Raymond Benson - 2012 - Hitman: Damnation (27 page)

 
          
He
drove to Frederick, Maryland, got on I-270, and headed for the Washington,
D.C., metro area. It would be the fastest route, especially at that time of
night. Eventually, he merged onto I-95 and shot south toward Greenhill. At two
in the morning he arrived in Stafford, the same small town where 47 had
poisoned the old maintenance man. 47 thought it best to wait until daylight
before attempting to get inside the compound. A visitor in the middle of the
night would attract too much attention. There were no guards at the
entrance—Greenhill was open to the public and was something of a tourist
destination—but to visit his apartment was another matter. From what he’d heard
at the restaurant site, it sounded as if only Ashton and the two guards knew
about him. But he couldn’t be too careful. Whatever the case, 47 wanted his
briefcase and clothes and was willing to risk being caught in order to retrieve
them.

 
          
The
assassin checked in to a roadside motel, hung up his still-damp clothes, and
took a long hot shower. 47 thought that if there was a paradise, then that was
it. After drying off, he crawled into bed. He knew that sleeping with a
concussion—which he feared he might have—was dangerous. Nevertheless, he was
dead tired and didn’t care. He turned out the light and was asleep within
minutes.

 
          
The
dreams and nightmares were vivid and disturbing. At various times Agent 47
thought he was being chased by various entities.
Death, as
usual, Colonel Ashton, and, oddly, Diana
Burnwood
.
He relived the incident in Nepal, this time with Helen bizarrely by his side.
When the Chinese bodyguard started to shoot at him, Helen was hit. Instead of
bloody bullet holes puncturing her body, crimson-red roses sprouted there in
the manner of time-lapse photography. Before he could reach out to her, 47
found
himself
running through the Church of Will
compound. He kept colliding with Charlie Wilkins, who smiled and raised his
eyebrow at him. The man held out his hand, palm upward, as if to offer solace
to a poor sinner. 47
was
inexplicably repelled by
Wilkins, so he turned and ran in another direction—until he bumped into the
reverend again. This sequence looped several times, as if 47 were in a maze
without an exit. Finally, though, he discovered a clear pathway between the
apartment buildings. But when he got to the end, the faceless figure of Death
was waiting for him.

 
          
47
awoke in a sweat. The shakes were worse than ever. He felt nauseated and
disoriented.

 
          
And
yet it was morning, 7:15 A.M., and he had a job to do. It was exactly when he’d
hoped to awaken. At least his internal clock still functioned.

 
          
The
clothes were more or less dry, so he put them on, checked out of the hotel, and
got back in the van. It had been untouched. 47 found it ironic that Stafford
was awfully close to Quantico, the headquarters of the FBI. Had anyone in that
organization known that the legendary Agent 47 from the International Contract
Agency was within miles of their buildings, there would have been a scramble to
see who could catch the
hitman
first.

 
          
47
left Stafford and boldly drove the van along the two-lane blacktop that ended
at Greenhill. As he approached the site, he noticed a turnoff onto a dirt road
just wide enough for the vehicle to traverse. Surprisingly, it was a back
entrance to Greenhill’s private airstrip. Wilkins and his team normally got
there by using a paved road that connected the compound with the area, which
was comprised of a hangar, small control tower, and runway. Apparently the dirt
road was a not-often-used rear entrance that snaked west through a dense forest
until it emptied onto the main road. 47 parked the van there, hidden among the
trees, and walked back. It wasn’t far to the compound.

 
          
It
was a normal, active morning at Greenhill, with Church members bustling about
and starting their day. Agent 47 calmly walked through Main Street, said hello
to a few familiar faces, and headed for his apartment building. All the while
he kept a lookout for security guards. The first one he came upon was
patrolling the front of the three housing units.

 
          
Now
was as good a time as any to test the waters.

 
          
The
hitman
nonchalantly strolled toward his building,
nodded at the guard, and entered. The man did nothing. 47 stalled for a moment
inside the building foyer and watched the guard. The man didn’t reach for his
walkie-talkie to report a sighting. He didn’t draw his gun. He simply continued
the slow pacing along the three buildings.

 
          
Good.

 
          
Agent
47 went to his room on the first floor, unlocked it with the key that had amazingly
remained in his pocket during his ordeal in the concrete pool, and entered.

 
          
The
place had been ransacked.

 
          
His
clothes were thrown about, all the drawers in the dressers were open, and the
closet was emptied.

 
          
That
figured.

 
          
He
changed into a clean set of work clothes, gathered the rest of his clothing,
folded it as neatly as possible, and packed it in the backpack. The black suit
was crumpled, but he could eventually get it pressed. After claiming his
belongings, 47 left the room and returned outside. The guard was down at the
third housing unit, so the
hitman
acted as if it was
business as usual and headed for the
toolshed
—Stan’s
Place. He used a key entrusted to him to get inside and locked the door behind
him.

