Raymond Benson - 2012 - Hitman: Damnation (8 page)

 
          
Where
was Diana?

 
          
The
assassin rolled to his side so that he could look up. The sun was terribly
bright, but the
Uvex
pocket goggles blocked out the
worst of the dangerous rays. Unfortunately, the sun was almost straight above
him. The glare prevented him from seeing the two guards that were headed his
way.

 
          
47
carefully wormed back to the cliff face so they wouldn’t see him. Once again he
tapped the earpiece. It was still working, because he heard static. No,
something was definitely wrong on Diana’s end.

 
          
It
had been a perilous mission. The Chinese general known as Nam Vo had come to
Nepal so that he would be in close proximity to Tibet. Nam Vo got his kicks by
sending a small force of military sadists across the border to terrorize
Tibetan villages. They raped women, tortured men, and left children starving.
Whether or not
Vo
was under orders from the Chinese
government, or if he had simply gone rogue, was unclear. All 47 knew was that a
“concerned party” had hired the Agency to assassinate the monster. Perhaps it
was a Tibetan resistance group. Maybe it was a wealthy activist in America or
Britain. Perhaps it was the Dalai Lama himself. Unlikely, but 47 didn’t really
care. Sometimes the Agency told him who the customer was and sometimes they
didn’t. More often the client was anonymous.

 
          
Formulating
the plan to assassinate Nam Vo on
Kangchenjunga
was
another dangerous component. Mountain climbing was hazardous enough when it was
done for sport. Throw in deadly weapons and a scheme to kill people, and it was
madness. Agent 47 wanted to figure out another way to get to
Vo
,
but Diana had insisted the man was unreachable. She had found out he liked to
climb, so she kept her eyes and ears to the ground in Nepal and eventually
learned about the expedition up the “
Kanch
,” as
locals called the peak.

 
          
Usually
she left the method and means to Agent 47, but this time she worked out the
plot. 47 would get a head start up the mountain so that he could be in position
to drop tons of snow and ice on the man. Making Nam Vo’s death appear to be an
accident—better yet, a natural disaster—was the key to the mission’s success.
Corrupt or not, the Chinese government wouldn’t take kindly to one of their top
military men being murdered. They would seek revenge. They could take it out on
Tibet or even Nepal. 47 hadn’t had a problem with it until now.

 
          
Where
was Diana?

 
          
After
he set off the boomer, 47
was
to move laterally across
the mountain face to a designated outcrop of stone. There, a helicopter from
Kathmandu would appear, hover above him, and lower a rope ladder. They’d be
gone before authorities had time to investigate the avalanche.

 
          
Had
the chopper left Kathmandu?
Surely not.
Diana was to
give the pilot the green light after 47 had successfully placed the boomer and
set off the sonic explosion.

 
          
Maybe
the satellite failed. That was it. Diana wouldn’t abandon him like that. She
was the only person on the planet that he almost trusted, and he had a serious
problem with trust. He had confidence in only one human being, and that was
himself.

 
          
His
inner clock told him it was nearly a quarter after one. He was late. If he
didn’t act soon, the mission would have to be aborted. Agent 47 never aborted
assignments. The concept was anathema to his soul.

 
          
Once
more the assassin crawled to the edge of the cliff. Nam Vo was probably a
hundred fifty feet below but still in the target range.

 
          
Where
was Diana?

 
          
The
sound of rapid gunfire jolted him. A string of powerful kicks punctured the
snow six inches from his head. 47 rolled to his side, and this time he saw
them. One man was dangling on a rope at such an angle that he had full view of
the ice cliff. The other guy was spotting him. The hanging man held an assault
rifle, probably a QBZ-95. 47 was a sitting duck.

 
          
The
assassin scrambled back to the cliff wall, but the Chinese bodyguard still had
a bead on him. The man fired again; bullets dotted the rock face as 47 hit the
snow and flattened his body as much as he could. There was no question—he had
to get out of there.

 
          
The
assault weapon’s noise would surely alert Nam Vo and his party. They would move
for cover and 47 would lose his chance. There was only one thing to do. Blindly
place the boomer and hope for the best.

 
          
Which is exactly what he did.

 
          
47
armed the device to start pulsing, and then he plunged it hard into the snow.
The tiny beacon resembled a metal stake. How long would it take before the
cliff gave way? The
hitman
didn’t want to stay and
find out.

 
          
More gunshots.

 
          
47
froze and backed up. He pulled a
Silverballer
from
his backpack, aimed at the suspended shooter, and fired.

 
          
A hit.
But not a kill.
The sun was
simply too strong. It was like trying to aim into a fireball and strike a dot.
Nevertheless, 47 heard the man yelp in pain. But the guy held on to the QBZ-95
and started firing again. 47 decided to go in the opposite direction from which
he was supposed to climb. It was the only way to avoid getting perforated. He
had no idea what the route would be like or where it would take him, but he had
to move.

