
It
took nearly a half hour to reach a small island in the eastern half of the
lake. It was uninhabited.
Nothing but trees and rocks.
By then the police and fire-department personnel were swarming over Greenhill.
47 could see the lights and hear the sirens, so he still felt too close to the
compound for comfort. It wouldn’t be long before they sent out boats to look
for him. The roads around the shore would be monitored. He was a wanted man. He
had tried to kill a presidential candidate.

 
          
Badly
needing a rest but refusing one, the
hitman
walked to
the eastern side of the island. The opposite shore appeared to be approximately
three hundred feet away. He could swim that, no problem, so he did. The
assassin hated getting back in the cold water, but what was he going to do when
he emerged?

 
          
It
wasn’t as difficult as the first lap. He made it to the bank in five minutes
and climbed up.
Nothing but dense woods all around.
47
knew that County Road 658 was a couple of miles to the east, through the
forest. If he just headed in a straight line, eventually he would hit it. He
would worry about what to do next when he got there.

 
          
The
woods were dark and thick with rough terrain. Several times he thought he heard
animals. There were bears and other predators in the forest, and he didn’t
particularly want to meet any of them. The
Silverballer
was wet and most likely useless until he had the time to take it apart, dry it
out, and clean it. He had faced dangers in his career worse than bears, but it
wasn’t something he wanted on his résumé.

 
          
47
had a good sense of direction. Others would have easily become lost. Whenever
trees blocked his path, he went around them but was careful to return to the
line he’d been following. After a while he felt an extreme chill. His clothes
hadn’t dried yet. What he wouldn’t give for a cup of hot coffee at that moment.

 
          
He
trudged on. It wasn’t easy but necessary to avoid hypothermia.

 
          
It
was nearly morning when he finally reached the road. His watch told him it was
5:22. He felt as if three days had gone by since he sat across the dinner table
from Helen. Hard to believe that was only the previous evening.

 
          
County
Road 658, also called Brent Point Road, was a lonely north–south two-
laner
that wound through the forest, up and down slopes,
and connected nothing to nowhere. 47 chose to walk north. At least the going
was painless. He was hungry and thirsty but he was in one piece.

 
          
The
sun rose and the temperature increased slightly. His clothes finally dried, but
they were stiff and felt like sheets of ice on his skin. He had been walking
for more than an hour when he reached a fork in the road. County Road 658
continued north. Quarry Road jutted off southwest, toward Greenhill. Best not
go that way. 47 stayed on 658.

 
          
There
were a few houses along the highway there. Nice, expensive homes. The
hitman
considered picking one, knocking on the door, and
forcing the occupants to feed him and give him an automobile. But that was
something a desperate man would do.
A hardened criminal.
47 wasn’t a criminal.

 
          
Yeah,
right.

 
          
Brent
Point Road dead-ended at east–west Decatur Road, and it was there that a
Virginia State Police car slowly rounded the T-intersection.
A
silver
Dodge Charger. The driver noticed 47 across the street on 658 and
slowed even more.