Hitman Damnation

THIRTY-TWO



Agent 47 narrowed his eyes at the reverend.

This was a setup?

He looked back at the man with the prosthesis.

Cromwell.

His was the abnormally waxy face that appeared on telecasts made by the New Model Army when they claimed responsibility for an attack. The man’s features were obviously altered by plastic surgery. It seemed clear that Cromwell had seen serious combat at some point, since he had lost an arm and walked with a limp. The hitman instinctively knew that the man should not be underestimated or taken for granted: He commanded a fierce militant force that had wreaked havoc across the United States and succeeded in establishing a mystique that had captured the imagination of the American people. Cromwell was not only a clever military strategist but also a highly intelligent leader.

And a terrorist.

47 quickly scanned his immediate surroundings for a way out of the predicament, but the room was too large. Apart from physically attacking his captors, which would result in being shot, there was nothing he could do. Instead, he bent his upraised arms enough so that he could see his watch.

It was 11:53. Nine minutes to go.

Wilkins turned to Cromwell and said, “At last we have the man who assassinated your sister, Cromwell.”

The militant’s nostrils flared and his eyes burned holes into 47.

Now the killer understood. The picture had been there in front of him but he didn’t have the final piece of the puzzle. Cromwell was Darren Shipley. The brother of Dana Linder. The marine who was missing in action and presumed dead had in fact gone into hiding and changed his identity.

“Did you kill my sister?” he asked 47.

The hitman didn’t answer.

“Of course he did,” Wilkins said. “He works for the CIA and President Burdett. As I told you, he’s part of a government conspiracy to wipe out the New Model Army, the Church of Will, and me. He is here at Greenhill to assassinate me, Cromwell. He infiltrated the Church by deceiving one of my employees. I am also convinced he was somehow responsible for the death of my friend, the Colonel.” At this, he turned his attention to 47. “Ashton probably deserved it, though, for disobeying my orders when he and his guards grabbed you the other day. I expressly told him I wanted you kept alive until I returned from Cyprus, but being a man of initiative, he got a little carried away.”

So that explains the business with almost being buried alive in cement, 47 thought.

“Inspector Karopoulos in Cyprus has confirmed that a tall bellhop matching his build was seen in the hotel gym the night the Colonel disappeared. Cromwell, this man is a professional hitman.” The reverend looked at 47. “Do you deny it?”

The killer remained silent.

“We shall call the police after you are shot dead by my security team. We’ll tell them that you attempted to end my life and my men acted accordingly. The world media will learn how the current administration hired you to kill Dana Linder and then sent you here to murder me. Such pitiful and atrocious reelection strategy! Burdett won’t have a chance after this. Agent 47, Mr. Johnson, or whatever your real name is, you’re looking at the next President of the United States. But before you die, we will—”

A distant female voice interrupted him. “Charlie?”

Helen. Most likely calling from the stairwell outside the door.

The reverend stiffened. “What the—” He lowered his voice to an angry whisper. “What’s she doing down here? We can’t let her see him.” He moved past 47, Cromwell, and the two armed men, and shouted through the door, “Helen? I’ll be right there! Wait for me upstairs!” Wilkins turned to Cromwell. “He’s all yours. Hurt him as much as you like, just don’t leave any marks. I wanted to watch, but I have to see what that stupid woman wants, and it’s almost time for me to pray, goddamn it. Prolong his pain until I return. Then shoot him. Be sure to make it look like you were protecting me.”

“No problem, sir,” Cromwell said with a grin.

Wilkins slipped out the door and slammed it shut.

47 could have called out and warned her. Run, Helen! Get out of the building now! The reverend is insane!

But the job came first. If he had to sacrifice her—and himself—in the imminent detonation, he would. It was no longer possible to keep her from harm. He had failed her, but he would have completed the mission. And that’s what counted.

The hitman stole a glance at his watch—11:56.

He turned his head back and forth to the two armed guards. They were standing just beyond his reach. If he jumped at one and attempted a disarming maneuver, the other one would surely shoot him. But if he could somehow get hold of Cromwell’s handgun—or his own Silverballer—he might have a chance to take out both men with the split-second timing he had perfected all those years ago during his training at the asylum. He needed to distract them. Talking his way out of the situation wasn’t his preferred tactic, but it was worth a shot.

“Everything he said is a lie,” 47 told Cromwell.

The man laughed. “You would say that.”

“So what happened to you, Shipley?”

Cromwell stiffened.

“You are Darren Shipley, aren’t you?”

“That person doesn’t exist anymore. He died in Iraq. Alone. Betrayed by his country’s government. My name is Cromwell now.”

“But you apparently still have feelings for your sister. In your heart there is still some connection to your former life.”

“What do you know about it?” The terrorist gestured with the gun. “Step forward. Slowly.” 47 did so. “Now kneel.”

The assassin was happy to do so. His Silverballer lay on the floor six feet away. Now he was that much closer to it.

“Lie facedown. Arms stretched out.”

The hitman lay prone.

“I assure you, if you attempt to move, my men will drill you full of holes, although you might prefer that to what is about to happen now.”

Cromwell then moved away and rolled a flat cart on wheels from behind the column. There was a box on the platform that resembled a large car battery. Wires connected it to a batonlike object. At first 47 thought it was a flashlight, but then he saw the two metal prongs on its bronze-covered end.

The militant picked up the wand and flicked a switch on the box. The machine hummed. That confirmed 47’s alarm that it was a battery containing a rheostat to raise or lower voltage.