 
          
Nothing
appeared disturbed. All the tools were in the proper places.

 
          
47
took a Phillips-head screwdriver, stooped beside the lathe, and unscrewed a
side panel on the base. The briefcase sat among the wires, next to the motor,
right where the
hitman
had stashed it.

 
          
He
replaced the panel and looked out the dirty window. The coast was clear. 47
moved to the door, reached to open it, and froze.

 
          
Voices outside.
Coming nearer.

 
          
“Stuart,
I’m glad I ran into you. Can you do me a favor?”

 
          
47
recognized the speaker. It was Mitch Carson.

 
          
“Sure,
what’s up?” Stuart Chambers.
47’s new nemesis.

 
          
“Charlie
called, and there’s a change in his flight plan. Can you run this envelope over
to the airstrip and give it to Louis? He should be there in the tower. I have
to be at a meeting in five minutes. You’re not too busy, are you?”

 
          
“No,
I can do it.”

 
          
“Thanks.
Oh, and tell him to come see me. I need to go over some things with him about
the upcoming campaign trip.”

 
          
47
couldn’t believe his luck. He could kill two birds with one stone, so to speak.

 
          
He
waited a few moments, looked out the window again, and saw Carson walking
toward the hill. As for Chambers, he climbed aboard one of the golf carts the
staff used to get around Greenhill. The man took off and headed for the paved
road to the airstrip.

 
          
47
stepped out of the shed, locked it, and jumped into one of the extra carts. The
key was in it. The
hitman
didn’t follow Chambers,
though. He took the long way out, through Main Street and out the front gate to
the main road. No one paid any attention to him.

 
          
He
reached the dirt turnoff within minutes. 47 passed the van and kept going until
he drove out of the woods and onto the tarmac surrounding the control tower.
The hangar that usually contained Wilkins’s plane was fifty yards away. The
runway lay perpendicular to the buildings, running north and south.

 
          
Chambers’s
cart was parked next to a Ford pickup, the only
other vehicle in front of the tower. 47 stopped his buggy around the back, got
out of the cart, and crept silently toward the building. He heard voices and
peered around the corner.

 
          
A
man 47 recognized but didn’t know stood smoking a cigarette and talking to
Chambers. Louis.
Probably the air-traffic controller and
manager of the tower and hangar.

 
          
“…
see
you too. Mitch asked if you’d come up to the house
when you have a chance,” Chambers said.

 
          
“Sure,
I could go now. Go on in. You can put the plan update there and I’ll take a
look when I get back.” Louis dropped the cigarette, stepped on it, and looked
at his watch. “See you later.”

 
          
Louis
hurried to his truck and drove off toward the compound. Chambers went inside
the control tower, carrying the envelope.

 
          
47
opened the briefcase and removed one handgun. He then stepped around to the
front door and listened.

 
          
Footsteps climbing a set of stairs.

 
          
The
hitman
quietly went inside and waited until Chambers
was all the way up the three flights. He then calmly and silently followed his
prey.

 
          
The
assassin peeked into the control room. A lone flight-control workstation faced
a window looking out at the runway. Chambers was there with his back to him,
searching through papers.

 
          
When
Chambers spun around, a
Silverballer
was pointed
directly at his face.

 
          
“What the fuck!?”
Chambers blurted.

 
          
“Quiet,”
47 said.

 
          
“What
the hell are you doing, Johnson?”

 
          
“I
said quiet. And raise your hands.”

 
          
Chambers
did as he was told, his eyes wide with fear.

 
          
“Where
is Wilkins?”

 
          
Chambers
couldn’t speak.

 
          
“Where
is Wilkins?”

 
          
The
supervisor shook his head. “I … I don’t know. They flew somewhere yesterday.”

 
          
47
nodded at the envelope on the station. “Open that and read it to me.”

 
          
Chambers
did so. “Uh, it’s, uh, a flight plan. Looks like they were going to come back
tomorrow, but they’re not coming back until the next day.”

 
          
“From where?”

 
          
“Uh,
Larnaca
?
I don’t know where
that is.”

 
          
Agent
47 did.
Larnaca
was the main airport in southern
Cyprus.
In the Mediterranean.
A long
way from the United States.

 
          
That
was a very strange campaign stop for a presidential candidate.

 
          
“Why
would Wilkins fly to Cyprus?”

 
          
Chambers
shrugged, his hands still raised. “I don’t know! That kind of stuff is above my
pay grade. Johnson, what are you—”

 
          
“Shut
up and answer my questions. What do you know about yesterday? When those guards
came to get me?”

 
          
Chambers
swallowed.
“Nothing!
I mean it. They just came to me
and said the Colonel wanted to talk to you.”

 
          
“You’re
lying.”