Hitman Damnation

THIRTY-SIX



A day passed.

I rested. I trained. I returned to the land of the living. Or maybe it’s the land of the dead, considering what I do for a “living.”

I cleaned and oiled the Silverballer that took a bath in Aquia Lake. I took both weapons to a shooting range in D.C. and made sure they were up to snuff.

All remnants of the drug addiction were gone. No more bad dreams. I hadn’t seen Death or felt his icy-cold breath on my neck. I still hadn’t figured out who he was. It was like when something was on the tip of your tongue. I felt like I knew his identity, somewhere in the recesses of my mind—and that disturbed me. Nevertheless, I hadn’t felt this good since before the incident in Nepal, just over a year ago.

Travis told me they were closing in on Diana. The Agency might have found her. It appeared that would be my next assignment. But I had to finish this one first. Travis told me to go ahead and complete the hit on Wilkins, because the guy knew too much about the Agency. I didn’t care. It was a matter of principle. For me, it was personal. Charlie Wilkins tried to trick me and then kill me. Normally I was not someone who went after a target simply for revenge or because I held some kind of grudge. That wasn’t me. But this time, it was different. I couldn’t explain why, and I didn’t think there was a psychiatrist in the world who could. Maybe it had something to do with Helen. During the course of the mission, I came close to being a “normal” person. At least, closer than I ever had before. Whatever that meant. For the first time in my life I entered the personal sphere of another human being—a woman, no less—and became part of her existence. And she did the same thing to me. I wanted to keep my promise that I’d do my best to make sure no harm came to her.

And as long as she was around Charlie Wilkins, she was in danger.

I also believed the so-called reverend was a threat not only to the United States but to the rest of the world. If he gained control of America, there would be a domino effect across the globe. Alliances would change. The international economy would splinter and collapse. Wars would be fought.

That was unacceptable.

It had happened too many times throughout history. Mankind never learned from its mistakes, but I did.

Wilkins had to be stopped.


The National Mall was an impressive site, even for a jaded and nonpolitical person such as myself. All those magnificent sculptures and statues and plaques and buildings built to honor the dead. I often wondered why nothing was ever erected to honor the living. Wasn’t it more important and more meaningful to be alive?

This, coming from a man whose hands would always have blood on them.

Thousands of people turned out for Wilkins’s afternoon campaign rally. The mall was packed. Police were all over the place. The National Guard lined the streets. The authorities attempted to keep the supporters separated from the protesters, but they weren’t doing a very good job. Even before I arrived on the scene, there had been several arrests; people had gotten into arguments and started brawling. I felt the tension as the taxi I was in approached the site. The driver couldn’t get near, so I had to get out and walk from the Smithsonian area. All traffic had been halted for blocks around the mall. The masses spilled out onto the avenues and spread in all directions. I’d never seen anything like it. This place was a powder keg ready for the spark.

I didn’t bother with a disguise. I wore my black suit. White shirt. Red tie. Armed with both Silverballers. Briefcase in hand.

Agent 47, the hitman, was back.

I walked right past the police line. No one paid any attention to me. The officers were all focused on the crowd, looking for troublemakers. I guess I must have been just another businessman to them.

The action was set to take place on a portable stage that had been built southwest of the Washington Memorial Driveway, a circular road surrounding the monument. A large east–west sidewalk was directly in front of the stage, which faced north so that Wilkins’s throng of admirers could have enough room—barely—to see and hear him speak. A huge banner spread across the top of the proscenium shouted: WILKINS–BAINES! The reverend had chosen an America First Party senator named Marshall Baines to be his running mate. The stage appeared to be pretty flimsy. Made of wood, canvas, and some curtains. A limousine was parked behind it. I was sure the reverend was inside, waiting for his big moment.

The naysayers were relegated to the side of the mall east of the monument. Police sawhorses created a north–south line dissecting the mall. There was no question that the supporters outnumbered the protesters by the thousands. It was almost comical that there were also food and drink vendors stationed around the mall. Heaven forbid that the maniacs became thirsty or hungry.

Lots of people held signs and banners. They read: AMERICA FIRST PARTY! WILKINS FOR PRESIDENT! DOWN WITH BURDETT! THE CIA ARE TERRORISTS! IMPEACH BURDETT! REVOLUTION NOW! THE REBELLION IS HERE! WILKINS/BAINES! And, my favorite, WILKINS IS A SURVIVOR! We’d see about that. A lot of his campaign propaganda capitalized on the fact that he had endured more than one assassination attempt and therefore was somehow divine.

I spotted the three yellow school buses on the north side of the mall. My instincts told me that, whatever Wilkins had planned, it would involve those Church members who’d traveled from Greenhill to Washington. I wondered if I would see Helen. I wondered how I would react. I wondered if she would see me and how she would respond.

So I pushed and shoved and wormed my way through the crowd. Since it was chilly—it was November 1, after all—everyone wore coats. At one point, I passed a guy wearing a black robe and hood. He turned to me, and I would have sworn he was Death, standing right there in front of me. The Faceless One. My old nemesis. It startled me and I felt a rush of adrenaline. But I blinked and it turned out it was just some guy who had painted his face white and was “acting” the part of the stereotypical persona of Death. He held a fake scythe, to which a sign was attached. It read: AMERICA IS DEAD! LONG LIVE AMERICA! Whatever that meant.

I made it to the area where the buses were parked, right there on the grass. Standing among a horde of people, I scanned the scene. I recognized several members from Greenhill, all holding protest signs and singing Church songs. Helen was with them. She was unavoidable. She wore a bright blouse. I felt a twinge of pain in my chest when I saw her.

