Raymond Benson - 2012 - Hitman: Damnation (39 page)

 
          
This
didn’t worry the
hitman
. He saw it as an opportunity.

 
          
The
vehicle stopped. The red and blue lights flashed and twirled. The patrolman got
out of his car, drew his weapon, and leaned over the hood.

 
          
“Stop
right there! Hands up where I can see them!”

 
          
Agent
47 did as he was told.

 
          
“Now
cross the street.
Slowly.
Keep your hands in the air!”

 
          
The
hitman
walked across the road and stood on the other
side of the car.

 
          
“Hands on top.
Now!”

 
          
Agent
47 looked around the intersection. No pedestrians. No other cars. No witnesses.
He put his hands on the patrol car as instructed.

 
          
The
state trooper moved around the front of the vehicle, his gun still pointed at
the killer. “Where’s your ID, sir? What pocket do you keep it in?”

 
          
“Right
front,” 47 answered. He could tell the guy was nervous. Good.

 
          
“I’m
going to frisk you. Then I’m going to reach into your pocket and get your ID.
Don’t move. Backup is on the way.”

 
          
The
hitman
knew that was a lie. He had watched the
officer from the road. The man never picked up his radio. He hadn’t had time to
call for backup.

 
          
The
trooper stepped behind 47 and then found himself in a predicament. In order to
frisk the suspect, he’d need both hands. If he holstered his weapon, he’d be
vulnerable.

 
          
“Don’t
move,” he ordered again.

 
          
47
found it incomprehensible that the patrolman actually believed his suspect
would obey the command. He could have easily disarmed the cop, but the assassin
decided to make it simple. The officer did indeed holster the handgun and reach
under the
hitman’s
armpits to begin the search. 47
swiftly removed his hands from the car, snatched the man’s wrists, and
simultaneously delivered a back kick to the officer’s right kneecap.

 
          
The
policeman screamed in agony.

 
          
The
hitman
turned and slugged the trooper hard in the
jaw, shutting up his temporarily disabled victim. He then quickly went around
the car to the driver’s side and opened the latch to the trunk. 47 sprinted
back to the unconscious man, picked him up, laid him inside, and shut the lid.

 
          
It
was a long drive ahead. 47 didn’t want any interruptions.

 
          
He
got in the driver’s seat, turned off the flashing lights, and took off north on
Decatur. The cop’s radio sputtered with bulletins from headquarters. Every few
minutes, the operator said, “Be on the lookout for a white male, between six
and seven feet tall, bald head, good physical shape.
Armed
and dangerous.
Wanted in connection with terrorist
attack at Greenhill Church of Will compound.”
Along the way, several
cars passed him going the opposite way. 47 looked over and saw the officer’s
hat on the passenger seat. He grabbed it and put it on. It was a fortuitous
act, for a minute later another state police car passed him on the road. The
driver waved as he went by. 47 returned the greeting.

 
          
He
took a left on County Road 611, eventually hit Jefferson Davis Highway 1, and
then merged onto the interstate toward Washington.

 
          
Agent
47 lay in bed in a hotel room at the River Inn on 25th Street NW in Washington,
D.C. The room-service meal of a medium-rare steak, potatoes, and steamed
vegetables wasn’t as good as he’d hoped, but it was satisfying.

 
          
It
had been a grueling twenty-four hours. He had driven to the
Baltimore/Washington Airport to pick up his briefcase from the locker and fresh
clothes from an Agency drop point. He ditched the Virginia State Police cruiser
in the long-term parking lot and then rented another car. By the time he’d
checked into the hotel, it was the evening of the day following his dinner date
with Helen.

 
          
47
wondered what she was doing. He was certain that she hated him.

 
          
He
was happy that she was alive, but it didn’t matter. The job came first.

 
          
He
switched on the television to watch the news.

 
          
His
handiwork was on every channel. The attack on the Greenhill mansion had made
international news. Charlie Wilkins had escaped injury. Nine deaths were
reported, apparently all security men. The FBI was called in to investigate.
Wilkins held a press conference that afternoon and accused President Burdett’s
government of sending an assassin to Greenhill to kill the one presidential
candidate who would “lead the country to greater glory.” He blamed the failed
attempt on the CIA. A fairly accurate police sketch of 47 circulated around the
globe. Protests by masses of ordinary citizens occurred across the country.
Cries for civil war were louder than President Burdett’s appeals for calm and
denials of involvement.

 
          
It
was a volatile situation.

 
          
There
had been no mention in the news reports about the dozens of armed men that had
emerged from the barn. 47 suspected that they had left the premises before the
police and FBI arrived. Cromwell was most likely in hiding or traveling with
his men. And yet the New Model Army struck in retaliation just hours before the
hitman
checked in to the hotel. The group had
attacked CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia, in a bold maneuver that left
eleven federal agents dead. The NMA lost three men, then retreated into the
forest and vanished before government reinforcements could arrive.

