Read Raymond Benson - 2012 - Hitman: Damnation Online
Authors: Raymond Benson
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.
FOUR
Helen
McAdams shut down her computer and put away the news clippings in one of the
many folders marked “Media Publicity.” Her boss wanted everything that was written
about him documented and archived. Another assistant, George, duped television
appearances. Yet another one scoured the Internet and saved bloggers’ and
message-board comments—good or bad. Charlie Wilkins, leader of the Church of
Will, was a man who documented his life on a daily basis. In the future, he
liked to say, someone would have all the material needed for a complete and
accurate biography.
Work
was finished for the day. Helen gathered her belongings, shut off the lights in
her mansion office, stepped out, and locked the door. She had enough time to
run to her apartment and whip up some supper before heading to the recruitment
center to interview new Church members. While she was paid for her job as one
of several personal assistants to Reverend Wilkins, Helen kept busy with other
volunteer assignments at Greenhill. For her, recruiting was the most
interesting one, for she was able to meet new people. There was always the
chance that a suitable man might walk in and join the Church of Will, someone
with whom she could become friendly—and perhaps more.
It
was good to keep busy. Helen had never liked to be idle—the “devil’s workshop”
and all that—but the need to keep her mind occupied was essential ever since
the stint in the hospital. It was part of the recovery process. Staying on top
of numerous tasks also kept her from dwelling on her situation. Helen rarely
admitted to herself that she was lonely, but it was always the elephant in the
room. After her parents were killed in a tragic highway accident, and her
sister had succumbed to ovarian cancer, Helen sometimes feared she was all
alone in the world. That wasn’t really
true,
she had
the Church and the friends she had met there.
And Charlie, of
course.
Reverend Charlie Wilkins. He was the light and the hope and the
inspiration that kept her going. If she hadn’t found the Church of Will … Well,
she didn’t like to think of how she might have ended up.
Before
she could go home, there was one other task to do. Helen walked past the other
assistants’ offices and down the long
hall
to
Wilkins’s private sanctuary, where the man worked and prayed. His office door
was closed and locked, but she had a key. It made her feel special that she was
the only one of his personal assistants whom he trusted with a key to his
office. Since he was away on business, one of Helen’s duties was to water the
many plants he kept inside. She was happy to do so. She felt his presence in
the place, and it made her feel good.
Charlie
Wilkins’s office was a copy of the White House Oval Office in design, but the
reverend had decorated it quite differently. For one thing, a wall-sized,
curved plate-glass window faced
Aquia
Lake. The
mansion had been erected on the northern shore, for Wilkins loved the view of
the water. He claimed it helped him meditate. The moon and stars reflected off
its surface at night, which was why he always made it a point to pray in his
office at exactly midnight whenever he was on the premises. Helen agreed it was
a beautiful, pastoral setting. The Church of Will compound couldn’t have been
built on a lovelier spot in Virginia. That was why it was called Greenhill.
Other
differences from the Oval Office included the abundance of greenery. Wilkins
had a green thumb and believed that all plants had souls. There were more than
a hundred potted plants in the office, and Helen took the time to water the
appropriate ones. They had different schedules—some had to be watered daily,
others only once a week or less.
Then
there were the many religious artifacts and artworks in the space. In fact,
they were displayed all over the mansion. An identical room directly below this
one, in the basement, supposedly stored hundreds of such treasures, but Helen
had never been in it. It was off-limits to everyone except select personnel.
Wilkins
embraced all of the world’s religions. The Church of Will laid no claim on any
particular one. Christians, Muslims, Jews, Buddhists, Hindus, and even
Scientologists—everyone was welcome in the Church of Will. Wilkins had cannily
taken aspects from each faith and combined them to create his own. And it
worked.
The
Church of Will had branches all over America. It had spread like wildfire over
a few short decades. And with Charlie Wilkins’s charismatic charm, his
showbusiness
acumen, and his good looks, he had conquered a
sizable percentage of the American population. Some said he should run for
president, but Wilkins was happy to let Senator Dana Linder do so. After all,
she was a member of the Church. Wilkins did his part to campaign for her and
was one of her biggest contributors.
Helen
was convinced that the country needed the influence of the Church of Will’s
doctrines. The past decade had been hard on America. The high rise of
unemployment to 23 percent, the unacceptable gasoline prices, the failing of
much of the states’ infrastructure, and the general dissatisfaction among the
people had contributed to the worst depression since the great one of the
1930s. It was no wonder that various militant groups had sprung up all over the
nation. Masked, armed militias periodically conducted terrorist attacks on
federal and governmental properties. So far, there hadn’t been many lives
lost—only man-made structures—but the situation was becoming worse. The media
usually focused on the New Model Army. Secretive and deadly, the NMA seemed to
have the means and ability to strike anywhere at any time. Led by the
mysterious outlaw known as “Cromwell,” the New Model Army was wanted by the FBI
and the police in every state, but on the other hand they had a Robin Hood
mystique that ordinary citizens embraced. Helen was certain the American public
was protecting the NMA by helping to hide and transport its members from place
to place.
When
she was done watering the plants, Helen pushed aside the thoughts about the
state of the union. It was 5:45. She needed to hurry to her apartment so she
could catch Wilkins’s television program. She never missed it if she could help
it. Helen locked his office door, scampered down the long hallway, and entered
the mansion’s main rotunda. She said good night to the two security men
stationed there and left through the front door.