Raymond Benson - 2012 - Hitman: Damnation (2 page)

 
          
She
took three steps at a time. When she got to the first-floor landing, one of the
men shouted, “There she is!” Diana took hold of the railing, deftly catapulted
her body over it, and dropped twenty feet to the ground. She landed hard on the
soles of her feet, winced with the pain, and kept moving.

 
          
That’s
when the gunfire began.

 
          
She
grabbed her bag, rounded the corner of the hotel, and ran into the traffic on
the street. Drivers slammed on the brakes and honked horns. Bullets whizzed
past her, dotting the pavement in her wake. By the time she was on the other
side of Rue Froissart, the men were in hot pursuit down the fire escape.

 
          
Diana
ducked into the Metro entrance at the corner, practically flew down the steps,
and reached the platform as the train pulled in to the station. The timing
couldn’t have been more perfect. She climbed aboard the train, pushed her way
through the crowd of passengers, found a seat, and collapsed into it. The doors
closed and she was away. Opening her bag, she found the Prada heels and put
them on. Now she was just another ordinary classy
Parisienne
commuting through the busy city. She was confident that the Agency would not be
able to trace her movements once she got to her destination. The route was
secure and airtight. Perhaps fate really was on her side.

 
          
She
took a deep breath and then felt a pang of regret. She hadn’t meant to abandon
47, but she’d had no choice.

 
          
Sorry,
old friend, she thought. I hope you’ll understand one day. Send positive
thoughts my way, if you’re capable of doing such a thing.

 
          
Goodbye—and
good luck.

 
          
ONE

 
          
TWELVE
MONTHS LATER

 
          
It
was always a variation of the same dream.

 
          
This
time I was, what, thirteen years old? Yes.
Thirteen.
I
recognized the asylum’s corridors and I passed a framed portrait of my
father—one of them, anyway—Dr. Ort-Meyer. I saw my reflection in the glass, and
it was how I remembered myself at that age.

 
          
But
where was everyone? The asylum was empty. My footsteps echoed as if I were in a
cavern.

 
          
I
thought to myself that I should run. He was coming, but I hadn’t perceived him
yet. Usually I felt him coming. It was a sensation I was unable to describe,
but I knew he was there. Just around the corner.
Coming for
me.

 
          
So
I ran.

 
          
And
then he was behind me, appearing out of nowhere. I could practically smell him.
I could feel the coldness. It was always cold when he was nearby.

 
          
I
dared to look over my shoulder as I ran. The dark figure was faceless, as
usual. Almost as if he were only a shadow, but I knew better.

 
          
He
was Death.

 
          
No
question about it. Death had been coming for me in my dreams for a long time
now.

 
          
I
ran faster. I was fairly certain I could stay ahead of him, but the temperature
around me grew colder. He was closer. How did he come to move so fast? He was
getting better at the chase. He was learning.

 
          
But
I was learning too. Wasn’t I?

 
          
I
turned a corner and faced an interminable hallway. It disappeared into nothingness,
a long way away. Could I make it to the end before he caught me?

 
          
I
pushed forward and felt my legs working to put distance between the shadow and
me. Did I hear him calling me? How could he call me? I don’t have a name. Or
did I? I don’t remember.

 
          
Things
were always crazy in a dream.

 
          
Suddenly
my legs struggled to move. As if I
were
waist deep in
invisible quicksand. No matter how hard I tried, I could only step forward at
the pace of a snail. The muscles in my thighs and calves hurt from the exertion.

 
          
The
ice-cold breath was now on my neck. He was directly behind me, perhaps close
enough to reach out and touch me.

 
          
No!
I had to get away! I couldn’t let Death touch me.

 
          
I
sensed his hand, outstretched and ready to clasp my shoulder. The only thing I
could do was fall forward, as if I’d just toppled like a stack of building
blocks. But I didn’t fall fast enough; it was more like I was floating! Then I
felt the icy, stinging pressure of his fingers.

 
          
I
screamed as I landed on the hallway’s tiled floor …

 
          
…
and
I woke up.

 
          
The
disorientation lasted for a few seconds, as always.

 
          
That
unpleasant ball of bees in my chest felt as if it might explode. Some might
call it anxiety. I don’t know what it was for me. Whatever I chose to call it,
I didn’t like it.

 
          
I
immediately sat up in bed. The hotel room was dark. No, it was light outside. I
had the curtains closed. The digital clock on the nightstand read 5:43. I’d
meant to wake from the afternoon nap at 6:00. This had been happening a lot. My
internal alarm clock was all messed up. At least I awoke early and not too
late.

 
          
I
had a job to do.

 
          
I
stood and walked to the window. I carefully pulled back the drapes and peered
outside. The Caribbean sun was bright and hot. I saw men and women in bathing
attire. The resort’s pool was full of guests, splashing and cavorting. I knew
the beach would be crowded as well.

 
          
What
would it be like to put on swim trunks, walk outside, and join the other people
for fun? Ocho Rios, Jamaica! Didn’t every human being want to lie on a recliner
and relax with a piña colada while the sun baked your skin and turned it into
cancer cells? Attend the nightly dance and hook up with someone of the opposite
sex? Enjoy a weekend fling in paradise?

