Hitman Damnation

EIGHTEEN



The cliff edge trembled violently as rock and ice debris showered around him. Agent 47 couldn’t move forward because of the hail of gunfire from the Chinese man’s QBZ-95. Going backward would mean falling with the imminent avalanche and being buried alive beneath tons of ice and snow.

Once again, the assassin aimed the Silverballer at the dangling bodyguard, exposing himself in the man’s line of fire. But the turbulence was too strong. The entire mountainside acted as if it was about to topple like a house of cards. The ice beneath his feet lurched and threw 47 sideways, just as he felt a searing stab of fire penetrate his left side. As he fell hard on the craggy surface, he had the presence of mind to realize that the shaking ground had saved his life. The Chinese man’s round had indeed pierced the fleshy part at the edge of his waist, but had 47 been standing upright, the bullet would have gone through his abdomen.

The shock waves traveled up the side of the cliff to Nam Vo’s men. The one spotting the dangling man lost his balance and slipped. He slid off the cliff edge but managed to grab hold of the rope that suspended his partner. Agent 47 heard them shout to each other in their language. The rope wouldn’t hold them both. The rock ledge cracked, and the two men bounced with the hemp. One of them screamed in terror, for there was nothing below them but thousands of feet of air.

Agent 47 crawled forward. Blood trailed on the white snow behind him. The tremors grew more intense as the boomer did its job. If only he could get far enough away in time.…

The rope holding the Chinese men finally gave way. They both shouted a death call.

Agent 47 watched them plummet until they were mere dots against the gray misty mountainside.

He kept moving. The outward edge of the cliff was just a few feet to his right. Still intent on the success of his mission, the hitman dared to peer down to see what Nam Vo and his party were doing.

They were still in place, not really sure what all the commotion above them was about and oblivious to the oncoming holocaust.

Then the sky and earth opened and the ice cliff completely collapsed, carrying Agent 47 with it through blinding lights and into deep and total darkness.


Morphological experts and the news media recorded the catastrophe as a large “slab avalanche” that measured 4,600 meters in length and 18,000 meters in volume, making it one of the biggest in the Himalayan region. It was blamed on a natural trigger. Nam Vo and his expeditionary team were wiped away, and their bodies were never recovered.

Although he didn’t know it at the time, Agent 47 was very, very lucky.

He had fallen with the bulk of the sliding snow and ice for about eight hundred feet when his body struck an upward incline of rock upon which was packed new, soft snow. The impact caused the assassin to bounce toward the mountain face instead of away from it. Unconscious, Agent 47 rolled like a log into a rock-solid crevice from which the ledge protruded. He would have plummeted deep into the fissure had its walls not been so narrow. Instead, his body wedged inside a bottleneck, several feet from the opening at the top. He was cut off and protected from the deadly maelstrom that lasted nearly thirty minutes.

When his eyes fluttered open, the first thing he noticed was the cold. Then, almost immediately, he felt the excruciating pain in his back. He didn’t know if it was broken or not. He couldn’t move, although he knew his legs dangled freely. He was stuck in the crevice, his torso pinned in place by the tapered walls of ice.

Trapped. Like a cork in a bottle.

The only thing that brought him any comfort was that the sun shone above him through the opening. He could climb out if he made the effort. The agony in his back was the biggest obstacle to doing so.

47 couldn’t see his legs, since the rock walls squeezed tightly against his chest and waist, but he could kick them. He wasn’t paralyzed, which meant his back was miraculously unbroken. It just hurt like the devil. He had most likely ruptured a disc or two. The cleft in the mountain had saved his life, but it had brutally wrenched his torso as if it were made of clay.

It was also difficult to breathe. The pressure of the stone against his chest prevented him from inhaling deeply. That realization was enough for 47 to attempt the escape. He’d known pain in his lifetime, but this was going to be severe. Luckily, his arms were caught above his shoulder line, allowing him to gain some leverage. The mere act of pressing down with his forearms and hands brought intense jolts of misery to his muscles.

Take it a little at a time.

Push down, wiggle up. Push down, wiggle up.

Agent 47 felt like a worm struggling to slip through a hole lined with sharp spikes.

His clothing ripped as the rocks dug into the skin on his chest and belly. The bullet wound was minor compared to what his back was going through.

The assassin nearly blacked out from the pain and effort, but he willed himself to keep at it. If he didn’t get out of that hole now, he’d never do it. He would die there, a fly caught in a web of ice and stone.

Push down, wiggle up.

He didn’t know how long it took, but once his hip bones cleared the craggy bottleneck, he was home free. It was then only partially painful to use his legs and boots to support his weight. Five minutes later, he was standing on top, looking down at the abyss that might have been his grave.

There was snow everywhere—so much bright whiteness that it was difficult to discern where the edge of the cliff dropped off.

47 took stock of what he had on him.

His beloved briefcase was gone. The Silverballer he’d had in his hand—vanished. The backpack containing his supplies—obliterated and buried somewhere thousands of feet below. He had no climbing equipment. All he could account for was a wad of currency in his pocket and a fake passport.

Except for the ripped clothing and his boots, he was unprotected from the elements. He pulled off one of the shreds of his jacket, lifted his shirt, and tied it around his waist to hopefully stop the bleeding from the gunshot wound.

Perhaps he would die on Kangchenjunga after all.

