Raymond Benson - 2012 - Hitman: Damnation (36 page)

 
          
But
the job came first. If he had to sacrifice her—and himself—in the imminent
detonation, he would. It was no longer possible to keep her from harm. He had
failed her, but he would have completed the mission. And that’s what counted.

 
          
The
hitman
stole a glance at his watch—11:56.

 
          
He
turned his head back and forth to the two armed guards. They were standing just
beyond his reach. If he jumped at one and attempted a disarming maneuver, the
other one would surely shoot him. But if he could somehow get hold of
Cromwell’s handgun—or his own
Silverballer
—he might
have a chance to take out both men with the split-second timing he had
perfected all those years ago during his training at the asylum. He needed to
distract them. Talking his way out of the situation wasn’t his preferred
tactic, but it was worth a shot.

 
          
“Everything
he said is a lie,” 47 told Cromwell.

 
          
The
man laughed. “You would say that.”

 
          
“So
what happened to you, Shipley?”

 
          
Cromwell
stiffened.

 
          
“You
are Darren Shipley, aren’t you?”

 
          
“That
person doesn’t exist anymore. He died in Iraq.
Alone.
Betrayed by his country’s government.
My name is Cromwell
now.”

 
          
“But
you apparently still have feelings for your sister. In your heart there is
still some connection to your former life.”

 
          
“What
do you know about it?” The terrorist gestured with the gun. “Step forward.
Slowly.”
47 did so. “Now kneel.”

 
          
The
assassin was happy to do so. His
Silverballer
lay on
the floor six feet away. Now he was that much closer to it.

 
          
“Lie
facedown
. Arms stretched out.”

 
          
The
hitman
lay prone.

 
          
“I
assure you, if you attempt to move, my men will drill you full of holes,
although you might prefer that to what is about to happen now.”

 
          
Cromwell
then moved away and rolled a flat cart on wheels from behind the column. There
was a box on the platform that resembled a large car battery. Wires connected
it to a
batonlike
object. At first 47 thought it was
a flashlight, but then he saw the two metal prongs on its bronze-covered end.

 
          
The
militant picked up the wand and flicked a switch on the box. The machine
hummed. That confirmed 47’s alarm that it was a battery containing a rheostat
to raise or lower voltage.

 
          
“This
is a
picana
, Agent 47,” Cromwell said. “It is an
illegal device that originated in Latin American countries, specifically for
human torture. It uses the same principles as a hotshot—you know, a cattle
prod—except that a
picana
delivers shocks of very
high voltage and low current. The voltage is ample enough to cause significant
pain, but the low current means that it is less likely to kill you or leave
marks on the skin. I’ll give you a little taste now. When Charlie returns,
we’ll really have some fun. We’ll strip you, tie you down, and use the
picana
to abuse all the sensitive areas of your body, and,
believe me, there are more than you can possibly imagine when it comes to
electric shocks. And the authorities will never know when they perform your
autopsy.”

 
          
With
that, Cromwell thrust the prod forward and held it against the back of 47’s
outstretched hand. The pain was sharp and intense, causing the
hitman
to involuntarily jerk his arm away.

 
          
The
terrorist laughed. “Now do you see? Is the situation perfectly clear to you?
Imagine what it will be like when you are restrained and can’t avoid the
agony.”

 
          
The
man poked 47 on his shoulder blade, causing the
hitman
to roll to his side. Another jab went to a kidney. A further nudge attacked the
ribs. Despite the pain, the assassin did his best to rotate his body closer to
the handgun.

 
          
“Do
you feel that? That’s what it was like there,” Cromwell said. “Iraq, I mean. It
was torture. Yes, I was a marine. I believed in America, so I enlisted. I
believed in the cause. Charlie taught me that. I found the Will inside me, and
that’s what it told me to do. I wanted to serve my country.” Cromwell laughed
wryly. “
Boy,
was I wrong. It wasn’t long before I
found myself questioning authority as my squad grew more and more unhappy.”

 
          
47
couldn’t help watching Cromwell’s face. The man’s eyes clouded over and he
seemed to disappear into a painful memory, forgetting who he was addressing.
Suddenly the
man
thrust the
picana
into the
hitman’s
lower back, delivering a few
seconds of misery. Then he resumed his reverie.

 
          
“My
sister was in politics, and I figured my enlistment would help her. Good PR.
That’s what Charlie told me, and I’d do anything for Dana and for Charlie.
Reverend Wilkins taught us that when we were young. We had lost our parents,
and Charlie, well, he became like a father to us.”

 
          
There
was indeed a darkness that ate at Cromwell’s soul. The man paced back and
forth, gesturing with the
picana
as if it were a
general’s sword. The
hitman
eyed the handgun, now
five feet away. His watch read 11:59.

 
          
Three
minutes!

