Raymond Benson - 2012 - Hitman: Damnation (14 page)

 
          
The
crowd cheered exuberantly when Wilkins’s face appeared.

 
          
“Greetings
to you all!” he said. “I’m sorry I can’t be there in person to join my good
friend Dana in Chicago. But I want you to know she has my endorsement, my
support, and my love! I’ve known Dana since she was a child. She and her
brother, Darren, God bless his soul, were parishioners under my tutelage and
guidance back in Maryland when the Church of Will was just a fledgling
organization. I knew then as I know now that Dana has the brains and the
leadership qualities to take this great nation back to its former glory. With
Dana Linder at the top, I assure you the United States will be number one
again. So let me now get out of your face, ’cause that’s enough of me. Allow me
to introduce the person who will lead the people of America to meet the values
and goals of the America First Party—Senator Dana Shipley Linder!”

 
          
The
horde erupted with noise. If there was any doubt that the candidate had
support, that notion quickly dissipated. Even the boos and catcalls from a
group of Democrats and a bunch of Republicans who had staked out separate
territories on the Great Lawn were drowned out and rendered ineffective.

 
          
Wilkins’s
broadcast disappeared from the TV screens as Dana Linder took the stage. She
was dressed in a smart business suit of muted colors. Her face took over the
giant monitors and beamed at the multitude. It took a full minute for the
audience to quiet down and let her speak. Her voice echoed through the park
with exuberance.

 
          
“My fellow Americans!”

 
          
More
cheers.

 
          
“And good afternoon, Chicago!”

 
          
Even bigger shouts.

 
          
“You
aren’t sports fans, are you?”

 
          
The
crowd went wild.

 
          
“Well,
how about this for sport? Come this November fourth, the people will put an
America First Party candidate in the White House!”

 
          
Tumultuous rejoicing.

 
          
Linder
continued with a carefully prepared, pep-rallying speech designed to incite
enthusiasm and excitement among her listeners.

 
          
The
woman with the stroller looked around the bridge and confirmed that all eyes
were on the pavilion stage.

 
          
The
moment had come. It was when time slowed down and every thought, every action,
seemed to last an eternity, and yet only a partial second elapsed with each
effort.

 
          
The
woman noted the flags waving on the poles and determined wind velocity and
direction. Perfect.

 
          
The
noise of Linder speaking ceased. The sound of the air became a vacuum.

 
          
As
she’d rehearsed faultlessly, the woman reached into the carriage and picked up
a
cellphone
. She quickly dialed a number and dropped
the mobile back inside.
An instant later, surprisingly loud,
popping explosions
went off in a trash barrel in the middle of the park.
The crowd around it screamed in fright, reacting to the sudden clamor. This
diverted everyone’s attention, including Linder’s.

 
          
The
woman on the bridge swung the weapon to position, resting the barrel on top of
the carriage in lieu of a tripod base. She bent her knees slightly and aimed.
Even through the sunglasses, she got a clear bead on Linder through the Schmidt
& Bender telescopic sight.

 
          
Linder’s
forehead appeared in the crosshairs. Her mouth was opening and closing,
uttering silent words blocked by the sniper’s sensitive discipline.

 
          
The
woman’s index finger touched the trigger. All it would take was a simple
squeeze. She took a split second to breathe, and then she instinctively and
efficiently applied the appropriate amount of pressure.

 
          
The
shot rang out over the bridge.

 
          
Without
looking to see if the target was hit—the woman knew she was—she reached into
her pocket and removed the smoke grenade obtained from Cherry Jones’s arsenal.
The woman pulled the pin and tossed it a few feet away from the baby carriage.
With a loud, thudding boom, a thick cloud of violet-colored smoke immediately
filled that section of the BP Bridge. Pedestrians screamed.

 
          
Time
resumed its normal pace.

 
          
Visibility
was reduced to zero. Then
came
the vocal reactions
from the crowd near the stage. Something had happened.
Something
bad.

 
          
Police
whistles.
Shouts.
Pandemonium.

 
          
It
took several minutes for the smoke to thin. By then, a large host of onlookers
had congregated at the foot of the bridge as uniformed officers desperately
tried to keep them back. They all shouted at once:

 
          
“Someone
shot Dana!”

 
          
“The
killer was on the bridge!”

 
          
“It
was a woman!”

 
          
“Where’d
she go?”

 
          
“What
happened?”

 
          
With
handgun drawn, one officer cautiously approached the stroller, which still
stood where the woman had abandoned it. He looked inside and found no
infant—just an M40A3 sniper rifle, a gray wig, a baseball cap, and a gray and
blue woman’s pantsuit that had literally been ripped off a body.

 
          
Agent
47, naturally bald-headed and now wearing his black suit—revealed after tearing
away the woman’s clothing—stood among the agitated crowd, participating in the
shouting and clamor. He was just another one of the herd, deftly blending in
with the chaos around him.