There didn’t seem to be an easy path down, but the mountain face going upward appeared to be climbable with only hands and feet. Agent 47 thought he could make out a level rim some fifty feet above his head. Perhaps that led to another, more agreeable route that he could traverse without climbing equipment. He knew it was unlikely, since reaching any sort of altitude on the Kanch required gear and more expertise than he possessed. But he had to try.

The icy wind grew stronger as he scaled the rocky face. His gloves helped with handholds, and at least the boots were still strong and sturdy. Every few inches he ascended were painful. He felt as if he had been tortured on a medieval rack, his vertebrae pulled apart or crushed together and permanently fixed in that position.

When he reached the level ledge, 47 collapsed and lay on his stomach. He rarely cursed, but for once he allowed a few epithets to spill from his mouth.

It was then that he thought angrily about Diana.

What had happened? Where had she gone? Why had she left him stranded? The mission was a success—he was certain that Nam Vo was dead—but who else might have perished in the avalanche? The boomer had obviously caused a very destructive landslide, but, without Diana’s exact pinpoint on the cliff, it turned out sloppily.

He must have fallen asleep from the exertion and the pain, for the next thing he knew, the sun was low on the horizon, the temperature was dozens of degrees colder, and the wind was biting. 47 had lost his bivouac tent with his backpack. Could he survive a night on the mountain? Perhaps he’d been better off stuck in that crevice after all!

47 rolled over on his side and winced. There was no position that was comfortable. No matter what he did, the nerves in his back screamed bloody murder.

And then he heard voices.

Was he hallucinating?

The assassin reached for a flare that he had in his jacket pocket—but it was gone. If only he could attract some attention. Would anyone see him?

The voices grew louder.

Someone was near!

He tried to call out, but his voice cracked. 47 couldn’t seem to make his vocal cords operate.

Then two shadows appeared on the rim. People.

The hitman was unable to determine how far away they were. He was delirious from the pain. He did, though, manage to raise an arm and wave it back and forth. In the dim light, the fading sun cast a glint off his wristwatch and acted as a beacon.

The two travelers saw him and rushed forward.


When he awoke, Agent 47 saw a flickering light dancing across a stony ceiling. Icy stalactites hung like daggers but were in no danger of falling on him.

He was in a cave of some sort.

The assassin turned his head.

A campfire. A man and a woman, bundled up, sitting close to the warmth. They weren’t Caucasian. Nepalese, most likely. Maybe Tibetan.

The woman glanced at him and muttered something. They both got up and moved closer to him. They spoke a language 47 didn’t understand.

He tried to raise himself, but the pain shot through his back and he nearly cried out. The woman spoke comforting words and gently pushed him down. He was lying on a fur blanket. She said something else, crawled away, and then returned with a bowl of hot liquid.

Yak butter soup with grain barley on the side.

Although it tasted absolutely horrible, Agent 47 consumed it voraciously, as if it was his final meal on earth.

* * *

The Nepalese nomads sewed up the bullet wound and nursed the assassin for two weeks in their private ice cave on the side of Kangchenjunga. From what Agent 47 could fathom, the couple had left civilization quite some time ago. Perhaps they were hiding from the Chinese in Tibet. The husband made monthly trips down to one of the villages to stock up on food and supplies. Their home was well furnished and comfortable—for a cavern. Agent 47 thought the couple might be a little crazy from the seclusion, but at least they knew how to care for him.

At last, 47 was well enough to leave. The Nepalese man accompanied the hitman down Kangchenjunga. Using the couple’s climbing equipment, a seven-hour trip took twice as long due to 47’s discomfort. At the end, though, Agent 47 found himself on solid, flat ground. He paid the man from the money he had in his pocket. At first the hermit refused, but the assassin insisted. They parted ways with a handshake.

The pain was still severe. Simply walking was a chore.

He checked in to a hospital in Kathmandu and discovered that he was suffering from a spinal disc herniation. His sciatic nerve was under constant bombardment from the pressure. The doctor told him that anti-inflammatory drugs and painkillers were the best approach but that 47 should get plenty of bed rest for about six weeks. The hitman took the man’s advice, checked into a fleabag hotel, and dosed himself with oxycodone and naproxen sodium tablets.

After two weeks, he limped like a cripple to an Internet café and tried to contact Diana. Every line of communication to her was broken. He checked the secure server where he picked up messages from the Agency. There were several for him, asking him to contact ICA if he received them. They most likely assumed he was dead. Tellingly, there was no mention of Diana.

It took fourteen weeks before Agent 47 was finally pain free. He thanked the doctor and left Nepal with a three-month supply of the painkillers. The hitman had found that he liked the effects, which had nothing to do with managing discomfort. He had begun to have strange dreams, even nightmares, and the oxycodone tended to control them. For some reason, the pills didn’t dope him up but rather made him clearheaded and confident. It was only if he tapered down the dosage or stopped altogether that he experienced a nervous, anxiety-producing reaction. Best to continue taking them.

Agent 47 made his way to Mexico and holed up in Guadalajara. He knew an arms dealer there who replaced his ATM Hardballers, complete with the pearl handles, just like his long-lost Silverballers. It took a month to re-create the leather briefcase with the fleur-de-lis insignia on it.

All that time, the hitman periodically attempted to find Diana. There was still no trace of his former handler. He ignored all messages from the Agency. He had no desire to go back to them. He’d had enough of the ICA. Six months after the avalanche, the Agency stopped sending him missives.

Although damaged and not up to the high standard Agent 47 liked to maintain, he was free to do what he wanted.