Raymond Benson - 2012 - Hitman: Damnation (11 page)

 
          
47
pursed his lips. “That’s not impossible. Who’s the second target?”

 
          
“Charlie
Wilkins,” Travis said. “But you have to wait until the client gives the
go-ahead on him. Once Linder is dead, Wilkins may step up and run for president
himself. Or he may not. It depends on that. And because of the target’s high
profile but well-protected status, the client thinks the only way to get to him
is from the inside.
Undercover.”

 
          
“You
mean within the Church of Will?”

 
          
“That’s
right.”

 
          
47
wrinkled his brow. “That sounds … strange.”

 
          
“It’s
so a Church insider would appear to be responsible for the hit,” Jade said.
“That’s important to the client. As you know, sometimes a client’s motives are
not fully clear. It’s not our job to question why.”

 
          
“You’ll
have to do your homework on both targets. You’re the expert, 47. You’ll know
best how to play it. Jade and I will be your handlers. The Agency has set up
new networks around the world for equipment drop-off and pickup. And while you
have your own contacts in the field, we can supply you with new ones if you
want. We want you to run the show, 47. That’s part of the new way. You’ll find
the Agency to be a little different now. More accommodating to our
contractors.”

 
          
“I’ve
always ‘run the show,’ as you put it. Diana gave me full autonomy.”

 
          
“Then
we want to continue that policy.” Travis leaned forward. “We want you to trust
us, 47. We’re forging a new alliance here. The Agency is giving you a second
chance. You remember what the ICA’s policy is on contractors who go off the
grid as you did?”

 
          
“I’m
supposed to be eliminated,” 47 answered with a slight smile.

 
          
“That’s
correct. But that’s not how it’s going to work this time. We need you. I can’t
emphasize that enough. However …” Travis leaned back in his chair. “If you go
off the grid again, I can’t be responsible for how upper management responds.”

 
          
Agent
47 stared at Travis with cold, piercing eyes, until the manager looked away and
added, “Just saying.” There was silence in the room for a full minute. The
assassin knew he should say something but didn’t.

 
          
“All
right,” he finally announced. “I’m leaving for the States tomorrow.”

 
          
NINE

 
          
Park
Slope, Brooklyn.
A moderately affluent, relatively upscale
neighborhood of New York City.
Families.
Schools.
Brownstones and apartment
buildings.
Parks where folks walked dogs and watched
their children play.
Most would say it was an idyllic setting.

 
          
Agent
47, who had no reference for what he thought of as a “normal” family life, did
not recognize the setting as tranquil. To him, it was just another landscape of
conflicting morals, the pretension of happiness, and potential violence. The
assassin had learned at a very early age that the world was not his friend.
Traditional values and relationships were alien to him. Intellectually, he
understood that he was not ordinary, that he was a freak of nature, and that
what he practiced was not the standard of society. Despite his striking
appearance, Agent 47 had the ability to become a chameleon, blend in with the
masses, and play a role. If he had to be a typical American businessman for an
hour or two, he could do it. Should he have the need to be a butcher, a baker,
or a waiter, he could assume the identity with ease. If he had to exhibit
tenderness or compassion, or pretend that he had faith in God, then he could do
it. It was part of his tradecraft.

 
          
It
didn’t mean he had to believe it.

 
          
The
hitman
stood at the corner of 3rd Street and 7th
Avenue, watching the townhouse across the street, when the woman opened the
door and escorted her two children outside. He figured the boy was probably
seven. The little girl was younger, maybe five. They were bundled up for fall
morning weather and off to school.
First grade for the boy?
Preschool or kindergarten for the girl?
47
wasn’t
sure. He had never experienced that kind of public
education or social integration.

 
          
The
woman, who appeared to be an everyday housewife and mother, thirty-something
years old, took each kid’s hand and walked them down the block. 47 was patient.
He could wait for the woman to return. It wouldn’t be long. Drop the children
at school, kiss them goodbye, and promise to pick them up later in the day. He
figured she’d be back in ten or fifteen minutes.

 
          
The
assassin turned and stepped inside the café and ordered a large coffee, black.
He wondered why so many customers had to have fancy concoctions—a latte this or
that, a mocha
whatsit
, a
cuppa-cinno
however—when it was just the caffeine anyone wanted. They could be in and out
of the shop a lot quicker if they ordered simple coffee. But the whims and
desires of the average person meant nothing to 47; if he attempted to fit in,
he only found it awkward.

 
          
Dressed
in his signature black suit, white shirt, and red tie, he sat with his coffee,
his briefcase on the floor within reach, and watched through the window as
humanity passed by.