“This is a picana, Agent 47,” Cromwell said. “It is an illegal device that originated in Latin American countries, specifically for human torture. It uses the same principles as a hotshot—you know, a cattle prod—except that a picana delivers shocks of very high voltage and low current. The voltage is ample enough to cause significant pain, but the low current means that it is less likely to kill you or leave marks on the skin. I’ll give you a little taste now. When Charlie returns, we’ll really have some fun. We’ll strip you, tie you down, and use the picana to abuse all the sensitive areas of your body, and, believe me, there are more than you can possibly imagine when it comes to electric shocks. And the authorities will never know when they perform your autopsy.”

With that, Cromwell thrust the prod forward and held it against the back of 47’s outstretched hand. The pain was sharp and intense, causing the hitman to involuntarily jerk his arm away.

The terrorist laughed. “Now do you see? Is the situation perfectly clear to you? Imagine what it will be like when you are restrained and can’t avoid the agony.”

The man poked 47 on his shoulder blade, causing the hitman to roll to his side. Another jab went to a kidney. A further nudge attacked the ribs. Despite the pain, the assassin did his best to rotate his body closer to the handgun.

“Do you feel that? That’s what it was like there,” Cromwell said. “Iraq, I mean. It was torture. Yes, I was a marine. I believed in America, so I enlisted. I believed in the cause. Charlie taught me that. I found the Will inside me, and that’s what it told me to do. I wanted to serve my country.” Cromwell laughed wryly. “Boy, was I wrong. It wasn’t long before I found myself questioning authority as my squad grew more and more unhappy.”

47 couldn’t help watching Cromwell’s face. The man’s eyes clouded over and he seemed to disappear into a painful memory, forgetting who he was addressing. Suddenly the man thrust the picana into the hitman’s lower back, delivering a few seconds of misery. Then he resumed his reverie.

“My sister was in politics, and I figured my enlistment would help her. Good PR. That’s what Charlie told me, and I’d do anything for Dana and for Charlie. Reverend Wilkins taught us that when we were young. We had lost our parents, and Charlie, well, he became like a father to us.”

There was indeed a darkness that ate at Cromwell’s soul. The man paced back and forth, gesturing with the picana as if it were a general’s sword. The hitman eyed the handgun, now five feet away. His watch read 11:59.

Three minutes!

47 feigned distress and groaned, rolling a foot closer to the weapon. Cromwell didn’t notice as he continued his rant. “I’m gonna enjoy killing you. My superior officer was a lot like you. Smug and arrogant and in it only for the glory. We were ordered to destroy a building that I knew was simply a preschool center. Nothing but women and young kids inside. But the lieutenant was convinced they were hiding weapons and al-Qaeda operatives. He ordered me to burn it to the ground.”

Cromwell approached 47 and crouched beside him. He whispered, “So I did what I was told. We were armed with Mk 153 SMAW rocket launchers. We had thermobaric novel explosives, SMAW-NEs. We were loaded and ready to fire at the building. The lieutenant was trigger-happy, and he gave the order over the radio to go ahead and fire. But then I saw a woman with a child in her arms standing by a window. I told the men to wait. I decided to defy orders and investigate. I wanted to be sure, you know? So I ran to the building, followed all the rules of entry into a possible hostile space, and it turned out I was right. No one there but frightened women and children.”

Cromwell paused, stood, and took a deep breath. 47’s watch read 12:00. Was Wilkins in his office for his ritual prayer? What kind of damage would the C4 do to this basement room, which was directly underneath the blast point?

“But the lieutenant couldn’t wait. He gave the order to fire. My men knew I was in there, but they followed orders. They fired four rounds of powerful incendiary explosives. The building went up in flames. I lost an arm, my leg was badly injured, and my face was mutilated. But I managed to crawl out the back and run. The women and children weren’t so lucky. I had no desire to go back to my so-called fellow marines. The media said I’d died a hero. But no one in the marines admitted it was ‘friendly fire.’ Hell, it was deliberate!”

The time was 12:01. It was now or never.

“I hid in Iraq and allowed the world to believe I was dead. The only ones who knew were Dana and Charlie. At that point, I hated our government. I hated our policies and our arrogance. So I decided to do something about it. I had money stashed away, but it was Charlie who helped me. He gave me the means to start a new life. I had plastic surgery, made my way back to the States, and became who I am today. Through social-media websites, I tapped into the current dissatisfaction that existed all over the country and invited men to join me. They came by the dozens. Ex-military men, mercenaries, and civilians who simply wanted to make a difference. The New Model Army was born. And, thanks to Charlie’s support, we grew and began our assault. We started the New Revolution!”

47 managed to speak. His voice cracked as he forced his mouth to form words. “Darren … Did you know … Wilkins … had your father killed … so he could be with your mother?”

Cromwell blinked and slowly turned his head toward his prisoner.

“What the f*ck did you say?” Again, a jab of the picana.

47 shouted in agony, then gathered the strength to groan when his tormentor pulled the instrument away. “You know that, right?… Wilkins bumped off your father and covered it up—”

Again, the picana. Over and over.

“You lie!”

The fact of the matter was that 47 took a gamble by suggesting the notion. The photos Jade had sent were telling. In the 1973 picture, Wendy Shipley held Wilkins’s hand while looking up at him lovingly. The 1974 photo indicated even greater intimacy. The hitman might not have had much experience in relationships, but he knew how to read body language. He would have bet a fortune that Wilkins and Mrs. Shipley had an affair. It was in her expression. Eric Shipley was the clueless, cuckolded husband.

“No! No! I’ll kill you!” Cromwell spent the next ten seconds jabbing the picana into different parts of 47’s body, plunging knives of anguish through the hitman’s senses.

Apparently the hitman had touched a nerve. Perhaps it was the truth.

And then the clock struck 12:02.