 
          
What
a stupid idea. I knew I wasn’t capable of that.

 
          
I
released the drapes and plunged the room into darkness again.

 
          
I
noticed that my hand was trembling. This always happened when I woke up. After
so many hours without a pill I got the shakes. Naked, I walked into the
bathroom and turned on the light. I reached for the plastic bottle I kept in a
pouch. I’d tossed it onto the counter after I’d checked in to the resort. I
tapped out a pill into the palm of my hand and popped it into my mouth. Then I
turned on the faucet, cupped my hands, and filled them with enough water to
chug down the medication.

 
          
My
reflection in the mirror stared back at me. I was certainly no longer thirteen
years old. I wasn’t sure how old I was, although I was “created” in 1964. That
was the downside of being a test-tube baby.

 
          
I
snapped the lid back on the pill bottle. There was no label. I’d obtained the
oxycodone
illegally, so there was no prescription
information. Besides, no doctor in his right mind would have prescribed these
powerful painkillers for as long as I’d been taking them.

 
          
I
supposed people would say I was addicted, but actually I could quit anytime I
wanted. I just didn’t want to. I was pretty sure that, because of how I’m
wired, the
oxycodone
didn’t affect me as it would a
“normal” person. I started taking the pills after the injury. I really needed
painkillers at the time. But even after I’d healed, I found I liked the
effects. The pills didn’t dope me up the way they would most people. Instead,
they cleared my head and calmed me down.

 
          
Granted,
if I didn’t take one after so many hours, I got a headache that was unbearable,
I became anxious and jittery, and I had vivid nightmares. I never used to
experience anxiety.
Never.
Now I did if I didn’t take
the pill. Did that mean I was addicted?
In my own way,
perhaps.

 
          
I
returned to the room. I had a boat to catch. I had a target to eliminate. I had
a job to do.
Time to get dressed.

 
          
I
knew I wasn’t operating at 100 percent. I wasn’t at the top of my game.
Ever since the accident.
Ever since Diana … It wasn’t good
for me to think about it, but sometimes I couldn’t help it.

 
          
The
difficulty was avoiding the Agency. They’d been trying to reach me. Messages
had come through the usual channels. I didn’t answer them. I had no desire to
work with ICA anymore. I was past my prime. I wasn’t the assassin I once was. I
knew that. It’s why I worked freelance now. It’s why I supported myself with
easy assignments like the one tonight.

 
          
Hector
Corado
.
Mediocre scum who
specialized in human trafficking.
And my employer, Roget, was just as
sleazy. But it was a job. And it was money. Not as much as I made with the
Agency, but it was enough. I really didn’t care about the money. As long as I
had the means to carry on each day and dress the way I liked, I was happy.

 
          
Happy.
What a concept.

 
          
If
I could laugh, I would have.

 
          
TWO

 
          
The
festivities were palpable on the beach of the Sandals Grande Ocho Rios Resort.
Swimsuit-clad men and women ran in and out of the warm blue-green water, others
played volleyball on the sand, and the rest reclined with drinks in hand as the
sun slowly descended to the horizon. It was the magical hour of the day in
Jamaica, the twilight time when the sky was painted orange-red, before it
turned coal black and was dotted with the twinkling of stars.

 
          
Agent
47 ignored it all as he made his way to the dock to board a small ferry that
would carry select VIPs to Fernandez’s yacht. Dressed in a black suit made of
the highest-quality light wool, a white cotton shirt, black leather gloves, and
the added accessory of a crimson-red tie, 47 knew that he looked exceptionally
sharp. The assassin took great pleasure in what he wore. After all, there were
so few things in the world he did enjoy. With his tall stature, sleek bald
head, and an enigmatic bar-code tattoo on the back of his neck, 47 was indeed a
striking figure. His appearance was appropriate for the occasion, since the
party aboard Fernandez’s yacht was by invitation only. The island’s rich,
famous, and infamous were to be the exclusive guests. 47’s employer, a man he
knew only as Roget, had secured an invite for 47 under the name “Michael
Brant.” His cover was simple—he was a European of undeterminable origin who had
made a fortune in water. It was a subject 47 didn’t have to know much about—water
was water, and it was easily bottled and sold. He would have no trouble fooling
Emilio Fernandez, the playboy billionaire who owned the yacht. Fernandez, who
made his money through dubious means, normally resided in Nassau but spent most
of his time on the boat, traveling from island to island and throwing
extravagant parties.

 
          
47
didn’t care about Fernandez or the party. His only interest was Hector
Corado
. The
intel
assured him that the criminal would be aboard as Fernandez’s special guest.

 
          
It
was a good thing 47’s employer had warned him that guests would be frisked and
would have to pass through a metal detector at the dock before boarding the
barge. Thus, 47 had left any and all weapons behind. He was armed with only the
clothes on his back and a thin line of carbon-
fiberwire
,
which wouldn’t be picked up by the metal detector or even a very intimate
frisking. In many ways, the
Fiberwire
was 47’s
trademark weapon.