Hitman Damnation

TWENTY-FOUR



Once he hit the road, Agent 47 found that he was in Pennsylvania, all the way up near Harrisburg. He wanted to get back to the compound as quickly as possible, but it was a long drive and he didn’t want to speed and risk being stopped by law enforcement. The two guards would not be missed until the following day. 47 wasn’t worried. He just didn’t feel well. His head still hurt, and he had the shakes. The withdrawal from the painkillers was already kicking in, with gusto. 47 stopped at a roadside Quik Mart to pick up a bottle of Advil, which did little to alleviate the throbbing hell in the back of his skull. He was more concerned about his reflexes, judgment, and effectiveness as he fought the withdrawal symptoms. He knew that some people went mad for a few days when kicking powerful addictive drugs. With his genetic advantage, would his experience be as bad? Worse?

He drove to Frederick, Maryland, got on I-270, and headed for the Washington, D.C., metro area. It would be the fastest route, especially at that time of night. Eventually, he merged onto I-95 and shot south toward Greenhill. At two in the morning he arrived in Stafford, the same small town where 47 had poisoned the old maintenance man. 47 thought it best to wait until daylight before attempting to get inside the compound. A visitor in the middle of the night would attract too much attention. There were no guards at the entrance—Greenhill was open to the public and was something of a tourist destination—but to visit his apartment was another matter. From what he’d heard at the restaurant site, it sounded as if only Ashton and the two guards knew about him. But he couldn’t be too careful. Whatever the case, 47 wanted his briefcase and clothes and was willing to risk being caught in order to retrieve them.

The assassin checked in to a roadside motel, hung up his still-damp clothes, and took a long hot shower. 47 thought that if there was a paradise, then that was it. After drying off, he crawled into bed. He knew that sleeping with a concussion—which he feared he might have—was dangerous. Nevertheless, he was dead tired and didn’t care. He turned out the light and was asleep within minutes.

The dreams and nightmares were vivid and disturbing. At various times Agent 47 thought he was being chased by various entities. Death, as usual, Colonel Ashton, and, oddly, Diana Burnwood. He relived the incident in Nepal, this time with Helen bizarrely by his side. When the Chinese bodyguard started to shoot at him, Helen was hit. Instead of bloody bullet holes puncturing her body, crimson-red roses sprouted there in the manner of time-lapse photography. Before he could reach out to her, 47 found himself running through the Church of Will compound. He kept colliding with Charlie Wilkins, who smiled and raised his eyebrow at him. The man held out his hand, palm upward, as if to offer solace to a poor sinner. 47 was inexplicably repelled by Wilkins, so he turned and ran in another direction—until he bumped into the reverend again. This sequence looped several times, as if 47 were in a maze without an exit. Finally, though, he discovered a clear pathway between the apartment buildings. But when he got to the end, the faceless figure of Death was waiting for him.

47 awoke in a sweat. The shakes were worse than ever. He felt nauseated and disoriented.

And yet it was morning, 7:15 A.M., and he had a job to do. It was exactly when he’d hoped to awaken. At least his internal clock still functioned.

The clothes were more or less dry, so he put them on, checked out of the hotel, and got back in the van. It had been untouched. 47 found it ironic that Stafford was awfully close to Quantico, the headquarters of the FBI. Had anyone in that organization known that the legendary Agent 47 from the International Contract Agency was within miles of their buildings, there would have been a scramble to see who could catch the hitman first.

47 left Stafford and boldly drove the van along the two-lane blacktop that ended at Greenhill. As he approached the site, he noticed a turnoff onto a dirt road just wide enough for the vehicle to traverse. Surprisingly, it was a back entrance to Greenhill’s private airstrip. Wilkins and his team normally got there by using a paved road that connected the compound with the area, which was comprised of a hangar, small control tower, and runway. Apparently the dirt road was a not-often-used rear entrance that snaked west through a dense forest until it emptied onto the main road. 47 parked the van there, hidden among the trees, and walked back. It wasn’t far to the compound.

It was a normal, active morning at Greenhill, with Church members bustling about and starting their day. Agent 47 calmly walked through Main Street, said hello to a few familiar faces, and headed for his apartment building. All the while he kept a lookout for security guards. The first one he came upon was patrolling the front of the three housing units.

Now was as good a time as any to test the waters.

The hitman nonchalantly strolled toward his building, nodded at the guard, and entered. The man did nothing. 47 stalled for a moment inside the building foyer and watched the guard. The man didn’t reach for his walkie-talkie to report a sighting. He didn’t draw his gun. He simply continued the slow pacing along the three buildings.

Good.

Agent 47 went to his room on the first floor, unlocked it with the key that had amazingly remained in his pocket during his ordeal in the concrete pool, and entered.

The place had been ransacked.

His clothes were thrown about, all the drawers in the dressers were open, and the closet was emptied.

That figured.

He changed into a clean set of work clothes, gathered the rest of his clothing, folded it as neatly as possible, and packed it in the backpack. The black suit was crumpled, but he could eventually get it pressed. After claiming his belongings, 47 left the room and returned outside. The guard was down at the third housing unit, so the hitman acted as if it was business as usual and headed for the toolshed—Stan’s Place. He used a key entrusted to him to get inside and locked the door behind him.

Nothing appeared disturbed. All the tools were in the proper places.