 
          
As
the police joined arms to force the crowd off the bridge, 47 slipped farther
south and onto the Great Lawn. The audience was straining to see the stage and
yearning for news of what had happened. The assassin slowly moved through them
as he also pretended to be a concerned supporter. The TV screens by the stage
had gone blank, and a group of campaign workers and police were huddled around
the fallen body of Dana Linder.

 
          
It
took nearly twenty minutes for 47 to make his way to the south side of the
lawn. He spied the trash barrel that police were now inspecting. The fireworks
the
hitman
had procured from Cherry had done the
trick once he had hooked up a firing cap with a
cellphone
detonator. They had supplied the appropriate amount of diversion. Pleased with
himself
, 47 moved on to AT&T Plaza, which contained the
famed Cloud Gate stainless-steel sculpture—commonly called by its nickname, the
“bean.” As Agent 47 looked up into its silver surface and adjusted his tie, he
saw a distorted, funhouse-like reflection of the mayhem going on behind him in
the park.

 
          
He
then calmly walked past the McCormick Tribune Plaza and Ice Rink, which was not
yet open for the winter, and onto the sidewalk of Michigan Avenue. From there,
he went to the Art Institute and spent the next two hours admiring the
world-class exhibits and killing time, seemingly oblivious to the horror that
had occurred in the park that day.

 
          
He’d
catch it on the evening news.

 
          
TWELVE

 
          
Helen
McAdams sat alone in her office in the Greenhill mansion, just down a long hall
and around the corner from Charlie Wilkins’s private space. She knew the boss
was extremely upset, as was everyone in the compound. Dana Linder had been like
a daughter to Wilkins. Helen felt terrible for the man.

 
          
The
killing had profoundly affected every member of the Church of Will. A gloomy
pall had settled on the compound in Virginia. It didn’t help that October
brought continuous rain, as heavy black clouds stubbornly hovered over
Aquia
Lake.

 
          
Worldwide
reaction was one of shock and disbelief. In the three days since the incident
in Chicago, conspiracy theories and rumors dominated the Internet, newspapers,
and television talk shows. The killer, of course, was not caught, and she—or
he—left little behind in the way of clues. There were no fingerprints or
telltale evidence on the baby stroller. The clothing and wig were useless—they
could have been purchased at any Target or
Walmart
in
the country. The only significant finding was that the M40A3 rifle at the scene
was registered to a soldier stationed at Fort Hood, Texas, although he had
reported, and the military confirmed, that the weapon was stolen a month
earlier. This development ignited the most popular conspiracy theory—that the
current administration was somehow responsible. The president ordered it. The
CIA executed it. Plenty of people believed that the government was so afraid of
the America First Party that they had utilized the last resort to win the
election. The White House categorically denied any involvement in Dana Linder’s
death.

 
          
Police
and FBI investigators had no leads. Witness testimonies were wildly contradictory.
A majority claimed that the shooter was a woman who vanished in a cloud of
smoke. Cooler heads suggested that the assassin was a man disguised as a woman.
Surveillance videos caught the killer in action, but analysts were still not
certain of the gender. After the smoke grenade detonated, all bets were off.
The huge crowd of people that swarmed the bridge made it impossible for
face-recognition software to do its job. The murderer had indeed disappeared
into thin air.

 
          
Helen
sighed forlornly as she read yet another incendiary blog on her computer. It
had been an emotional day. That morning, Wilkins had presided over a memorial
service in the Greenhill sanctuary. Dignitaries from all over the country,
including President Burdett, had attended. A poignant but loaded moment
occurred when the president expressed his deepest sympathy to Linder’s husband
and teenage boys, who were devastated with grief. Television cameras were not
allowed inside. After the service, the VIPs rushed away from the site, the
family went home to Maryland, and Wilkins blockaded himself in his office to
pray and reflect on the terrible occurrence.

 
          
Usually,
Helen was very busy when she was at work, but today there was nothing to do.
She thought about leaving the mansion and going back to her apartment. During
the sermon, Wilkins had told Church members they didn’t have to work and could
go home to grieve if they wished, but Helen wouldn’t budge from her desk. She
wanted to be there if Charlie needed her.

 
          
As
if Wilkins had read her thoughts, the intercom buzzed. Helen pressed the button
and asked, “Yes, sir?”

 
          
“Helen,
oh, you’re still there.”

 
          
“Yes, sir.
I’m here.”

 
          
“Could
you come down to my office? Are you busy?”

 
          
“No, sir.
I’ll be right there.”

 
          
Glad
she hadn’t gone
home,
Helen stood and walked out of
her office. Since the building was mostly empty, few lights were on. She went
ten feet to a T-intersection in the hallway, turned
left,
and proceeded down the dark twenty-five-foot corridor, which was lined with
religious artwork of diverse cultures and beliefs. Thin beams of flickering
illumination shone from the slightly ajar door to Wilkins’s executive space.

 
          
When
she reached the entrance, Helen knocked.

 
          
“Helen?
Come on in.”