Raymond Benson - 2012 - Hitman: Damnation (41 page)

 
          
And
then their leader appeared.
Limping.
He shouted a
command I couldn’t understand, but it was obvious to me who he was.

 
          
Cromwell.

 
          
Before
I could move, before I could do a single, solitary thing, the NMA attacked the
civilians. They drew weapons and started firing at the unarmed, innocent, but
misguided followers of Charlie Wilkins. When the people realized what was
happening, many of them screamed and ran. The “Guard” started picking them off,
one by one. Some of the militant soldiers drew clubs and, Gestapo-style, beat the
supporters who had tripped or cowered before being shot.

 
          
It
was horrific.

 
          
Within
moments the throng caught on to what was happening. Even the real police and
National Guard were slow to react.

 
          
Then
it was mass chaos.
Gunshots everywhere.
Panic.
A stampede.

 
          
In
sixty seconds, the National Mall had become a death trap for thousands of human
beings, and I was caught in the middle.

 
          
One
could barely hear Wilkins, calling from the stage for everyone to keep calm. It
was certainly too late for that. The place had erupted in mass hysteria.

 
          
It
was all so clear now. The headlines would read: NATIONAL GUARD FIRES ON CHURCH
OF WILL MEMBERS AT RALLY! The man was sacrificing his own people in the name of
gaining sympathy and support for the election.

 
          
Unbelievable.

 
          
I
drew both
Silverballers
, one in each hand, and
started picking off New Model Army soldiers. But there were so many civilians
running about that it was difficult to get clear shots at the correct targets.

 
          
Then
I saw her on the ground. Helen. She had fallen and was attempting to crawl to
safety. She was about to be trampled.
Killed.
Right in front of my eyes.

 
          
I
holstered one weapon and ran to her, shoving and punching anyone who was an
obstacle. Before I reached her, I was forced to blow away an NMA guy who
blocked my path. The man fell on top of her, so I roughly grabbed him by the
shirt collar and pulled him off. I then crouched beside her and took her hand.

 
          
“Helen.”

 
          
She
looked at me with confused, terrified eyes. She didn’t know who I was, probably
because she hadn’t expected to see me there. I was a face that didn’t belong.

 
          
“It’s
me, Helen. I need to get you to safety. Can you stand?”

 
          
Then
her expression changed. Naked fury boiled to the surface.

 
          
“YOU!”
she cried.

 
          
The
ferocity shocked me.

 
          
“This
is all
your
doing!” she spat.

 
         
THIRTY-SEVEN

 
          
Helen
jerked her hand out of 47’s grasp and leaped to her feet. “Get away from me!”

 
          
The
hitman
clasped her by the waist to keep her from
running. “Stay with me! It’s not safe to—”

 
          
He
pointed the
Silverballer
over her shoulder and fired
at three New Model Army men headed in their direction. Two militants dropped,
but one was still alive; although wounded, he crouched and took aim at 47 with
an assault rifle that would have mowed down Helen and the assassin. 47 shoved
Helen away, spun, and blasted a hole through the man’s head. By then the
immediate space around 47 was crowded with people running and dodging bullets.
He turned to take Helen’s hand again, but she had fled into the multitude.

 
          
“Helen!”

 
          
She
slipped through a clump of Church members who were rushing toward him with
terrified, panicked expressions on their faces. NMA soldiers behind them fired,
and several victims fell to the grass. Enraged, 47 drew his second
Silverballer
and fought two-handed. He was forced to dart
about to avoid being hit, but he managed to wound or kill six men in the space
of three seconds. Then he looked back but couldn’t see Helen anywhere.

 
          
Sirens
blasted throughout the mall. The D.C. police had bolted into action, but it was
unclear to them what the hell was going on. If the National Guard was shooting
at civilians, then their targets must have done something terribly wrong. They
began to chase down the Church members too, without realizing the phony Guardsmen
were the enemy. Meanwhile, the real National Guard was busy all over the mall,
attempting to control the mad dash of humanity trying to escape the mêlée.
Confusion and pandemonium reigned, producing a fog of misinterpretation of
every single action. The result was that many more rally attendees besides the
Greenhill volunteers were being attacked, wounded, or killed.

 
          
The
tear gas came next. Grenades sailed through the sky in arcs, landing amid
clusters of civilians.

 
          
The
disaster was completely out of control.

 
          
Agent 47 frantically searched for Helen while simultaneously
defending himself and aggressively attacking the enemy.
It was
ultimately terribly difficult to pinpoint which Guardsmen were NMA men.
Washington city police now mixed with them, firing blindly at uncertain
targets. One D.C. policeman spotted 47 wielding two weapons, took aim, and
fired, clipping the outside of 47’s right thigh. The assassin fell and rolled
to his stomach, placed his elbows on the ground, and instinctively blasted the
patrolman with both barrels. He hadn’t wanted to waste bullets, but the
situation had become so perverse that it was impossible to keep anything
straight. The blanket of cloudy gas made visibility even worse.

