Raymond Benson - 2012 - Hitman: Damnation (26 page)

 
          
I
was eight years old.
At the asylum.
Training.
Learning how to be a killer.

 
          
Dr.
Ort-Meyer supervised my athletic exercises. He pushed me to extremes that no
ordinary child of that age could endure. Sometimes he took me to a tall cliff
and made me climb it. Other instances involved crawling through an artificial
jungle environment complete with bugs and snakes. This time, it was winter and
I was forced to drop into a hole in the ice that covered a pond on the asylum
grounds. My task was to jump in at one end, swim under the ice to the other
end, retrieve a baton that had been placed there before the surface froze, and
then swim back and climb out of the hole.
Holding my breath
the entire time.
The exercise would have taken an Olympic athlete four
minutes, maybe more. A very small percentage of the human race could hold its
breath for that amount of time.

 
          
I
was only eight years old, and I was no Olympian.

 
          
I
wore only swim trunks. It was probably around ten below zero Celsius outside.
My skin was turning blue and I wasn’t even in the water yet.

 
          
Ort-Meyer
held a stopwatch. “Take a deep breath,” he ordered. I did what I was told.
“Ready … set … GO!”

 
          
I
jumped into the frigid water. It felt as if dozens of needles assaulted my
skin. I wanted to shout from the shock of the cold. But I didn’t. I kept my
mouth closed. I kept the precious breath inside me. And I started to swim.
Under the ice.
Opening my eyes, I could see the whitish
crusty ceiling above my head. What was the length of the pond?
Maybe forty yards?
Not too bad. Not even half the size of an
American football field.

 
          
But
I had never done it before. I was frightened. My lungs already hurt, probably
more from the punishment my heart was taking by subjecting my body to such
dangerous temperatures than from any lack of air.

 
          
Still,
I swam. I swam as if my life depended on it, which it did. If I failed the
task, it was unlikely that Ort-Meyer would make any attempt to save me. He
would chalk it up to another experiment that didn’t quite measure up. He’d go back
to the drawing board and try a different cloning recipe.

 
          
Before
I knew it, I had reached the other side. The baton stuck out of a holder
embedded in the rock, just under the ice surface. I grabbed it and kicked off
the side of the pond, back toward the hole and to safety.

 
          
I
lost myself in the memory of the event. It helped me hold my breath as the
cement continued to pour on top of me. Concrete, ice—what was the difference?

 
          
There
was a moment before I reached the hole when I panicked. I remembered it
clearly. I didn’t particularly want to relive that part of the exercise,
because it was very unpleasant at the time. I thought I had veered off course
and couldn’t see the hole on the other side. There I was, back in my
eight-year-old body, as I frantically searched for the proper route. I wanted
to skip that part of the film in my head, edit it right out, and jump to the
part where I finally found the hole and climbed out to gulp some precious air.
But my reminiscence wouldn’t censor that scene. I found myself trapped under
the ice, terrified that I was about to drown. And I suddenly felt the familiar
anxiety that had been plaguing me since Nepal.

 
          
As
my younger self struggled in that dark, glacial netherworld, I beat on the ice
above me, hoping I could break it.

 
          
That
was impossible.

 
          
And
then I saw him.
Swimming toward me.

 
          
This
wasn’t how it happened! He wasn’t there then! My memory was lying to me!

 
          
The shadow man.
The faceless figure.
Death.
Swimming right at me.
Reaching out.
Ready to take me.

 
          
I
tried to swim away, but my hands were tied behind my back and I was no longer
in water. I was submerged in thick, wet cement, and it was more difficult to
maneuver in that substance than in quicksand.

 
          
The
dark black arms embraced me. They were strong and viselike. I struggled against
him, but I couldn’t move. I desperately wanted to see his face, though, so I
turned my head to look.

 
          
Nothing there.
Just a blank spot where
eyes, nose, and a mouth should be.

 
          
Death
had me.

 
          
No!

 
          
I
was aware that I was no longer lying on my side on the foundation floor. I was
squatting. I didn’t recall moving into that position, but I had done it.
Summoning every ounce of strength in my legs, I pushed off and upward. Death’s
arms released me. I was free! But it was like swimming through molasses. The
surface was close, yet so very far away. With my wrists bound, it was a near
hopeless dream.

 
          
But
I kicked my feet like a machine and slowly ascended, inches at a time.

 
          
I
sensed I was nearing the top.

 
          
Harder!
I had to kick harder!

 
          
And
then … at last … my head broke the surface and I gasped the lovely, valuable
oxygen. A surge of power coursed through my veins as I filled my lungs with the
warmth of …

 
          
Life.

 
          
I
climbed out of the pool of wet concrete and stood at the edge. I was covered in
the stuff. I must have looked like a monster. I was a walking gray thing.