 
          
No
question about it. People were peculiar.

 
          
And
he was even more so.

 
          
The
woman returned to the townhouse exactly twelve minutes after she’d left. She fumbled
in her purse for her keys, unlocked the front door, and stepped inside. 47 knew
that the father of her children lived in Manhattan. The couple was divorced.

 
          
She
was alone.

 
          
The
assassin finished his coffee, threw away the cup, and stepped outside with his
briefcase.

 
          
It
was a beautiful, brisk day.

 
          
Time for business.

 
          
He
rang the doorbell as if he were a traveling salesman. After a moment, he
noticed the movement in the peephole. She knew he was there. He felt her
hesitate, and then she opened the door.

 
          
“Holy shit.
If it isn’t Agent 47,” she said.

 
          
“Cherry.”

 
          
“What
the hell? I heard you were dead.”

 
          
“Not
yet.”

 
          
She
looked him up and down, not sure if he was a ghost or not. After a moment’s
silence, she stepped aside and gestured inward. He moved past her and she
closed the door behind them.

 
          
Cherry
Jones was one of the many assets Agent 47 knew around the world. No one
suspected that this unassuming, everyday, divorced American mom was a
high-level arms dealer, drug distributor, and FBI informant, all rolled into
one. She appeared completely harmless, but 47 knew that Cherry was as lethal as
they came.

 
          
She
led him into the living room.
“Coffee?”

 
          
“I
just had some across the street.”

 
          
She
nodded, stepped into the kitchen, and poured herself a cup from a contraption
on the counter. When she returned to 47, she held the coffee in her left hand
and a Smith & Wesson in the right.

 
          
“What
brings you here, 47?” she asked.

 
          
“Put
that away, Cherry. I’m here on business.”

 
          
“I
thought perhaps you’d come to collect on that old debt.”

 
          
“And
I thought perhaps we could talk about that.”

 
          
“I
was going to pay you. Life interfered. I got divorced. I had two kids to
raise
. You disappeared. Like I said, I thought you were
dead.”

 
          
“Put
the gun away and let’s talk.” He set the briefcase on the floor and held out
his empty hands. “I’m not armed.”

 
          
“Liar.
You’re always armed. I just can’t see your weapons.”

 
          
He
allowed a slight grin to form on his face.
“Fair enough.”

 
          
Cherry
set the gun on a table and sat in a chair next to it. The Smith & Wesson
was easily within reach, and 47 knew she could grab it and fire a round in the
time it took most people’s brains to simply initiate the command to do so.

 
          
“What
do you want?” she asked.

 
          
“I
gave you a loan of a hundred thousand dollars,” he said as he pushed a toy fire
truck out of the way with his foot. He then sat on the sofa and crossed his
legs. “I’m willing to forgive that loan, but I need some equipment and some
information in a hurry.”

 
          
“I’m
low on equipment these days. Business sucks. The information depends on what
kind you want.”

 
          
“You
have access to classified material at the FBI. I know that computer of yours in
the basement is linked to their secure network. You can pull up any document,
any file, any photo, any report.
Right?”

 
          
“Maybe.”

 
          
“Let’s
go to the basement and I’ll tell you what I’m looking for. I’d also like to
browse what you do have in stock. There’s an item I need.”

 
          
“What
item?”

 
          
“I’ll
know it when I see it.”

 
          
Cherry
sipped her coffee. “And you’ll forget about the hundred grand? Just for a piece
of equipment and some classified FBI info?”

 
          
“Yes.”

 
          
“That’s
awfully big of you, 47.
All right.
Let’s go.” She
picked up the handgun and stood. “You don’t mind if I hold on to this, though,
do you?”

 
          
“If
it makes you more comfortable …”

 
          
She
jerked her head toward a door. Cherry opened it, revealing a staircase. 47
followed her down to a playroom full of toys, a flat-screen television, and a
treadmill. Cherry unlocked another door and led the
hitman
into a room that was obviously off-limits to her kids.

 
          
It
was full of weapons on tables and shelves.
Hightech
assault rifles, handguns, bazookas, grenades of all types and functions,
knives, swords, and small bombs.

 
          
“Here
we are, 47. Mayhem R Us,” she said with a chuckle.

 
          
“You
make a nice living, Cherry?”

 
          
“It’s
okay. Like I said, business is down.
Too much competition.”

 
          
The
assassin moved between the tables, examining the various pieces of hardware. He
stopped at the table containing the bombs and grenades. He picked one up and
turned it around in his hand.

 
          
“This
work?” he asked.

 
          
“Of
course it works. I mean, it’s not going to kill anyone, but it does what it’s
supposed to do.”