Raymond Benson - 2012 - Hitman: Damnation (30 page)

 
          
47
grunted in response.

 
          
She
left and went back to her station.

 
          
Five
minutes later, Colonel Ashton appeared in the gym. He was dressed in a
terry-cloth robe and slippers. He looked around, saw the massage rooms, and
marched to the open door. 47 saw the masseuse shake his hand and gesture for
him to lie down on the table. She then closed the door.

 
          
The
hitman
waited five minutes and then dialed
Katharina’s number on his mobile.

 
          
“Yes?”

 
          
“Is
this Katharina?”

 
          
“Yes?”

 
          
“This
is the concierge. You’re wanted in room 433. You’re late for an appointment.”
He deliberately gave her the room number of one of the Russians.

 
          
“What?
I have an appointment. I’m with him now.”

 
          
“There
must be some mistake. This is a VIP’s reservation. The massage is booked in his
suite. He specifically asked for you. Please go to him now. I’ll send another
masseuse up to the gym immediately to take care of your client.”

 
          
She
sighed.
“Very well.
Room 433, you say?”

 
          
“Yes.
Please hurry. He’s already called twice.”

 
          
“All right.”

 
          
47
hung up and watched. After a moment, Katharina emerged from the massage room
and closed the door behind her. Once she was out of the gym, the
hitman
made his move. He grabbed a handful of towels,
strode across the floor with purpose, and opened the door. He shut it behind
him after stepping inside.

 
          
Ashton
was lying naked on the table, facedown. He started to rise and turn his head so
that he could approve the beauty taking Katharina’s place, but before he could
register what was happening, 47 rammed the bundle of cloth into the man’s face.
The
hitman
then leaped onto the table and straddled
Ashton’s back, simultaneously pulling the towels on either side of the
Colonel’s head. The man’s scream was sufficiently muffled.

 
          
But
the assassin hadn’t counted on Ashton’s highly tuned reflexes and tremendous
strength. He was a man in excellent physical shape, whereas 47 was suffering
from
oxycodone
withdrawal and had spent the last year
going a bit soft. Ashton managed to buck the
hitman
off him, knocking 47 to the floor. The naked man pulled the towels from around
his face, threw them against the wall, and then climbed off the table.

 
          
47’s
cap had fallen off. He lay on his back, slightly dazed. Once again, the
symptoms of sickness enveloped him, causing a momentary inertness.

 
          
“You!”

 
          
Ashton’s
surprise at seeing a man he thought to be dead worked to 47’s advantage. The
Colonel faltered too, for the man didn’t realize how vulnerable he was as he
stood over the assassin. The pause provided 47 the precious seconds he needed to
recover from the stun and see things clearly. The plan of attack was obvious.

 
          
The
hitman
viciously kicked his leg up and slammed his
shoe into Ashton’s groin. The Colonel yelled, this time a little too loudly for
47’s comfort. The killer jumped to his feet as his prey fell to his knees.
Ashton’s face turned red from the agony, and his hands reflexively covered his
privates, leaving him completely unprotected. 47 made a fist and delivered a
right hook to the Colonel’s jaw, knocking the man against the massage table.

 
          
The
hitman
retrieved the towels and continued what he’d
started earlier. He wrapped a couple of them across Ashton’s head, then jerked
the two ends of the towel with all his might, whiplashing his victim with such
force that the neck snapped and severed the spinal cord. The Colonel went limp.

 
          
47
took a breath and opened the small closet. It was empty. Ashton was heavy, but
the
hitman
managed to carry and drop the body inside
the cabinet. He had to stuff the man’s arms and legs within in order to
properly shut the door. Then 47 smoothed his uniform, adjusted his cap, and
left the massage room. Again, none of the guests using the exercise equipment
paid any attention to him. They had not heard Ashton’s anguished cry of pain.

 
          
Satisfied,
the
hitman
strode across the floor and exited the
gym—only to bump into Helen.

 
          
Face-to-face.

 
         
TWENTY-SEVEN

 
          
I
rarely let the unexpected throw me, but that sure did.

 
          
There
she was, standing two feet in front of me, staring me right in the face. There
was a moment, one of those awkward instances, when I wasn’t sure how to react.
Probably a remnant of the drug withdrawal.
I wasn’t thinking
on my feet as quickly as I should have been.

 
          
At
any rate, I muttered, “Excuse me,” and moved past her. As if it were one of
those clumsy incidents when you turn a corner and accidentally bump into
someone.

 
          
Then,
behind me, I heard her call, “Stan?”

 
          
I
kept going.
Didn’t even acknowledge it.
Just continued my stride toward the elevators.
I was wearing
the bellhop uniform and cap. Perhaps she would think I merely resembled the
Stan Johnson she knew, after which she’d realize I couldn’t possibly be him.
A bellboy at a hotel in Cyprus?
Impossible.
Her imagination got the best of her.