 
          
First—I
had to get out of the restraints. As I’d told Birdie back in Chicago, they’re
breakable if you know how. They had a weakness, no matter if you were tied in
front or back. In this case, since my hands were behind me, I simply had to
bend forward at the waist so that my tailbone jutted out a bit. Then, I made
sure the little
cubelike
“lock” on the tie was
positioned in the center, between my wrists, on the inside of my arms. I had to
rub my tied hands against the back of my belt a few times in order to slide the
lock around to the appropriate spot. Then, even though it was somewhat awkward,
I raised my arms behind me as far as they would go—and I slammed them down
against my tailbone. The square lock was breakable if the right amount of force
was applied in just the right place.

 
          
I
was successful. My hands were free.

 
          
I
then wiped the mucky concrete off my eyes so I could see, but otherwise the
stuff was caked on.

 
          
The
van and cement truck were still there. The men were not in sight, but I heard
them laughing on the other side of the truck. Probably having a smoke or a
drink and celebrating. I trudged over to an area where stacks of lumber and
bricks were covered by plastic tarps. I found a two-by-four the length of a
baseball bat.

 
          
That
would do.

 
          
I
couldn’t move very quickly because of the goop all over me. It was already
starting to settle and dry. Nevertheless, I plodded over to the truck and listened.

 
          
“Pass
me that bottle.”

 
          
“Who
was this guy we buried, anyway?”

 
          
“I
don’t know. Ashton just told us to do the job and not to tell anyone,
especially not Reverend Wilkins.”

 
          
“What
time did the Colonel leave?”

 
          
“Seven,
I think.
Won’t be back for a couple of days.”

 
          
“So
we don’t have to be back till morning?”

 
          
“Let’s
get out of here. I know a good
titty
bar in
Alexandria.”

 
          
They
were getting out of there, all right.
Permanently.

 
          
I
stepped out in front of them. I must have been an awful sight. One man
screamed, and another yelled the F-word. I raised the two-by-four and brought
it down hard on the guy called Frank, who had the sense and reflexes to go for
his gun.

 
          
The
sound of his skull cracking was very, very loud.

 
          
The
guy they called Mac tried to bolt. I stuck my leg out and tripped him. By then
I was already swinging the two-by-four at the third man. He tried to duck, but
he wasn’t quick enough. The wooden club glanced off the top of his head but
didn’t do much damage. Mac started to crawl away, but I slammed my boot on top
of his back, pinning him down. At the same time, the face of the guy who’d
ducked was even with my elbow, so I jabbed it into his nose. He yelped and fell
back against the cement truck, giving me ample time to level the two-by-four
and swing it at him as if his head were a curveball.

 
          
Finally,
I directed my full attention to Mac, the truck driver. He didn’t seem to be a
guard; he had no weapon. Just a worker assigned the wrong duty at the wrong
place and at the wrong time.

 
          
That
wasn’t an excuse.

 
          
I
raised the club as if I were chopping wood.
Brought it down.
He stopped squirming soon enough.

 
          
With
that task completed, I scanned the construction site for something else I
needed and saw it near the piles of lumber. I clumped over to the hose, turned
on the water, and set about washing away the concrete that covered my body and
clothes. It took nearly ten minutes; in the end I was sopping wet but
completely clean.

 
          
All
the while, cars zoomed by on the expressway. There wasn’t much for them to see.
The bodies were behind the truck and I probably looked like an ordinary
construction worker. I figured I must be near Alexandria, since Tomato-Face had
mentioned it.

 
          
I
went back to the three dead men. One of them was the van driver, but I couldn’t
remember which one, so I searched their pockets until I came up with the keys,
and also took some money from a wallet. Then, one at a time, I picked them up
in my arms and carried them over to the rapidly drying pool of concrete. I dropped
them in. Plop, plop, plop. They sank to the bottom.

 
          
The
side of the van bore the legend GREENHILL SECURITY. I’d have to take it where I
wanted to go and then abandon the vehicle as soon as possible. I was still
puzzled by the turn of events. How did Colonel Ashton know who I was? From what
the guard said, it sounded like Wilkins wasn’t involved and didn’t know. Could
I be sure? Was Helen aware of it?

 
          
I
knew one thing, though. Well, two.

 
          
First—I
had to find out where Wilkins, Helen, Ashton, and his party flew. I had a score
to settle with the Colonel.

 
          
And
second—I wasn’t going to take any more
oxycodone
.

 
          
I
needed to be at my best.

 
         
TWENTY-FOUR

 
          
Once
he hit the road, Agent 47 found that he was in Pennsylvania, all the way up
near Harrisburg. He wanted to get back to the compound as quickly as possible,
but it was a long drive and he didn’t want to speed and risk being stopped by
law enforcement. The two guards would not be missed until the following day. 47
wasn’t
worried. He just didn’t feel well. His head
still hurt, and he had the shakes. The withdrawal from the painkillers was
already kicking in, with gusto. 47 stopped at a roadside Quik Mart to pick up a
bottle of Advil, which did little to alleviate the throbbing hell in the back
of his skull. He was more concerned about his reflexes, judgment, and
effectiveness as he fought the withdrawal symptoms. He knew that some people
went mad for a few days when kicking powerful addictive drugs. With his genetic
advantage, would his experience be as bad?
Worse?