Hitman Damnation

TWELVE



Helen McAdams sat alone in her office in the Greenhill mansion, just down a long hall and around the corner from Charlie Wilkins’s private space. She knew the boss was extremely upset, as was everyone in the compound. Dana Linder had been like a daughter to Wilkins. Helen felt terrible for the man.

The killing had profoundly affected every member of the Church of Will. A gloomy pall had settled on the compound in Virginia. It didn’t help that October brought continuous rain, as heavy black clouds stubbornly hovered over Aquia Lake.

Worldwide reaction was one of shock and disbelief. In the three days since the incident in Chicago, conspiracy theories and rumors dominated the Internet, newspapers, and television talk shows. The killer, of course, was not caught, and she—or he—left little behind in the way of clues. There were no fingerprints or telltale evidence on the baby stroller. The clothing and wig were useless—they could have been purchased at any Target or Walmart in the country. The only significant finding was that the M40A3 rifle at the scene was registered to a soldier stationed at Fort Hood, Texas, although he had reported, and the military confirmed, that the weapon was stolen a month earlier. This development ignited the most popular conspiracy theory—that the current administration was somehow responsible. The president ordered it. The CIA executed it. Plenty of people believed that the government was so afraid of the America First Party that they had utilized the last resort to win the election. The White House categorically denied any involvement in Dana Linder’s death.

Police and FBI investigators had no leads. Witness testimonies were wildly contradictory. A majority claimed that the shooter was a woman who vanished in a cloud of smoke. Cooler heads suggested that the assassin was a man disguised as a woman. Surveillance videos caught the killer in action, but analysts were still not certain of the gender. After the smoke grenade detonated, all bets were off. The huge crowd of people that swarmed the bridge made it impossible for face-recognition software to do its job. The murderer had indeed disappeared into thin air.

Helen sighed forlornly as she read yet another incendiary blog on her computer. It had been an emotional day. That morning, Wilkins had presided over a memorial service in the Greenhill sanctuary. Dignitaries from all over the country, including President Burdett, had attended. A poignant but loaded moment occurred when the president expressed his deepest sympathy to Linder’s husband and teenage boys, who were devastated with grief. Television cameras were not allowed inside. After the service, the VIPs rushed away from the site, the family went home to Maryland, and Wilkins blockaded himself in his office to pray and reflect on the terrible occurrence.

Usually, Helen was very busy when she was at work, but today there was nothing to do. She thought about leaving the mansion and going back to her apartment. During the sermon, Wilkins had told Church members they didn’t have to work and could go home to grieve if they wished, but Helen wouldn’t budge from her desk. She wanted to be there if Charlie needed her.

As if Wilkins had read her thoughts, the intercom buzzed. Helen pressed the button and asked, “Yes, sir?”

“Helen, oh, you’re still there.”

“Yes, sir. I’m here.”

“Could you come down to my office? Are you busy?”

“No, sir. I’ll be right there.”

Glad she hadn’t gone home, Helen stood and walked out of her office. Since the building was mostly empty, few lights were on. She went ten feet to a T-intersection in the hallway, turned left, and proceeded down the dark twenty-five-foot corridor, which was lined with religious artwork of diverse cultures and beliefs. Thin beams of flickering illumination shone from the slightly ajar door to Wilkins’s executive space.

When she reached the entrance, Helen knocked.

“Helen? Come on in.”

She pushed open the door. The spacious office was lit only by candles. Wilkins sat at his broad oak desk, which faced the large wall-sized picture window overlooking Aquia. He stared at the storm raging outside as lightning struck over the water.

“Four o’clock in the afternoon and it’s darker than dusk,” he said as she approached. “It means something, Helen.”

“Sir?”

He turned to her. “Have a seat.” He gestured to one of the chairs normally used by the assistants. Helen dutifully sat and folded her hands in her lap.

He was quiet. Distracted.

“Are you all right, sir?” she asked.