 
          
47
feigned distress and groaned, rolling a foot closer to the weapon. Cromwell
didn’t notice as he continued his rant. “I’m
gonna
enjoy killing you. My superior officer was a lot like you.
Smug
and arrogant and in it only for the glory.
We were ordered to destroy a
building that I knew was simply a preschool center.
Nothing
but women and young kids inside.
But the lieutenant was convinced they
were hiding weapons and al-Qaeda operatives. He ordered me to burn it to the
ground.”

 
          
Cromwell
approached 47 and crouched beside him. He whispered, “So I did what I was told.
We were armed with Mk 153 SMAW rocket launchers. We had
thermobaric
novel explosives, SMAW-NEs. We were loaded and ready to fire at the building.
The lieutenant was trigger-happy, and he gave the order over the radio to go
ahead and fire. But then I saw a woman with a child in her arms standing by a
window. I told the men to wait. I decided to defy orders and investigate. I
wanted to be sure, you know? So I ran to the building, followed all the rules
of entry into a possible hostile space, and it turned out I was right. No one
there but frightened women and children.”

 
          
Cromwell
paused, stood, and took a deep breath. 47’s watch read 12:00. Was Wilkins in
his office for his ritual prayer? What kind of damage would the C4 do to this
basement room, which was directly underneath the blast point?

 
          
“But
the lieutenant couldn’t wait. He gave the order to fire. My men knew I was in
there, but they followed orders. They fired four rounds of powerful incendiary
explosives. The building went up in flames. I lost an arm, my leg was badly
injured, and my face was mutilated. But I managed to crawl out the back and
run. The women and children weren’t so lucky. I had no desire to go back to my
so-called fellow marines. The media said I’d died a hero. But no one in the
marines admitted it was ‘friendly fire.’ Hell, it was deliberate!”

 
          
The
time was 12:01. It was now or never.

 
          
“I
hid in Iraq and allowed the world to believe I was dead. The only ones who knew
were Dana and Charlie. At that point, I hated our government. I hated our
policies and our arrogance. So I decided to do something about it. I had money
stashed away, but it was Charlie who helped me. He gave me the means to start a
new life. I had plastic surgery, made my way back to the States, and became who
I am today. Through social-media websites, I tapped into the current
dissatisfaction that existed all over the country and invited men to join me.
They came by the dozens. Ex-military men, mercenaries, and civilians who simply
wanted to make a difference. The New Model Army was born. And, thanks to
Charlie’s support, we grew and began our assault. We started the New
Revolution!”

 
          
47
managed to speak. His voice cracked as he forced his mouth to form words.
“Darren … Did you know … Wilkins … had your father killed … so he could be with
your mother?”

 
          
Cromwell
blinked and slowly turned his head toward his prisoner.

 
          
“What
the fuck did you say?”
Again, a jab of the
picana
.

 
          
47
shouted in agony, then gathered the strength to groan when his tormentor pulled
the instrument away. “You know that, right
?…
Wilkins
bumped off your father and covered it up—”

 
          
Again, the
picana
.
Over and over.

 
          
“You
lie!”

 
          
The
fact of the matter was that 47 took a gamble by suggesting the notion. The
photos Jade had sent were telling. In the 1973 picture, Wendy Shipley held
Wilkins’s hand while looking up at him lovingly. The 1974 photo indicated even
greater intimacy. The
hitman
might not have had much
experience in relationships, but he knew how to read body language. He would
have bet a fortune that Wilkins and Mrs. Shipley had an affair. It was in her
expression. Eric Shipley was the clueless, cuckolded husband.

 
          
“No!
No! I’ll kill you!” Cromwell spent the next ten seconds jabbing the
picana
into different parts of 47’s body, plunging knives
of anguish through the
hitman’s
senses.

 
          
Apparently
the
hitman
had touched a nerve. Perhaps it was the
truth.

 
          
And
then the clock struck 12:02.

 
         
THIRTY-THREE

 
          
When
Helen awoke suddenly at 11:25, she was surprised to find herself in bed,
completely dressed. Then she remembered that Stan had carried her there. She
had drunk a little too much wine and was exhausted to begin with; the
combination knocked her right out.

 
          
“Stan?”

 
          
When
he didn’t answer, she forced herself to sit up. Was he in the living room? She
heard the television, so he must have fallen asleep on the couch. Still a
little groggy, Helen managed to stand and leave the bedroom. Sure enough, the
TV was on, but Stan wasn’t in sight.

 
          
“Stan?”

 
          
He
wasn’t in the kitchen either.

 
          
At
first she thought she should be perturbed at him for leaving, although she was
the one who’d fallen asleep on him. But, then again, he’d also shown no
interest in kissing or making out or even going to bed with her. He was an odd
duck, and now that he had left her alone, she wasn’t sure what to think about him.

 
          
After
going to the bathroom and splashing water on her face, she found her
cellphone
on the coffee table and dialed his number.

 
          
“This
is Stan. Leave a message.”

 
          
“Stan,
where are you? I woke up and you were gone.” She looked at her watch. “It’s eleven
thirty-five. Call me back. I’m awake. Sorry I passed out on you. I wish you
hadn’t left, though. Anyway … uh, yeah, call me back.”