 
          
Then
he felt a tremor.

 
          
Where
was Diana?

 
          
The
cliff rumbled beneath his legs.

 
          
Move!
Move! Now! Now!

 
          
But
the Chinese shooter blocked his way with a barrage of death.…

 
          
SEVEN

 
          
…
just
as the Learjet jerked hard, continuing its
plummet toward the sea.

 
          
Agent
47 broke out of his reverie and returned to the here and now. He was still
strapped to the seat in the plane’s cabin, utterly helpless. He considered
opening the emergency hatch and jumping out right before the aircraft hit the
water. Would he survive?
Possibly.
It was worth a try.
He had the life vest. If the fall didn’t kill him, he could inflate the vest in
the water.
Better than sitting there with a useless seat belt
across his waist.

 
          
He
unbuckled it and stood. The assassin clutched the back of the seats as he made
his way to the door, located just behind the cockpit. The plane lunged
brutally, throwing 47 to the floor. He pulled himself up to continue what might
be his final act, but then he remembered the briefcase. If he was going to die,
he wanted to perish with his beloved tools of the trade. The
hitman
retraced his steps, clumsily moving through the
cabin as the jet jerked and tilted erratically. When he reached his seat, 47
leaned over and grabbed the case with his adopted insignia, similar to a
fleur-de-lis, stamped on the outside.

 
          
Back to the door.

 
          
He
didn’t dare look out the window as he moved. How many seconds did he have left?
A minute or two?
Less?

 
          
It
took a near-superhuman effort to reach the hatch. The instructions for
emergency opening were printed on the interior. It wasn’t rocket science. Push
this lever and pull that one.

 
          
So
do it. What are you waiting for?

 
          
Push.
Pull.

 
          
The
hatch broke away from the fuselage and soared into space. A huge gush of wet
air nearly sucked Agent 47 out with it, but he held on to a safety handle on
the side and braced himself with his shoes against the frame.

 
          
Now
he could see the well of death below.
A thousand feet?
Less?
With the storm battering the doorway, it was
difficult to know for certain.

 
          
But
it was obvious he had only a few seconds left.

 
          
Jump!

 
          
If
he was going to do it, he had to do it now.

 
          
Jump!

 
          
Agent
47 thrust himself through the hatchway and was hit with a sledgehammer of rain
and wind. For a moment he didn’t think he was falling; he was aware only of
being suspended in the maelstrom. Incongruously, he sensed that he was still
clutching the briefcase in one hand. The assassin thought he saw the jet veer
off into the darkness above and beyond him, but he wasn’t sure. He was blind
and deaf from the raging hell around him.

 
          
For
no logical reason, he started to count to himself.

 
          
One
… two …

 
          
Was
he even moving? Was the frenetic, cold whirlwind spinning him around and
around?

 
          
Three
… four …

 
          
The
noise was unbearable. It was as if he were inside the roars of a thousand
beasts.

 
          
Five
… six …
sev
—

 
          
A
wall of freeze slammed into his body, and the cacophony abruptly ended. The
powerful wind ceased and was replaced by an envelope of frigid liquid.

 
          
For
a moment he might have lost consciousness. He wasn’t sure.

 
          
Relax.
Don’t fight it. Go limp.

 
          
Years
of training had conditioned Agent 47 to completely surrender to the sea. To
fight it would be disastrous. The only way to surface and catch the precious
oxygen above was to become a lifeless, weightless particle of ocean trash.

 
          
And
it worked.

 
          
Agent
47’s bald head broke the surface, and he gasped for breath. It was only then
that he kicked and moved his arms in an effort to tread. The ocean was indeed
rough and extremely dangerous.

 
          
Incredibly,
he still gripped the briefcase. It was as if the thing was in actuality an
outgrowth of his arm.

 
          
The
life jacket!

 
          
He
had almost forgotten it.

 
          
With
his free hand, he pulled the tube up and into his mouth. Blowing was extremely
difficult. It was hard enough to breathe normally in such conditions, and yet
he managed to do it. It took an eternity, but slowly the vest inflated and did
its job to keep the assassin afloat.

 
          
Completely
spent, Agent 47 allowed the roiling waves to carry him wherever they might,
yielding
to a blanket of black unawareness.

 
          
Voices
and noises murkily drifted in and out of his brain. As his eyelids blinked
open, blurry bright lights pierced his retinas like spears. He felt the urge to
cough, but the effort was a gurgling gasp. Hands were on him, pushing, pulling
…

 
          
He
heard the distinct words, “He’s alive!”

 
          
And
then he sank back into a cocoon of nothingness.

 
          
 
 
*