Raymond Benson - 2012 - Hitman: Damnation (3 page)

 
          
Approximately
thirty people stood in the security line on the dock. Beefy guards armed with
automatic pistols on their belts ushered the men and women onto the barge after
clearance. Everyone was dressed to the nines. The men were handsome and exuded
power and wealth; the women were beautiful and exhibited entitlement and wanton
sexuality. The ferry had already made two round-trips to the yacht to deliver
party guests. Nearly three hundred people were expected aboard the massive
vessel. That was useful for 47. The more crowded the party was, the more likely
his job would go unnoticed. More important, the barge would continue to make
the return trip to shore every half hour for revelers who had reached their
partying limit.

 
          
As
the boat sailed slowly toward the yacht, 47 couldn’t help but be impressed. He
reckoned the Daphne was between three hundred seventy and four hundred feet
long and its tonnage most likely around five thousand. He’d been told the
Daphne traveled at nineteen knots per hour, which, given the size of the
cruiser, was quite fast. Built and designed by
Lürssen
in Germany and outfitted by
Blohm
& Voss, the
Daphne sported a large deck for parties, two swimming pools, and luxury cabins,
which were usually off-limits to anyone but Fernandez’s special overnight
guests. There was also a helipad, and 47 could discern the outline of the Bell
206 sitting upon it.

 
          
Corado’s
helicopter.

 
          
The
party was already going full swing by the time 47 stepped onto the Daphne’s
deck, located forward, near the bow. A live band specializing in reggae and
calypso tunes blasted Bob Marley hits and other familiar numbers as couples and
non-couples alike covered the area designated as a dance floor. The liquor
flowed freely from open bars located at stations around the deck. Guests also
had no qualms about consuming drugs in front of anyone. Marijuana and cocaine
were in plain sight. After all, this was a private party, with no chance of law
enforcement showing up. None of this made any impact on 47. He had no interest
in dancing or recreational drugs. He occasionally drank but never in excess. What
captured his attention was the monumental layout of gourmet food—
sauteéd
ackee
, seafood, and
steaks, steamed and sautéed vegetables of every color and type, a variety of
salads, conch chowder, Jamaican jerk chicken, curry goat, fried plantain, and
an abundance of tropical fruits. For dessert, guests could try other Caribbean
delectables
such as
gizzada
,
grater cake, potato pudding, and banana fritters, along with the more
traditional fare of chocolate cakes and fruit pies. 47 hadn’t eaten dinner, so
he allowed himself to blend with the crowd, fill a plate, and take advantage of
the host’s hospitality before he got down to the business at hand.

 
          
The
hitman
moved to a tall dining station, around which
guests could stand and eat. From there he could survey the entire deck. Roget’s
intel
was correct. Fernandez
had employed several guards—all of whom were armed—and positioned them at key
points on the ship. It was forbidden for guests to bring weapons aboard, but
his own
men? No
problemo
.

 
          
That
was good. All was going according to plan.

 
          
47
scanned the crowd and didn’t see
Corado
. But he
spotted Emilio Fernandez, surrounded by young, gorgeous females, making his way
through the throng and greeting familiar faces with handshakes and smiles. The
man was about forty, resembled a friendlier version of Al
Pacino
in Scarface, and oozed smarminess. As the billionaire moved closer, 47 prepared
himself
for the cue to go “onstage.”

 
          
“And
hello to you, señor,” Fernandez said to him.

 
          
“Good
evening.” 47 gave him a smile. He could play a part well if he had to. What was
uncomfortable for 47 when he was himself, he was smoothly able to fake when on
a mission. In many ways, it was something like a game to him. Could he pull off
the deceit? That was the thrill.

 
          
“Emilio
Fernandez. I don’t believe we’ve met.” The man held out a hand.

 
          
“Michael
Brant.” 47 shook his palm. The man’s grip was somewhat clammy. Fernandez was
obviously someone who got where he was through his money, not by any strength
or machismo. Unlike
Corado
, wherever he might be.

 
          
“Oh, Mr. Brant.
You’re in …” Fernandez snapped his fingers
in succession, trying to remember what he’d heard about his guest.

 
          
“Water.
I have a water company in Luxembourg.”

 
          
“Right!
How canny of you to invest in water. How long ago did
you do it?”

 
          
“My
family has been in water since before I was born. I inherited the business.”

 
          
“I
see. Well, smart family! We all need water, don’t we? Welcome aboard, Mr.
Brant.”

 
          
“Gracias.
You have a lovely yacht, sir.”

 
          
“The
Daphne is my pride and joy.” The man spotted someone he knew and waved. “I must
move on. Please enjoy yourself, Mr. Brant. Many of the women aboard the yacht,
I understand, are more than willing to make the acquaintance of a man such as
yourself
.” He winked lasciviously and walked away with his
harem. One of the girls, a dark-skinned, lithe model type, gazed at 47 over her
shoulder as they disappeared.

 
          
An invitation?

 
          
47
paid no attention. Now sated, it was time for the hunt.

 
          
He
circled the deck and finally homed in on
Corado
. The
man sat with a lovely young Hispanic woman at a table near the bulkhead
entrance to the cabins and lower levels of the ship. Two burly bodyguards
accompanied him; both men stood behind
Corado
, with
their arms folded in front of their broad chests.
Corado
was a small man, probably in his late forties.
Most likely
had a Napoleon complex.
He had a walrus mustache and slicked-back black
hair with touches of gray. A big fat Cuban cigar dominated his mouth. All three
men wore tailored suits. 47 wondered if Fernandez had allowed them to be armed.
Surely a wretch like
Corado
would never go anywhere
without firepower for protection.

