Raymond Benson - 2012 - Hitman: Damnation (44 page)

 
          
I
owed my survival to three things: my physical prowess, which I’d always
maintained, except during that period a few months ago when I was a drug
addict; what Ort-Meyer used to call “tenacity”; and, well, luck.

 
          
Just
before the school bus had crashed into the water, I filled my lungs with as
much air as they could hold. As soon as the vehicle was submerged, I swam out
the door, with the
Silverballers
tucked into the
waist of my trousers. I dropped the briefcase on the basin floor and swam
toward that paddleboat place. I knew it was there. I’d mapped out all possible
escape routes beforehand.

 
          
I
didn’t come up for air for nearly five minutes. By then I was at the pier where
the little boats were docked. It was easy to steal one, for the attention of
every person in the facility was focused on the goings-on farther northwest,
where all the action was. No one noticed me paddling away and eventually
setting shore near the Titanic Memorial at the southern end of the long lake. I
rested and dried off there among the trees and then walked along P Street until
I found a taxi. The cab took me to the motel on the outskirts of the city where
I’d left changes of clothing, passports, and money. From there, it was easy to
leave the country under one of my many false identities.

 
          
I
didn’t look back.

 
          
The
temperature was very warm, so I decided to step inside and splash some cold
water on my face. As I did so, I stared at myself in the mirror and continued
to think about what happened.

 
          
The
aftermath of Wilkins’s debacle was significant. Captured New Model Army members
had revealed what they knew under interrogation. The body of Cromwell was
successfully identified as that of Darren Shipley by using dental records. The
truth of the reverend’s involvement with the NMA was revealed after the FBI
stormed Greenhill and thoroughly searched what was left of the mansion office.

 
          
The
election went on as scheduled. On November 4, Mark Burdett was reelected
president. He vowed to work toward healing the nation’s scars and meeting the
demands of the people. All but three America First Party congressmen were voted
out of office. The United States was back to a two-party country, and before
long it would be business as usual.

 
          
Not
that it mattered to me.

 
          
One
hundred ninety-three people died during the “National Mall Riot,” as it was
dubbed by the media. Seven hundred fifty-eight were wounded or maimed. After
all was said and done, the blame was placed solely on Charlie Wilkins.

 
          
He
deserved it.

 
          
Greenhill
was shut down and the remaining residents moved out. Other Church of Will
branches slowly fizzled. Every Charlie’s restaurant in the country was avoided
like the plague. The chain was on its way to bankruptcy and would close within
weeks. No American celebrity had suffered such a fall from grace as had
Reverend Charlie Wilkins.

 
          
I’d
laugh if I found it funny.

 
          
To
tell the truth, I paid little attention to the news from the States. My
thoughts did, however, occasionally settle on Helen McAdams.

 
          
Yes,
I missed her.

 
          
For
a while there, I thought I had the potential to be normal. It was an
interesting exercise. Granted, it was necessary for the assignment, but I had
never been that close to another human being before, both mentally and emotionally.

 
          
She
gave me something I’d never experienced in my life—the realization that I did
have emotions.

 
          
I
guess I failed her in a lot of ways. I betrayed her trust and I couldn’t keep
her out of harm’s way. I don’t know if there will be a judgment someday, but I
suppose that’ll be on my record. So be it.

 
          
I’m
who I am. I’m what I am. Nothing can change that.

 
          
I
know, because I finally figured out who the Faceless One is.
The
shadow man of my dreams.
Death.
His features
finally formed out of the blur one night as I slept. I recognized him
instantly. He was probably my only friend.

 
          
He
was me, you see.

 
          
I
was Death.

 
          
I
was damned for all time to be him. I always was and always will be.

 
          
Forever.

 
          
She
had rented the large mansion in Illinois for a song. With the real estate
market being what it was, it was impossible to sell a home but quite easy to
rent or buy. Her refuge was even more perfect because it was built on the edge
of a cliff overlooking Lake Michigan.

 
          
Diana
Burnwood
performed all the necessary due diligence,
covered her tracks, and set up her new identity with great care. For all
intents and purposes, county records showed that the structure was still
vacant. It was secluded enough that it was off the radar. No one knew where she
was. It was just her—and the package she had taken from the Agency.

 
          
As
she sat in a rocking chair on the wooden porch, wrapped in a fur blanket, and
watched the snow fall, Diana knew it was only a matter of time.

 
          
Her
days were numbered.

 
          
The
Agency would find her.

 
          
And
if Agent 47 was alive, they would send him.

 
          
It
was inevitable. The question was … when?

 
          
The
best she could do in the meantime was simply live. Take care of the package and
wait out the days and nights until that fateful moment of—

 
          
Absolution

       
The End