 
          
When
I reached the corner and turned toward the elevator bay, I glanced back. She
was gone. Apparently I was right. She must’ve chalked it up to a mistake on her
part and moved on. I wondered if she was looking for
Ashton?
She wasn’t dressed for exercise.

 
          
I
took the elevator to my floor and went to my room. There was nothing more I
could do until tomorrow. With Helen running around the building, I knew I had
to be extra cautious. I didn’t want to run into her again. She might actually
try to talk to me, the bellhop, and then I’d really be in trouble.

 
          
It
would be so much more convenient if I were given the green light to kill
Wilkins now. I could accomplish it here and be done with it. I didn’t
understand what the holdup was. I didn’t understand anything about this crazy
assignment. The reverend did have me curious as to what he was doing in Cyprus,
meeting with criminal types.
And moneymen.
I didn’t
know much about American politics, but I thought it would be considered pretty
shady for a presidential candidate, especially someone from the isolationist
America First Party, to accept campaign dollars from such sources, if that’s
what he was indeed doing.

 
          
How
long would it be before Ashton was missed? Would someone find him in the closet
tonight?
Tomorrow?
What would Wilkins do?

 
          
I
also wondered how safe it was for me to go back to Greenhill. They were missing
two security men, and their maintenance supervisor had broken his neck falling
down some stairs. If Ashton had kept my identity to himself, then I was
probably all right. The big question was whether or not Wilkins knew. I had to
assume that he did and play my cards accordingly. On the other hand, I had to
take the chance of going back in as Stan Johnson. It was still my best bet to
get close enough to the reverend to take him out.

 
          
There
was also unfinished business with Helen. I had to risk returning to Greenhill
for her. She was worth the gamble, and although it went against my grain, I
thought I needed to protect her.

 
          
When
I bumped into her, I felt as if someone had hit me in the chest with a hammer.
I’d never experienced that before. I was smart enough to know it was not a
physical reaction but an emotional one.

 
          
Emotions.
I had some after all. Who would have thought?

 
          
In
the shower, I held my hand out flat in front of me. The shakes had diminished
considerably. In fact, it was about as still as I’d seen it in months. Maybe I
was kicking the painkillers faster than I thought. Then I realized the headache
had disappeared as well. I hadn’t noticed that before. That was a good thing.

 
          
I
got into bed and fell into a much-needed sleep.

 
          
The
dreams were still vivid, though.

 
          
I
was back in my eight-year-old body.
Little 47.
From my
name alone, I should have known from an even earlier age that something wasn’t
right with me. Who named a child “47”? When I was much older, I learned I was
called that because the last two digits on my bar code were four and seven.
My bar code.

 
          
So
I inhabited my eight-year-old self again. I remembered the moment in question
as if it were yesterday. I sat in the asylum garden near the big fountain. I’d
finished with my training for the day, and I felt perturbed. I didn’t
understand yet why the good doctor was making me
do all that
stuff. I didn’t like him. I didn’t like the staff. I didn’t like anybody.

 
          
Then
I saw it in the grass.
A little snake.
Slithering
along, minding
its own
business.

 
          
But
I hated it. Why should that measly creature be free, when I wasn’t? I was stuck
in the asylum and wasn’t allowed to leave. The snake could come and go as it
pleased.

 
          
With
lightning-fast speed that surprised me, I jumped at the reptile and caught it
in my bare hands. It was gray and about ten inches long. The creature slinked
around and through my fingers. I’d never touched a snake before that. It was
smoother than I expected, and yet it felt scaly and rough too.
A very strange combination.
I studied the thing and looked
it directly in the eyes. A forked tongue rapidly slipped in and out of its
mouth. It was almost as if it was asking, “Who are you? Why are you holding me?
Are you my friend?”

 
          
No.
I was not your friend.
Especially after you bit me.

 
          
The
anger rose in me.
Frustration.
Confusion.
Coldness.

 
          
Without
thinking about it, I squeezed and crushed the snake in my hands. Its guts and
bloodlike icky fluids dripped out over my skin.

 
          
I
wasn’t repelled.

 
          
I
threw the snake’s remains as far as I could. Then I sat down on the edge of the
fountain and studied my palms. What had I just done? I’d killed a living thing.
It bit me and I defended myself, but was that a good reason?

 
          
Right
then and there—I knew. It all became clear to me. I understood why I felt like
an outcast.
A lab specimen.
A
nonhuman.

 
          
I
was a born killer. I was engineered to do what I’d done.

 
          
At
first I was very depressed.
Sad.
But a minute later
the anger returned.
Real fury.
And I stayed incensed
for weeks. Dr. Ort-Meyer kept asking me what was wrong. I told him I hated him.
Several times.
He laughed and patted my back, as if I
was behaving exactly as he wanted. “Very good, very good!” he’d say.

 
          
Then,
in the dream I was having, I tried to escape the asylum much sooner than I
really did. But everywhere I turned, there were iron bars blocking my way. I
ran down a hall to flee from the violence I’d inflicted in my fantasies.
Dead end.
I turned around and tried a different route.
More obstacles.