 
          
Right.
Time to set the plan in motion.

 
          
47
needed a weapon.

 
          
He
turned away from
Corado’s
table and walked along the
starboard side toward the stern, where the helipad was located. As expected,
one of Fernandez’s guards blocked his passage midway. 47 glanced behind him to
make sure no one else was watching.

 
          
“Guests
are not allowed aft, sir,” the man said.

 
          
The
noise from the party was nearly deafening, even that far away from the band and
excitement. 47 put on his best act as a happy partygoer. “What did you say?”

 
          
The
guard spoke louder. “Guests are not allowed aft.”

 
          
“Oh,
I wanted to have a look at that marvelous helipad. Is that Emilio’s helicopter?
I’m something of a chopper enthusiast. That’s a Bell 206, isn’t it? I thought
those were used exclusively by the military and law-enforcement personnel.”

 
          
“I’m
sorry, sir, you’ll need to go back to the deck.”

 
          
47
slipped his hand into his jacket pocket and grasped the
Fiberwire
.
“Aw, man, you can’t let me see it?”

 
          
“No,
sir, I’m sorry.”

 
          
The
assassin jerked his head toward the helipad. “Then how come those people get to
go back there?”

 
          
The
guard turned to see what the bald man was talking about. 47 swiftly threw the
Fiberwire
around the man’s neck and tightened it with both
hands. Since the device had small grips on each end, it didn’t take much
strength for 47 to choke the man to death.

 
          
It
took all of fifteen seconds. The guard slumped into 47’s arms. The
hitman
turned his head around again—all clear. Should he
throw the man overboard? No, the body might be spotted as it floated away. A
door leading to the hold was directly to his right, so 47 wrapped his arms
around the corpse’s barrel chest and dragged it inside.

 
          
The
place was a storeroom full of life jackets. Hopefully, 47 thought, no one would
need any and the guard wouldn’t be discovered. He laid the body in the corner
and covered it with several jackets, but only after he had taken the man’s
Glock 17. Not a bad weapon at all. 47 figured he could have done much worse. He
checked the magazine, stuffed the gun into his waistband beneath the jacket,
and, satisfied, left the room.

 
          
47
went back to the party and stood next to the bar closest to
Corado’s
table. Most of the guests had to stand in line at the various bars to pick up
drinks, but a designated waiter had been assigned to
Corado
.
When he wasn’t attending to the criminal, the servant stood at the bar with his
eyes on the long, tanned legs of a tall blonde dancing nearby. But when
Corado
waved his hand, the waiter rushed to the table and
took another order. The man then hurried back and barked the instructions to
the busy bartender.

 
          
47
picked up a cocktail napkin and a pen from the bar and wrote a message in
Spanish on it.

 
          
JUST
LEARNED POLICE ARRIVING IN 10 MINUTES TO ARREST YOU! PLEASE LEAVE AS QUIETLY AS
POSSIBLE, GET TO CUBAN AIRSPACE IN MINUTES, AND THEY WILL NEVER KNOW YOU WERE
HERE. I AM SORRY, MY FRIEND. SEE YOU SOON.
EMILIO.

 
          
When
he was done, 47 put the pen down next to a circular drink platter and kept the
napkin in his hand. The bartender placed a new napkin and one drink on the
tray. “Here’s the girl’s,” he said. The waiter ignored him, for he was once
again gawking at the blonde’s legs. The bartender quickly shook a martini,
poured it, added an olive, and placed another napkin and the glass on the tray.
“And here’s the man’s,” he said. The busy bartender then turned away to serve
other guests.

 
          
47
quickly picked up the martini glass, set his napkin with the note on top of the
clean one, and replaced the drink.

 
          
The
waiter finally turned away from the blonde, grabbed the tray without noticing
the
hitman’s
napkin, and hustled back to
Corado’s
table. 47 watched as the man first served the
girl’s drink and then placed
Corado’s
martini—with
47’s napkin—on the table.
Corado
barely acknowledged
the waiter.

 
          
47
moved to a different position, still in sight of his prey. The criminal took a
sip of the drink … and then saw the scribbling. He picked up the napkin, read
the message, and gestured to one of the bodyguards. The armed man leaned over,
scanned the note, and the two men conferred.
Corado
furrowed his brow. He said something to his girlfriend and stood. She made a
face of protest, but he roughly grabbed her arm and pulled her up.

 
          
Agent
47 quickly headed back to the starboard side of the ship and made his way aft.
The music was as loud as ever, which suited him fine. No one would hear what he
was about to do.

 
          
He
reached the helipad before
Corado
and his entourage
did. 47 flattened himself against the bulkhead, the Glock in his hand. He
didn’t have to wait long.

 
          
Corado
, the girl, and the two bodyguards appeared from the
yacht’s port side. They moved quickly and quietly, but
Corado
was obviously distressed, the girl angry. One of the bodyguards made for the
pilot’s side of the chopper.
Corado
had to pull on
the girl as she struggled against him. She cursed at him in Spanish, and then
Corado
turned to slap her hard. That shut her up.