Hitman Damnation

THIRTY-ONE



It wasn’t clear in which direction the guard was heading, so Agent 47 reversed his route and headed for the back of the mansion. He took the chance to cross west along the large window to the other side of the building. He thought perhaps going through the gardens would be a safer route to the gate. Glancing inside the office, he saw that Wilkins still had not arrived for his midnight prayer. Surely the reverend wouldn’t skip his appointment that night?

Someone had been watering the gardens, or maybe it had rained while the assassin was in Cyprus. The ground was wet and muddy. He couldn’t help stepping in it. Not good. Nevertheless, he reached the shrubbery and hid. The guard had been at the mansion’s northeast corner. Would he patrol along the east side toward the back of the house? Or would he cross in front to the west side? 47 thought it best to stay put until he knew for certain. He checked his watch—11:38. Placing the explosives had taken longer than he’d expected.

He winced when he saw the guard appear at the northwest corner of the house. The man began moving down the sidewalk on the west side between the mansion and the gardens, toward the employee entrance there. How far would he go? Would he notice the footprints the assassin had left in the mud? Would the man check the back of the house? Would he see the C4?

Agent 47 held his breath and stayed still and silent.

The guard approached the employee entrance.

Go inside! The hitman silently willed.

The man continued walking toward the back. He was almost to the end.

Maybe the guard was daydreaming and not concentrating on his job, like the first man 47 had encountered that night.

The sentry came to the end of the walk, right at the edge of the muddy spot at the back. He stopped. He grabbed a flashlight from his belt, flicked it on, and shone it on the ground.

He’d seen the footprints.

Now curious, the guard moved on, crossing the mud to the south side of the house. He pointed the torch along the shore. Then he cast the light at the large picture window.

That was it. He would see the explosives.

Agent 47 removed the Fiberwire from his pocket and rushed out from behind the shrubs. Moving quickly and stealthily, he reached the guard, wrapped the wire around the man’s neck, and pulled hard. The sentry dropped the flashlight and tried to scream, but the garrote mutated the sound into a gurgling sputter. The man struggled and did his best to elbow and kick backward at the assassin, but 47’s grip was too strong.

The guard collapsed in the hitman’s arms in less than a minute.

No time to lose. 47 dragged the guard back to the garden and dumped the body behind the shrubbery. His watch now read 11:46.

He moved north through a row of shrubs toward the front of the mansion, reaching the edge of the garden. He’d quickly dash to the gate and hustle back to Helen’s apartment before—

He froze where he was.

Helen was at the gate, talking to a guard. She was dressed, had her purse in hand, and gestured as if she had lost something. The guard swiped his keycard and the gate opened. She went through and headed toward the mansion.

No!

47 didn’t want her anywhere near her office. The C4 would go off in a little over ten minutes!

As usual, she didn’t go through the front entrance. She headed around the west side of the building and down the path to the employee door. The hitman watched with horror as she knocked on it since she didn’t have her own keycard. Helen waited a moment and then knocked again much louder. The door finally opened, and none other than Wilkins greeted her. 47 heard her explain that she’d somehow lost her key, that she couldn’t sleep, and she decided to do some work. The reverend stepped aside for her to enter, and then the door closed.

But it didn’t snap shut. Wilkins obviously hadn’t pushed the door hard enough, so it stood slightly ajar. Not locked.

47 had to get her out. That decision surprised him, for in the past he would have walked away and paid little attention to collateral damage resulting from a hit. This time, however, the destruction included Helen. He did care about her. As much as he’d used her and lied to her, he had sincerely connected with her in ways that the world’s greatest assassin had never experienced.

He bolted out of his hiding place and darted to the door. 47 quietly and slowly pushed it open and peered inside.

A short foyer ended at a T-corridor, stretching north and south. He moved forward, hugged the wall, and glanced into the passageway. To the north was a short empty corridor that took a right turn. To the south, he saw Wilkins and Helen turn left and disappear into another hallway. 47 followed them.

When he reached the turn, they had disappeared. Office doors along the hallway were closed. Which one was Helen’s? In the middle of the corridor, another long passageway cut south. Exactly where Wilkins’s office would be.

The hitman headed there, peripherally noticing the religious artwork and sculptures that lined the walls. The door at the end was open. 47 drew the Silverballer, flattened against the side, and moved commando-style to the threshold. A quick look inside—and he saw that the reverend wasn’t there. The room was full of plants and more religious artwork. The luxurious space was dimly lit, just as it had been earlier. The picture window looked out at darkness. The assassin figured that Wilkins probably turned out the interior lights when he prayed so that he could get a good view of the water.

He looked at his watch—11:50.

“I’m going downstairs and don’t wish to be disturbed,” announced a familiar smooth voice. It came from the east–west hallway where the office doors were located.

Wilkins.

If the reverend was “going downstairs,” did that mean he wasn’t going to pray that night? Would the explosives be for naught?

Forget about the C4.

The assassin chose to kill the man as soon as he saw him. A double tap. A bullet to the chest and one to the head. He had to go to plan B. Improvise. It was what he was good at.

With weapon in hand, 47 moved back up the ornate corridor and reached the T-intersection. He saw Wilkins round the corner to the east. The hitman followed him, reached the end, and turned north. No sign of the man, but there was a stairwell a few feet ahead and to the left. The sound of Wilkins’s footsteps descending to a basement level echoed against the walls. The killer took the stairs and crept to the lower landing, waited a second, and then continued to the bottom. The only direction to go was an east–west concrete hallway parallel to the one above. 47 followed it until he reached yet another southward tunnel leading to a door identical to the one to Wilkins’s office. Words on the outside read: PRIVATE—AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. It was ajar, and flickering candlelight streamed through the opening.

47 skulked forward. There was music coming from the room beyond. Classical music. Schubert. Ave Maria. A piece that had many connections to the hitman and one that was extremely personal to him.

A coincidence?

Too late to back out now.

The assassin lightly pushed on the door, swinging it completely open.

The entire room, which mirrored Wilkins’s office on the floor directly above it, was lit by dozens of candles. Except for a fairly empty space in the middle of the floor, there appeared to be hundreds of pieces of artwork stored there. Stacks of painted canvases leaned against the walls. Statues littered the place—reproductions of the Virgin Mary, Jesus, Buddha … The reverend knelt at a bizarre altar on the north end of the room, his back to 47. The hitman had never seen anything like it. A fresco adorned the entire north wall—it was a larger, near-perfect copy of a detail from Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel painting in which God reaches out to touch the index finger of Adam. Between the celebrity reverend and the fresco were erected several other iconic religious images—a cross, the Star of David, a Buddha, a green tapestry with the Arabic symbol for Allah, and others 47 didn’t recognize. Was Wilkins praying here instead of in his office?

47 stepped inside.

Two men on either side of the door stepped out of darkness and aimed automatic weapons at him.

A third man, dressed in military camouflage, appeared from behind a concrete column on the west side of the room. He held a handgun in his left hand; his right one was a prosthesis.

“Drop your weapon,” he commanded.

47 had no choice. He did.

“Kick it over to me and raise your hands.”

The hitman complied.

Then Wilkins stood and turned to face the assassin. He stepped forward and looked the captive up and down.

“The legendary Agent 47,” he said. “I thought you’d jump at the bait.”