Raymond Benson - 2012 - Hitman: Damnation (43 page)

 
          
Stop
the bus! Where is the Will? Do it!

 
          
When
nothing happened, the reverend cursed at the sky and then snapped back to
reality. He had to get out of there. A paddleboat-rental facility was located
farther southeast along the shore. The parking lot for the attraction was now
between Wilkins and the basin. Many cars had taken up slots and therefore
created yet another barrier for the bus. That was promising, so the reverend
ran through the lot. But then he found himself dead-ended at the bank. What
next? He could run along the shore to the boathouse. That was it. He would be
safe there. He’d find a policeman or somebody who would protect him from the
madman on his heels.

 
          
The
Supreme One would intervene.

 
          
Wouldn’t
he?

 
          
It
was as if Agent 47 had put on blinders. Nothing in his peripheral vision was
significant. The crosshairs were on Charlie Wilkins as the man stood on the
basin shore like a deer caught in the headlights.

 
          
Finish
the job.

 
          
The
assassin didn’t let up on the gas. The bus was a locomotive, barreling across
the grass and into the parking lot. The yellow juggernaut crashed through
several parked vehicles, catapulting them in opposite directions as if they
were insects. Now nothing stood in the way of the
hitman
and his target.

 
          
Wilkins
dropped to his knees and folded his hands in front of him.

 
          
He
was praying.

 
          
How’s
that working out for you? 47 thought.

 
          
For
the assassin, the last two seconds stretched into a time slip. The fast-paced,
nonstop action suddenly switched to slow motion. All sounds ceased and were
replaced by a vacuum. Agent 47 was aware only of his own heartbeat as it
pounded in his chest and echoed in his brain.

 
          
He
locked eyes with Wilkins. For those brief moments, the two adversaries
understood each other. 47 saw that the confidence the reverend usually
displayed was gone. In its place were fear, despair, and the realization that
he had lost. Wilkins had lost his faith and it was replaced by the hand of
Death.

 
          
The
man opened his mouth to scream, but it was too late.

 
          
This
was it.

 
          
The
bus broke through the railing, sailed into the air six feet off the ground, and
then dropped in an arc. The behemoth’s front end smashed into Wilkins with
tremendous force and carried his body fifty feet over the water; then the
vehicle pierced the surface and disappeared into the dark green-brown
murkiness.

 
          
 
 
*

 
          
Emergency
crews worked feverishly for an hour to find Reverend Wilkins. Scuba divers
finally recovered the battered body and brought it ashore, where it was then
taken to the city morgue for an official autopsy.

 
          
Area
hospitals were overwhelmed by the influx of wounded rally attendees. It was too
early to tabulate the number of deaths.

 
          
Some
of the New Model Army men who were arrested had already begun to talk. The
truth of what happened was going to come out.

 
          
The
school bus was pulled out of the water and thoroughly examined by the FBI.
There was no trace of the driver. Divers continued to search the basin bottom
and found a lot of garbage, broken bottles, a couple of old tires, and other
odd items, but they uncovered no other corpses. One curious retrieved item,
which investigators didn’t attribute to the events of November 1, was an empty
briefcase bearing a strange fleur-de-lis insignia on its exterior.

 
          
A
few witnesses reported that it had all happened so quickly that they never saw
the man driving the bus. Even more onlookers claimed that no one was at the
wheel—that the figure in the driver’s seat was some kind of “faceless shadow.”
At any rate, the person who killed Charlie Wilkins had vanished.

 
          
It
was just one more mystery added to a list of many regarding that fateful day in
Washington, D.C.

 
         
THIRTY-NINE

 
          
The
Jean
Danjou
II gently rocked at anchor off the coast
of Sardinia. She had spent the last week island-hopping, perpetuating the
pretense that the yacht was owned by a wealthy tycoon who had nothing better to
do than sail around the Mediterranean for no reason at all.

 
          
Deep
within the ship’s bowels, however, it was business as usual in the Agency’s
command center. At least six different operations were active around the globe.
Handlers monitored their assassins’ progress every step of the way. Managers
initiated contracts with clients and supervised the handlers. The money poured
in to the ICA’s coffers. Personnel were paid, expenses were met, and life—and
death—went on.

 
          
Benjamin
Travis sat in his cabin/office studying the latest reports from America.

 
          
What
a mess …

 
          
He
hadn’t slept, had a cranium-busting headache, and was fighting a cold. On top
of that, upper management was pressuring him for an update on his pet project
and demanding answers for what was perceived as a monumental
screwup
in Washington, D.C.

 
          
The
Agency’s top assassin was missing. No one knew if Agent 47 was alive or dead.
Travis knew the operative well enough to believe that the
hitman
had gone into hiding.
Again.
Since law-enforcement
authorities in the States had failed to recover a body in D.C.’s Tidal Basin,
it could only mean that 47 had indeed escaped and was holed up somewhere,
biding his time.

