Hitman Damnation

THREE



Another superyacht, coincidentally also built by Lürssen, slowly and aimlessly drifted in the waters west of Spain. At three hundred sixty feet long, the Jean Danjou II was not unlike the luxury vessels owned by the many wealthy socialites in Spain or France. After all, the Costa del Sol, especially the port of Marbella, was one of the most exclusive sailing destinations for the rich and famous. Thus, multimillion-dollar pleasure boats were a dime a dozen. Many of them navigated through the Strait of Gibraltar from the Mediterranean, into the open Atlantic, and back. The Jean Danjou II was no exception. Law-enforcement agencies knew she docked in Marbella but was registered to a corporation based in Switzerland. The owner was allegedly a major player in OPEC. This, of course, was false. The Swiss company was in reality the front for yet another business based in Portugal. This organization, too, was simply a cog in a third layer of deception, but it had connections to a conglomerate of banks in the Cayman Islands. In short, no one had any idea who really owned the yacht.

But if Interpol or other legal watchdogs of the world had an opportunity to visit the interior of the Jean Danjou II, they would discover a beehive of ex-military personnel, some of the world’s savviest IT and encryption specialists, and the core middle-management team of a shadowy, secret international network.

Since she never anchored in one place for very long, the yacht was the ideal vessel to house the cerebral cortex of the International Contract Agency. And while high-level government officials, such as the president of the United States, the prime ministers of the United Kingdom and of Russia, and the king of Saudi Arabia, were certainly aware that the Agency existed, and although elite inner circles of intelligence organizations such as the CIA and SIS had reason and the ability to contact the Agency’s leaders, these entities denied any knowledge of such an immoral but sometimes useful society. The ICA’s services were sought after by the bad and the good alike. And yet, if America or Great Britain or Russia or any other nation on earth desired to actually locate the Agency’s physical headquarters or meet its administrators, they might as well look on the moon. It was inconceivable that the ICA was right there in plain sight, moving from port to port on the open sea.

The Jean Danjou II was the perfect home for a necessary evil.


The twenty-eight-year-old Asian woman known only as Jade rechecked the figures on her notepad, glanced back at the monitor on the workstation labeled “Caribbean” to note any changes in the data, made some calculations, and then stood. The command center was buzzing with activity and distractions, but the woman had no problem staying focused. She looked at her steel-and-white-gold Rolex and saw that she was due in the conference room in five minutes. Just enough time for a quick walk-through to make sure everything was running smoothly.

The center, situated deep in the Jean Danjou II on deck three, was the size of a baseball diamond. The walls were covered with electronic maps and large-screen HD computer monitors. More than a dozen workstations, dedicated to monitoring the Agency’s activities in various territories around the globe, occupied the floor. Each one was manned by an analyst or manager. A tireless and dedicated staff ran the Agency’s many concurrent active operations. And it was Jade’s job to oversee the control center, as well as serve as personal assistant to one of ICA’s top managers.

Jade’s professional demeanor, dark leather business suit, patterned stockings, glasses, and the black hair done in a bun might have suggested that she was an executive secretary for a Fortune 500 company. But if one looked past her obvious beauty and noticed her many tattoos—mostly illustrative dragons—and the severe, no-nonsense soul behind her brown eyes, it was apparent that the woman was a formidable and dangerous person.

After making the rounds to each workstation and obtaining status updates from every worker, Jade glanced again at the Rolex. It was time for the meeting with her boss. She informed Julius, her immediate subordinate, where she was going, and then left the command center in his capable hands.

Any ship contained narrow and claustrophobic spaces, but the interior of the Jean Danjou II felt more like a high-tech corporate building than a luxury yacht. Each manager, responsible for the various functions that kept the Agency in business, had his or her own private office. Jade knew that one day she would have one. With a promotion to manager, she would gain more responsibility. That meant more money. Working for the Agency was the best job in the world.

Ascending to deck two by a marble and steel staircase, Jade nodded at one of the armed guards who patrolled the ship at all times. She liked to give the guards the perception that she appreciated their protection, when, in fact, Jade could probably take on three of them at once, slit their throats with the stiletto she kept on her person at all times, and then calmly go about her business.

Eventually she reached the conference room and entered.

“Right on time, Jade. My God, you’re damned efficient,” said the man sitting at a long table in front of a computer monitor. He was finishing his lunch—a po’-boy stuffed with salami, cheese, lettuce, tomatoes, and peppers. “Tell me again where you had combat training?”

“Westerners call it the Golden Triangle,” she answered. “Specifically Burma. But I spent a lot of time in Laos.”

“Jungle stuff, huh?”

“Yes, sir.”

Benjamin Travis allowed his eyes to look her up and down—it was something he did daily, but she didn’t mind. All the men on the boat—and some women—thought she was hot. It had its advantages.

Travis said, “Sit down. What have you got for me?”

Jade took a seat and placed her notebook in front of her. “We have a new lead on Agent 47’s whereabouts.”

Travis raised his eyebrows. “And we’ve been hearing that every month for a year, Jade.”

“This is different, sir. A reliable source informs us that 47 was spotted in Jamaica as recently as two days ago. In fact, the source is one of ours.”