 
          
While
on the ground, the assassin took a few seconds to examine his leg. The wound
was superficial but would most likely need a few stitches. 47 got to his feet,
winced at the pain, and rejoined the mayhem. Then, out of the corner of his
eye, a moving blue blur flashed through the smoke.

 
          
Helen’s blouse.
Twenty-five feet away.

 
          
“Helen!”

 
          
She
turned to him. He held out his hand, but she hesitated.

 
          
“It’s
all right, Helen!”

 
          
Terrified,
she knew of nothing else to do. Helen ran to him.

 
          
But
gunshots echoed through the murky air and bullets littered the ground between
the couple. Helen’s body jerked and she faltered. Her eyes grew wide in shock.

 
          
“No!”

 
          
She
fell forward and collapsed on the grass.

 
          
Agent
47 fired both
Silverballers
at the two New Model Army
men who were responsible for the barrage. Bulletproof vests protected their
torsos but not their faces—47 hit the targets dead-on.

 
          
Helen
rolled and lay on her back. 47 crouched beside her, laid his guns on the
ground, and took her hands. Her blouse was covered in crimson wetness, and her
eyes were glazed over, focused on the sky. Her breathing was labored. The
hitman
saw that she had been shot through the lungs, and he
knew she wouldn’t survive.

 
          
“Helen,”
he whispered.

 
          
She
choked as blood gushed from her mouth. 47 rolled her to the side, but the
maneuver was useless. She had maybe a minute of agony left before she was gone.
The
hitman
chose to spare her that torment. He picked
up one
Silverballer
and held the barrel to her chest,
exactly in position over her heart.

 
          
“Helen,
I’m sorry.”

 
          
For
once, Agent 47 squeezed the trigger as an act of compassion.

 
          
He
wasn’t sure how long he stayed at her side. It might have been a few seconds,
or it could have been ten minutes. The turmoil raged around him, but he shut it
out for those precious moments. Then he reached out with a bloody hand and
closed her eyelids.

 
          
The
hitman
retrieved the other weapon and stood.

 
          
Now
he was really angry.

 
          
It
didn’t matter if they were authentic National Guardsmen or the New Model Army
in disguise. 47 started blasting at anyone wearing the uniform. He carried
extra magazines in his jacket pocket, and within the next five minutes the
hitman
went through six of them. Ejecting a used magazine
and inserting a new one took all of 1.6 seconds, a feat he’d learned when he
was only twelve years old.

 
          
47
knew the best strategy was to keep moving; thus, in the heat of battle, he
found himself moving backward, heading north toward the school buses. It was
there that he encountered Cromwell. The man saw him and aimed an M16, the
standard issue for the U.S. Marines, directly at 47. The assassin leaped
sideways as the militant spray-fired, hitting several innocent people who were
cowering near the buses. He completely missed the
hitman
.
47 rolled onto his back and pointed his weapons backward over his head for a
rapid-fire assault at Cromwell, but the man had already jumped into the open
door of one of the buses and shut it. The vehicle pulled out of its space just
as 47 got to his feet. Cromwell drove the bus like a maniac, turned south, and
mowed over anyone in his way.

 
          
There
was only one thing to do. Agent 47 bolted into one of the other buses.
Gratified to find the keys in the ignition, he used the manual handle to close
the door, revved the engine, and took off after the first bus.

 
          
Both
vehicles had been riddled with bullets, but the tires were sound. Cromwell had
a good lead, but 47 quickly switched gears and slammed the gas pedal to the
floor. Both drivers were forced to swerve and dodge masses of pedestrians, but
Cromwell took less care—his bus invariably hit horrific-sounding bumps as it
zoomed across the mall.

 
          
At
last 47 caught up to Cromwell. He held steady on his prey’s left side as both
buses sped neck and neck. The militant turned to grimace at his pursuer through
his window, intent on making it to the stage first. 47 grabbed the manual
handle and opened his door. Then, with his left hand on the steering wheel and
a
Silverballer
in his right, the assassin carefully
aimed the gun and squeezed the trigger. The bullet went through the open door
and shattered the driver’s window of the other bus. Cromwell’s head exploded as
the slug penetrated the man’s skull and exited the other side.

 
          
The
militant’s bus swerved wildly out of control and veered to the mall’s western edge.
Police unloaded a firestorm of ammunition at it, not realizing the driver was
already dead. The bus made a final careen, tipped over thirty degrees, and
plowed into a food vendor’s stand. The vehicle crashed onto its side and slid
another twenty feet before it came to a screeching, sickening halt.

 
          
Agent
47 ignored all that and focused on getting Wilkins. He headed full speed toward
the stage. Crowds parted like the Red Sea in front of him as he blasted the
bus’s horn.

 
          
Charlie
Wilkins stood frozen on the stage, watching with revulsion what he had wrought.

 
          
Oh
Lord, I didn’t mean for it to be like this!