She looked beautiful. But she also appeared nervous and frightened.

I made sure she didn’t see me.

Just north of the school buses, on Constitution Avenue, there were several National Guard trucks parked at the curb. Four of them. I couldn’t tell if anyone was inside.

The angry shouts of an anti-Wilkins group were disturbing. They were clustered nearby, although a few policemen kept them behind a line of barricades. They taunted the Church members, almost as if they were looking for a fight. Not surprisingly, TV crews from all the major stations had cameras pointed at them and everywhere else.

So far, though, I hadn’t seen anything that might be a harbinger of Wilkins’s plan. Not knowing what he was going to do was a disadvantage, of course, but I could usually spot telltale signs of mischief. Everything seemed to be exactly what he’d advertised. He’d brought along a small group of his most ardent followers to be a visual aide to his propaganda, and there was nothing else sinister about it. I didn’t think I was wrong about the guy, but I almost felt disappointed.

Music began, blasted throughout the mall by large speakers mounted near the stage. It was then I thought it odd that Wilkins had placed his Church people so far away, at the very back of the crowd. From there the stage was probably a thousand feet or more to the south. Why the separation?

It was some high school band on the stage, playing American patriotic songs, similar to the ones played at Dana Linder’s rally. Déjà vu.

After a ten-minute overture, the vice presidential candidate, Baines, took the stage and addressed the audience. He was met with an enthusiastic ovation.

“I’m not going to spend too much time up here,” he said. He was a squirrelly type, what you’d expect a bookworm nerd to look like. Clark Kent without the Superman persona to back him up. A ninety-eight-pound weakling. A real nobody. “I know you all are anxious to get to the main event. When I was young and went to rock concerts, I always hated when there was an opening act before the band I paid money to see. So, without further ado, let me introduce to you the next President of the United States, the one and only Reverend Charlie Wilkins!”

The entire mall erupted in a tumultuous roar. It was deafening. I could have sworn the ground shook. The attendees from the other side were completely crushed by the enthusiasm. The excitement was impossible to ignore. I didn’t care one whit about the election, and yet the thrill was contagious. I craned my neck to get a better view of the stage.

My target stepped into view. He was a tiny dot of a figure from where I was standing, but he still exuded a massive aura. His charisma could be felt even at the north end of the mall. It was uncanny. It was no wonder some people thought he was the Second Coming.

It took nearly another ten minutes for the crowd to be quiet. Wilkins kept pleading for people to settle down, but his voice was drowned out by the cacophony. Eventually, though, he was able to talk. His smooth, musical voice floated over the mall and spread an unexpected tranquillity over the place. It was as if the very act of his speaking did something magical to the audience. I didn’t buy it for one second, but I understood why he was well loved by the sheep that lived in America.

“Greetings, my fellow Americans!”

Cheers.

“Welcome to the beginning of the New Age!”

Roars.

“The Rebellion is now!”

Frenzy.

Then—it happened. Almost as if it were on cue, and I suppose it was.

As soon as Wilkins had started to talk, dozens of men dressed in National Guard uniforms piled out of the back of the trucks parked behind the school buses. They immediately organized into ranks and stood at attention.

There was something familiar about them.

My heart started to pound. I recognized some of the faces. Men from Greenhill. The ones that stormed out of the barn. They were wearing the uniforms I’d seen on the racks. These were not really National Guardsmen.

They were the New Model Army.

And then their leader appeared. Limping. He shouted a command I couldn’t understand, but it was obvious to me who he was.

Cromwell.

Before I could move, before I could do a single, solitary thing, the NMA attacked the civilians. They drew weapons and started firing at the unarmed, innocent, but misguided followers of Charlie Wilkins. When the people realized what was happening, many of them screamed and ran. The “Guard” started picking them off, one by one. Some of the militant soldiers drew clubs and, Gestapo-style, beat the supporters who had tripped or cowered before being shot.

It was horrific.

Within moments the throng caught on to what was happening. Even the real police and National Guard were slow to react.

Then it was mass chaos. Gunshots everywhere. Panic. A stampede.

In sixty seconds, the National Mall had become a death trap for thousands of human beings, and I was caught in the middle.

One could barely hear Wilkins, calling from the stage for everyone to keep calm. It was certainly too late for that. The place had erupted in mass hysteria.

It was all so clear now. The headlines would read: NATIONAL GUARD FIRES ON CHURCH OF WILL MEMBERS AT RALLY! The man was sacrificing his own people in the name of gaining sympathy and support for the election.

Unbelievable.

I drew both Silverballers, one in each hand, and started picking off New Model Army soldiers. But there were so many civilians running about that it was difficult to get clear shots at the correct targets.

Then I saw her on the ground. Helen. She had fallen and was attempting to crawl to safety. She was about to be trampled. Killed. Right in front of my eyes.

I holstered one weapon and ran to her, shoving and punching anyone who was an obstacle. Before I reached her, I was forced to blow away an NMA guy who blocked my path. The man fell on top of her, so I roughly grabbed him by the shirt collar and pulled him off. I then crouched beside her and took her hand.

“Helen.”

She looked at me with confused, terrified eyes. She didn’t know who I was, probably because she hadn’t expected to see me there. I was a face that didn’t belong.

“It’s me, Helen. I need to get you to safety. Can you stand?”

Then her expression changed. Naked fury boiled to the surface.

“YOU!” she cried.

The ferocity shocked me.

“This is all your doing!” she spat.