Read Raymond Benson - 2012 - Hitman: Damnation Online
Authors: Raymond Benson
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.