Travis swiveled his chair away from the computer. A man in his forties, he always dressed in a gray suit, white shirt, and an Agency tie. He was probably twenty-five pounds overweight; his gut drooped over his belt, and he tended to sweat more than other men. With his thick red-brown mustache, glasses, and communications earpiece, he might have resembled a retired CIA operative who was past his prime. In reality, like Jade, Benjamin Travis was not someone to be underestimated. The epitome of a “company man,” Travis was known by his colleagues to have no tolerance for incompetence. Failure was severely punished. As one of the senior managers of the Agency, he was cunning, ruthless, and ambitious. He commanded teams of assassins that operated around the world. He spent just as much time in the control room as did his personal assistant, often doing her job.

It was no wonder that he had quickly risen in the ranks to become one of the Agency’s star players.

“Jamaica?” he echoed.

“Yes, sir.”

“You don’t say. How soon can you verify it?” he asked.

“I have Julius on it. This time it looks promising, Benjamin. Our man in Jamaica is usually reliable on intel but untrustworthy in financial matters.”

He merely nodded. Jade knew that Travis never jumped to conclusions before all the i’s were dotted and t’s crossed.

“What else?”

“That’s all, sir. Still no news on Burnwood. I’m afraid that trail has gone quite cold.”

Travis nodded again. “That figures. Thank you, Jade. Please keep me informed. The minute you have confirmation on 47, I want to know.”

“Yes, sir.” She stood and moved toward the door.

“Wait.”

Jade stopped and turned. “Yes?”

“Please inform the captain to point the ship toward the Caribbean. If what you say is true, I want to be close enough to intercept the guy.” He shrugged. “And if this lead of yours turns out to be another dead end, then we’ll stop in Cuba or the Bahamas or somewhere and have an island shore leave. We could use it.”

“Yes, sir.” She scribbled a note on her pad, pushed her glasses back to the bridge of her nose, and left the room.


Travis turned to the computer monitor and resumed studying the latest report from Chicago. The results had gone beyond expectations. He knew his pet project had the potential to help the Agency evolve into a force with which the entire world would have to reckon. The ICA would possess something that could very well bring governments to their knees.

It represented power. Unimaginable power.

In just a few more months, the project would be completed. As the experiment advanced, the potential was boundless.

Travis could smell the promotion he would receive. It was entirely possible he would be appointed to be the Agency’s chairman. And it could have occurred sooner, had Diana Burnwood not betrayed him. The bitch had threatened to make trouble for Travis’s project because of some kind of high-and-mighty conscience she suddenly developed. She was a dangerous loose cannon, and she had to be found. His biggest fear was that Agent 47 would beat him to it, make contact with Diana, and then the two would join forces against the Agency. Travis didn’t put it past Diana to turn the ICA’s most valuable asset.

Travis picked up Agent 47’s dossier and scanned it again. He knew everything about the assassin, but the manager had never met him. The hitman’s exploits were legendary, though. Travis looked forward to the day when he could shake 47’s hand and welcome him back to the team. If they could find him. If he would come willingly.

An interesting case, Agent 47. The world’s greatest assassin was “created” in a Romanian mental asylum as a clone from the DNA of Dr. Otto Ort-Meyer and four other men. Born on September 5, 1964, Agent 47 was tagged with the identity 640509-040147 by a tattoo on the back of his neck and raised with other “Series IV” clones by the asylum’s staff. Along with the other clones, 47 was trained from youth to kill efficiently. Instructed in the use of firearms, military hardware, and more-classic tools of assassination, the clone could wield virtually any weapon with ease.

After thirty years of relentless training, 47 allegedly killed a security guard and escaped from the asylum grounds. Some said that he didn’t escape but rather perhaps was allowed to leave, unleashing the world’s greatest assassin.

The rest, as they say, was history. At least the parts that were known.

As far as the hitman’s personality went, there wasn’t much documented. Agent 47 had expensive tastes in clothing, food, and drink, but otherwise he had little interest in material possessions. He took great pride in his personal arsenal: a briefcase containing two customized AMT Hardballers. The assassin said very little, but when he did, he usually spoke in a blunt, informal, and emotionless manner. He wasn’t known to have an interest in sex. And while Agent 47 was extremely reliable and a perfectionist in what he did for a living, the man trusted no one. Except, possibly, Diana Burnwood.

Travis wondered if that conviction was still strong, given what had happened to 47 in the Himalayas.

Spotted in Jamaica, was he? Maybe it was true. Did Agent 47 know where Diana was hiding? Had they been in touch? After all, the hitman and his handler had a unique and special relationship. If anyone could get close—personally—to Agent 47, it was Diana.

But the woman hadn’t been seen or heard from for a year. Neither had Agent 47, for that matter. He had gone off the grid after their last assignment together. At first the Agency thought the assassin was dead, but 47 unwittingly left bread crumbs indicating he’d survived the disaster in Nepal. The Agency spent months tracking him, but 47 was clever and elusive. He didn’t want to be found.

Which was why Travis worried that the hitman and Diana were in cahoots. That could be a deadly combination—for him.

He clenched his fists and banged them hard on the table. Jade had to be right about the lead. If the Agency could get its hands on Agent 47 and recruit him back into the organization, Travis had a chance to fulfill his ambition, finish his pet project, and turn 47 against the one person in the world the assassin trusted.