“Huh? Oh, yes, yes, I’m sorry. I asked you in here for a reason, Helen,” Wilkins said. He turned his throne-like swivel chair away from the window and faced her. “Have you heard the latest news?”

“Not today, sir.”

“The New Model Army attacked two federal buildings, one in Pittsburgh and one in Philadelphia. One is completely destroyed and seven people were killed. The other sustained extensive structural damage and one person died. Many others were injured. It’s deplorable. Cromwell released a statement that it’s in retaliation for Dana Linder’s murder by the government of the United States.”

“But, sir, that’s not true, is it?” she asked.

“Helen, you don’t have to call me ‘sir.’ Please, call me Charlie.”

“I can’t help it, sir, I’ll always think of you as a ‘sir.’ ” She let out a nervous laugh. “Sorry. Okay, Charlie. I’ll try.”

“Thank you.”

“So is it true? About the conspiracy?”

“It’s all speculation stoked by the media, Helen. There’s no proof. That rifle could have come from anywhere, if it was really stolen from that base. What disturbs me is there are some who believe I am somehow connected to Cromwell. And that’s just not true.”

“I believe you, si—Charlie.”

“I want you to start working with George about coming up with a PR campaign to dispel that myth.”

Helen nodded. George, one of the other assistants, was a competent copywriter.

“All right.”

“And there’s another task I’d like you to start on tomorrow.”

“What’s that, sir?”

“I want you to be the liaison between my presidential campaign team and everyone here at Greenhill.”

At first she didn’t catch what he’d said. “Yes, sir, I’d be glad to.” Then she blinked. “Wait. Presidential campaign?”

“Yes, Helen. I’ve decided to throw my hat into the ring. It’s a little late, the election is next month, but someone in the America First Party has to step up to the plate. It’s essential. And I suppose I’m the guy that needs to do it.”

Helen put her hands to her mouth. “I’m sure that’s what Dana—” She stopped herself. Perhaps that wasn’t an appropriate thing to say.

“What, you think that’s what Dana would have wanted me to do?” he asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, so do I. And I think I’m obligated to do it. Get George on the phone and ask him if he’ll come up to the house. Tell him to bring his umbrella. I’m going to announce my candidacy tonight on national television. We need to get a speech ready, pronto.” He rubbed his hands together.

“Will do, sir.” She stood and moved quickly toward the door, then paused and turned to him. “Sir? Charlie?”

“Yes?”

“I think you’ll win, sir. I really do.”

Wilkins raised an eyebrow and grinned at her. His signature pose for the media.

“So do I, my dear,” he said.


When he was alone again, Charlie Wilkins picked up the secure landline phone and made a call.

A man answered. “Charlie.”

“My, my, you’ve been busy,” Wilkins said.

“I told you so. It was for Dana, sir. You know that.”

“Cromwell, I can’t condone violence. People died today.”

“I know, and I’m sorry for the collateral damage, but that’s what it is. We’re at war with the United States government, sir, and they’re going to pay for this terrible crime. I know Burdett and his sycophants were behind it.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yeah, but admit it, sir. You know in your heart that it’s true. Look inside; look in your Will. It’s what you always tell me, and that’s what the Will tells me.”

“I’m afraid I agree with you,” Wilkins said. “I do believe it. I’m not so sure it’s wise of me to say so. I’m going to announce my candidacy for president tonight. I’m going to step into Dana’s spot.”

“I was hoping you would do that, sir.”

“You don’t need to call me ‘sir.’ ”

“I know.” There was a pause. “I can’t believe she’s dead, sir.”

“It’s a terrible tragedy. But maybe I can turn this around into something positive.”

“You know we’ll be behind you, sir. Oh, and just a heads-up. We’re on our way to Virginia. Expect some noise.”

“Cromwell, I repeat, I don’t condone violence.” Wilkins peered through the picture window once again at the dark, wet storm. “But a man’s got to follow the Will. You need to do what you need to do.”