 
          
The
fact of the matter was that the ICA’s greatest killer had succeeded against all
odds. No one could have pulled off the spectacular hit on Charlie Wilkins.
Sure, there was a tremendous amount of collateral damage. That was unfortunate
but, given the circumstances, unavoidable. That kind of thing came with the
territory. Nevertheless, the
hitman
had proven that
he was still at the top of his game.

 
          
Now
if they could only find him, bring him in, debrief, and move on to the next
stage.

 
          
Travis
was more concerned about the Diana
Burnwood
situation. Until the traitorous bitch was located, his pet project was in
jeopardy. Upper management was breathing down his neck. Where was the money
going? Where were the results? Why was he being so secretive?

 
          
He
didn’t want to tell them the truth. Travis couldn’t reveal what
Burnwood
had done. So far only a few select individuals
knew about it, and that was a few too many. Sooner or later, management would
find out, and Travis’s head would roll. Until then, he would work continuously
on damage control, spin tales, stall reports, and wait with frustration as Jade
did her magic. The lead to
Burnwood’s
whereabouts in
the
midwestern
United States seemed promising at
first, but the trail had gone cold. Travis had given his assistant a severe
reprimand, which the stoic woman brushed off as just another of her boss’s
outbursts. Jade was one tough customer. He knew that someday she would have his
job if he didn’t watch out.

 
          
The
manager stood, rubbed his weary red eyes, and moved to the stand where he kept
a coffeemaker. He poured a cup and swigged it down, black. He’d consumed so
much caffeine in the past several days that he had the shakes.

 
          
Travis
considered bailing. Pack a bag, get off at the next island, and try to
disappear. If
Burnwood
wasn’t found soon, then the
shit would indeed hit the fan. No one was simply fired from the Agency. They
didn’t hand out a pink slip and severance package. Failure had far more serious
consequences. He wouldn’t be able to just revamp a résumé and go knocking on
doors for new employment. It didn’t work that way in the ICA.

 
          
To
be an employee for the Agency, you put your life on the line. It’s why you were
paid the big bucks.

 
          
There
was a knock on the cabin door.

 
          
“Yeah?”

 
          
It
opened to reveal his assistant, looking marvelous as usual in her sexy business
suit, glasses, and high heels. Travis often fantasized about nailing Jade in a
moment of unbridled passion, but he knew it would never happen.

 
          
Dream
on, Travis, he thought to himself.

 
          
“What
is it?” he asked.

 
          
There
was a hint of a smile on her face.

 
          
“What?”

 
          
“You’d
better be ready to kiss my ass,” Jade said.

 
          
He
almost snapped at her, but Travis took a breath and calmly replied, “I really
don’t have time for this. What do you want?”

 
          
“You’ll
have time for this. We found her.”

 
          
Travis
blinked. “What?”

 
          
“
Burnwood
.
We got her. She’s in
Illinois, just like I thought. We know exactly where she is. And she’s got the
package with her.”

 
          
He
wanted to kiss the woman, but Travis refrained. “That’s excellent news.”

 
          
“I
thought it would make your day.”

 
          
“It
does. Now you know what your next priority is.”

 
          
“Find Agent 47.”

 
          
“Precisely.”

 
          
She
nodded, left the cabin, and closed the door.

 
          
Benjamin
Travis sighed with relief, went to his bunk, and lay down.

 
          
He
was finally able to sleep.

 
          
FORTY

 
          
The
sun was always hot and bright in the “sophisticated metropolitan capital of
Guadalajara,” as the travel brochures liked to describe it.

 
          
Sitting
in the shade of the outdoor bar at the Hotel
Universo
,
I sipped cold ice water and relished the fresh, warm air. I was content to do
nothing, and I’d practiced that pleasurable activity for a month.

 
          
I
felt fine. The gunshot wound on my right thigh was healing nicely. The
oxycodone
was completely out of my system, and I had no
desire to ever pop a pill again. It felt wonderful to sleep late every morning
and indulge myself with decadently expensive meals. Except for the daily
exercises that I’d performed habitually since I was a child, I absolutely
refused to do anything constructive.

 
          
The
Agency was trying to reach me; I knew that. I’d contact them in due time.
Luckily, they were unaware of this hideaway in Guadalajara. It was a necessary
destination after the events in Washington. I needed a new briefcase, and my
arms dealer in the city was the only man I trusted to accurately re-create
it—just as the guy had done nearly a year ago. Some might say it was nothing
short of miraculous that I managed to escape the States with both
Silverballers
and my
Fiberwire
.
The briefcase was more problematic, so I had to ditch it in the Tidal Basin.