Hitman Damnation

FORTY



The sun was always hot and bright in the “sophisticated metropolitan capital of Guadalajara,” as the travel brochures liked to describe it.

Sitting in the shade of the outdoor bar at the Hotel Universo, I sipped cold ice water and relished the fresh, warm air. I was content to do nothing, and I’d practiced that pleasurable activity for a month.

I felt fine. The gunshot wound on my right thigh was healing nicely. The oxycodone was completely out of my system, and I had no desire to ever pop a pill again. It felt wonderful to sleep late every morning and indulge myself with decadently expensive meals. Except for the daily exercises that I’d performed habitually since I was a child, I absolutely refused to do anything constructive.

The Agency was trying to reach me; I knew that. I’d contact them in due time. Luckily, they were unaware of this hideaway in Guadalajara. It was a necessary destination after the events in Washington. I needed a new briefcase, and my arms dealer in the city was the only man I trusted to accurately re-create it—just as the guy had done nearly a year ago. Some might say it was nothing short of miraculous that I managed to escape the States with both Silverballers and my Fiberwire. The briefcase was more problematic, so I had to ditch it in the Tidal Basin.

I owed my survival to three things: my physical prowess, which I’d always maintained, except during that period a few months ago when I was a drug addict; what Ort-Meyer used to call “tenacity”; and, well, luck.

Just before the school bus had crashed into the water, I filled my lungs with as much air as they could hold. As soon as the vehicle was submerged, I swam out the door, with the Silverballers tucked into the waist of my trousers. I dropped the briefcase on the basin floor and swam toward that paddleboat place. I knew it was there. I’d mapped out all possible escape routes beforehand.

I didn’t come up for air for nearly five minutes. By then I was at the pier where the little boats were docked. It was easy to steal one, for the attention of every person in the facility was focused on the goings-on farther northwest, where all the action was. No one noticed me paddling away and eventually setting shore near the Titanic Memorial at the southern end of the long lake. I rested and dried off there among the trees and then walked along P Street until I found a taxi. The cab took me to the motel on the outskirts of the city where I’d left changes of clothing, passports, and money. From there, it was easy to leave the country under one of my many false identities.

I didn’t look back.

The temperature was very warm, so I decided to step inside and splash some cold water on my face. As I did so, I stared at myself in the mirror and continued to think about what happened.

The aftermath of Wilkins’s debacle was significant. Captured New Model Army members had revealed what they knew under interrogation. The body of Cromwell was successfully identified as that of Darren Shipley by using dental records. The truth of the reverend’s involvement with the NMA was revealed after the FBI stormed Greenhill and thoroughly searched what was left of the mansion office.

The election went on as scheduled. On November 4, Mark Burdett was reelected president. He vowed to work toward healing the nation’s scars and meeting the demands of the people. All but three America First Party congressmen were voted out of office. The United States was back to a two-party country, and before long it would be business as usual.

Not that it mattered to me.

One hundred ninety-three people died during the “National Mall Riot,” as it was dubbed by the media. Seven hundred fifty-eight were wounded or maimed. After all was said and done, the blame was placed solely on Charlie Wilkins.

He deserved it.

Greenhill was shut down and the remaining residents moved out. Other Church of Will branches slowly fizzled. Every Charlie’s restaurant in the country was avoided like the plague. The chain was on its way to bankruptcy and would close within weeks. No American celebrity had suffered such a fall from grace as had Reverend Charlie Wilkins.

I’d laugh if I found it funny.

To tell the truth, I paid little attention to the news from the States. My thoughts did, however, occasionally settle on Helen McAdams.

Yes, I missed her.

For a while there, I thought I had the potential to be normal. It was an interesting exercise. Granted, it was necessary for the assignment, but I had never been that close to another human being before, both mentally and emotionally.

She gave me something I’d never experienced in my life—the realization that I did have emotions.

I guess I failed her in a lot of ways. I betrayed her trust and I couldn’t keep her out of harm’s way. I don’t know if there will be a judgment someday, but I suppose that’ll be on my record. So be it.

I’m who I am. I’m what I am. Nothing can change that.

I know, because I finally figured out who the Faceless One is. The shadow man of my dreams. Death. His features finally formed out of the blur one night as I slept. I recognized him instantly. He was probably my only friend.

He was me, you see.

I was Death.

I was damned for all time to be him. I always was and always will be.

Forever.