47 took a Phillips-head screwdriver, stooped beside the lathe, and unscrewed a side panel on the base. The briefcase sat among the wires, next to the motor, right where the hitman had stashed it.

He replaced the panel and looked out the dirty window. The coast was clear. 47 moved to the door, reached to open it, and froze.

Voices outside. Coming nearer.

“Stuart, I’m glad I ran into you. Can you do me a favor?”

47 recognized the speaker. It was Mitch Carson.

“Sure, what’s up?” Stuart Chambers. 47’s new nemesis.

“Charlie called, and there’s a change in his flight plan. Can you run this envelope over to the airstrip and give it to Louis? He should be there in the tower. I have to be at a meeting in five minutes. You’re not too busy, are you?”

“No, I can do it.”

“Thanks. Oh, and tell him to come see me. I need to go over some things with him about the upcoming campaign trip.”

47 couldn’t believe his luck. He could kill two birds with one stone, so to speak.

He waited a few moments, looked out the window again, and saw Carson walking toward the hill. As for Chambers, he climbed aboard one of the golf carts the staff used to get around Greenhill. The man took off and headed for the paved road to the airstrip.

47 stepped out of the shed, locked it, and jumped into one of the extra carts. The key was in it. The hitman didn’t follow Chambers, though. He took the long way out, through Main Street and out the front gate to the main road. No one paid any attention to him.

He reached the dirt turnoff within minutes. 47 passed the van and kept going until he drove out of the woods and onto the tarmac surrounding the control tower. The hangar that usually contained Wilkins’s plane was fifty yards away. The runway lay perpendicular to the buildings, running north and south.

Chambers’s cart was parked next to a Ford pickup, the only other vehicle in front of the tower. 47 stopped his buggy around the back, got out of the cart, and crept silently toward the building. He heard voices and peered around the corner.

A man 47 recognized but didn’t know stood smoking a cigarette and talking to Chambers. Louis. Probably the air-traffic controller and manager of the tower and hangar.

“… see you too. Mitch asked if you’d come up to the house when you have a chance,” Chambers said.

“Sure, I could go now. Go on in. You can put the plan update there and I’ll take a look when I get back.” Louis dropped the cigarette, stepped on it, and looked at his watch. “See you later.”

Louis hurried to his truck and drove off toward the compound. Chambers went inside the control tower, carrying the envelope.

47 opened the briefcase and removed one handgun. He then stepped around to the front door and listened.

Footsteps climbing a set of stairs.

The hitman quietly went inside and waited until Chambers was all the way up the three flights. He then calmly and silently followed his prey.

The assassin peeked into the control room. A lone flight-control workstation faced a window looking out at the runway. Chambers was there with his back to him, searching through papers.

When Chambers spun around, a Silverballer was pointed directly at his face.

“What the f*ck!?” Chambers blurted.

“Quiet,” 47 said.

“What the hell are you doing, Johnson?”

“I said quiet. And raise your hands.”

Chambers did as he was told, his eyes wide with fear.

“Where is Wilkins?”

Chambers couldn’t speak.

“Where is Wilkins?”

The supervisor shook his head. “I … I don’t know. They flew somewhere yesterday.”

47 nodded at the envelope on the station. “Open that and read it to me.”

Chambers did so. “Uh, it’s, uh, a flight plan. Looks like they were going to come back tomorrow, but they’re not coming back until the next day.”

“From where?”

“Uh, Larnaca? I don’t know where that is.”

Agent 47 did. Larnaca was the main airport in southern Cyprus. In the Mediterranean. A long way from the United States.

That was a very strange campaign stop for a presidential candidate.

“Why would Wilkins fly to Cyprus?”

Chambers shrugged, his hands still raised. “I don’t know! That kind of stuff is above my pay grade. Johnson, what are you—”

“Shut up and answer my questions. What do you know about yesterday? When those guards came to get me?”

Chambers swallowed. “Nothing! I mean it. They just came to me and said the Colonel wanted to talk to you.”

“You’re lying.”

“No! No, I’m not!”

“You found it funny. You were glad to see me summoned to the guardhouse.”

“Look, Stan, I don’t have any idea why he wanted to talk to you. I figured you were in some kind of trouble.”

“And you were glad about that. You don’t like me, do you, Stuart?”

Chambers blinked and swallowed again. “It’s not that. It’s—”

“Never mind. I know why.” 47 knew there was nothing else worthwhile he could get from Chambers. “Come with me.”

“Are you … are you going … are you going to shoot me?”

“No. But come with me. Keep your hands up.” Chambers walked toward 47. The assassin moved aside, the gun still trained on the man. “Out.” He stepped in behind Chambers, the Silverballer nudging his back. “To the stairs. Walk.”

“You’re not going to shoot me?”

“I said no.”

They moved the twenty feet to the top of the staircase. “Stop,” 47 ordered. He stuck the Silverballer into the pocket of his overalls. Then he reached out with both hands and grabbed Chambers’s head from behind.

A sharp jerk to the right—and snap!

Followed by a shove.

The man with the broken neck tumbled down the stairs and hit the landing, bounced, and then lay still, facedown.

The hitman had told the truth. He didn’t shoot the guy.

Agent 47 coolly descended the three flights and went outside. He grabbed his briefcase from the cart and walked back to the van.

As he drove away, he figured they probably wouldn’t miss the van for a few more hours.