 
          
Agent
47 was now wise to Wilkins. It was all very clear now.

 
          
The
reverend was obviously in cahoots with Cromwell, the man who was once Darren
Shipley. Wilkins had known both Darren and Dana when the
Shipleys
were young and had forged an unbreakable bond with them. Considering that the
children had grown up in the
communelike
atmosphere
of the early Church of Will, they would have been extremely susceptible to his
influence. If it was true that their mother had been involved with the man,
then that relationship would have been potent. 47 wouldn’t have been surprised
if Wilkins was the twins’ real father. Whatever the case, Wilkins had
definitely used the twins for his own means.

 
          
By
her own admission, Dana had been pushed by the reverend to run for public
office, to advance the America First Party and put forward a public face
besides his own to indoctrinate the people.

 
          
The
New Model Army was also Wilkins’s tool. Although he claimed not to have any
connection to it, it was he who was really commander-in-chief. Darren
Shipley—Cromwell—simply followed orders and was fueled by a mad desire to get
back at the America he thought betrayed him.

 
          
Wilkins
wanted to change the United States to fit his own ideals. Being a beloved
celebrity, television personality, fast-food restaurateur, and leader of the
Church of Will wasn’t enough. He had to be president and saturate Congress with
the America First Party, and the election was only six days away. If he
succeeded, then a true revolution could take place in the United States. Laws
the party didn’t like would be changed or overturned, and new legislation would
be enacted. It was an all-too-familiar scenario, one that had taken place over
and over around the world throughout history. Although the American population
didn’t realize it, they were about to elect a Fascist to office. All it would
take was one more incendiary incident to assure Wilkins’s victory.

 
          
Agent
47 was pretty sure he knew when that event would take place. In two days,
Wilkins was holding a massive rally on the National Mall in Washington, D.C.;
he wanted volunteers from the Church to ride there on school buses and protest
the current administration. Helen would be attending.

 
          
The
bigger question was: What would that incident be?

 
          
The
hitman
checked his messages and saw that the Agency
had tried several times to reach him. He figured he should return the call and
get it over with. It wasn’t going to be pretty.

 
          
It
took an unusually long time to be patched through to Jade, for codes had been
changed and security firewalls had been strengthened. Only operatives at 47’s
level knew how to bypass them—it was just more complicated.

 
          
“It’s
nice to hear that you’re alive,” she said. “Where are you?”

 
          
“D.C.”

 
          
“Benjamin
wants to speak to you. Hold on.”

 
          
After
a few seconds, Travis got on the line. “What the hell happened, 47? What the
hell did you do?”

 
          
“I
blew up part of the target’s mansion. Unfortunately, the target wasn’t in the
right place at the time.”

 
          
“You
do realize the mission is a disaster? The client has walked away. He hasn’t
paid the next installment and I doubt we’ll hear from him. We’ll probably be
forced to give back most of the fee to prevent him from exposing the ICA. And
it’s your fucking fault! Hell, we could have found out who he is if you hadn’t
blown it.”

 
          
Agent
47 bristled but kept his temper under control. “What do you mean?”

 
          
“Our
encryption experts finally traced his last call to the Agency. It came from
Greenhill. The client was at Greenhill all along.”

 
          
That’s
when it made perfect sense to the
hitman
. The pieces
of the puzzle fell into place.

 
          
“Travis.
I know who the client is.”

 
          
“You
do?
Who?”

 
          
“The good reverend himself, Charlie Wilkins.”

 
          
“What
the hell are you talking about?”

 
          
“He’s
the only person at Greenhill who had the clout and means to reach the Agency.
He ordered the hit on Dana Linder to advance his own position and put him in
place to be president. Then he ordered the hit on himself.”

 
          
“On himself?
Are you crazy?”

 
          
“Listen.
His plan was to catch me in the act before the hit was carried out. That was
why we had to wait for the green light. He wanted to kill me before I killed
him, and then he could blame the current administration and the CIA for the
assassination attempt too, right on the heels of killing Linder. It would give
him even more sympathy and support from the American public and increase his
chances of becoming president. Calling the hit on himself would also clear him
of suspicion for the assassination of Linder, in case it was ever traced back
to us. That phony colonel, Bruce Ashton, tried to kill me first against
Wilkins’s orders. When that didn’t work, Wilkins gave you the go-ahead for me
to hit him, and Cromwell and his New Model Army were supposed to stop me. They
failed. Now he’s running scared and is planning some kind of catastrophe four
days before the election.
At a campaign rally in D.C.”

 
          
Travis
was silent on the other end.

 
          
“Well,
Travis?”

 
          
“This
is completely mad, 47.”

 
          
“Charlie
Wilkins is mad. And I intend to carry out the hit. I’m going to finish the job I
started.”