“Frank, I think he is dead,” I heard the driver say.
Frank called to the truck guy, “Okay, Mac, let her rip!”
The concrete mixer made a gurgling sound and started to sputter. Wet cement began to pour out of the drum, down the chute, and into the foundation.
* * *
They were going to bury me in concrete underneath a Charlie’s restaurant.
So how was I going to play it? If I got up now, which I could do, it would still take some time to get out of the restraints and climb up to ground level. By then the guards could simply shoot me. They still had their side-arms on their belts. Then there was the third guy, Mac. I didn’t know if he was armed too.
The best course of action was surprise. I just hoped my improvised plan would work.
The concrete dumped out fast. Already I felt the stuff inching up around my body. In seconds I’d be covered with the thick muck. I waited … waited … until exactly the right moment … when the cement was about to cover my face … and I took a deep, deep breath.
A minute later, I was completely covered. The wet concrete was heavy. They’d keep filling the foundation until the cement was level with the ground. How much time would it take? Could I hold my breath that long?
Concentrate …
I allowed my mind to drift back. Back through the decades …
I was eight years old. At the asylum. Training. Learning how to be a killer.
Dr. Ort-Meyer supervised my athletic exercises. He pushed me to extremes that no ordinary child of that age could endure. Sometimes he took me to a tall cliff and made me climb it. Other instances involved crawling through an artificial jungle environment complete with bugs and snakes. This time, it was winter and I was forced to drop into a hole in the ice that covered a pond on the asylum grounds. My task was to jump in at one end, swim under the ice to the other end, retrieve a baton that had been placed there before the surface froze, and then swim back and climb out of the hole. Holding my breath the entire time. The exercise would have taken an Olympic athlete four minutes, maybe more. A very small percentage of the human race could hold its breath for that amount of time.
I was only eight years old, and I was no Olympian.
I wore only swim trunks. It was probably around ten below zero Celsius outside. My skin was turning blue and I wasn’t even in the water yet.
Ort-Meyer held a stopwatch. “Take a deep breath,” he ordered. I did what I was told. “Ready … set … GO!”
I jumped into the frigid water. It felt as if dozens of needles assaulted my skin. I wanted to shout from the shock of the cold. But I didn’t. I kept my mouth closed. I kept the precious breath inside me. And I started to swim. Under the ice. Opening my eyes, I could see the whitish crusty ceiling above my head. What was the length of the pond? Maybe forty yards? Not too bad. Not even half the size of an American football field.
But I had never done it before. I was frightened. My lungs already hurt, probably more from the punishment my heart was taking by subjecting my body to such dangerous temperatures than from any lack of air.
Still, I swam. I swam as if my life depended on it, which it did. If I failed the task, it was unlikely that Ort-Meyer would make any attempt to save me. He would chalk it up to another experiment that didn’t quite measure up. He’d go back to the drawing board and try a different cloning recipe.
Before I knew it, I had reached the other side. The baton stuck out of a holder embedded in the rock, just under the ice surface. I grabbed it and kicked off the side of the pond, back toward the hole and to safety.
I lost myself in the memory of the event. It helped me hold my breath as the cement continued to pour on top of me. Concrete, ice—what was the difference?
There was a moment before I reached the hole when I panicked. I remembered it clearly. I didn’t particularly want to relive that part of the exercise, because it was very unpleasant at the time. I thought I had veered off course and couldn’t see the hole on the other side. There I was, back in my eight-year-old body, as I frantically searched for the proper route. I wanted to skip that part of the film in my head, edit it right out, and jump to the part where I finally found the hole and climbed out to gulp some precious air. But my reminiscence wouldn’t censor that scene. I found myself trapped under the ice, terrified that I was about to drown. And I suddenly felt the familiar anxiety that had been plaguing me since Nepal.
As my younger self struggled in that dark, glacial netherworld, I beat on the ice above me, hoping I could break it.
That was impossible.
And then I saw him. Swimming toward me.
This wasn’t how it happened! He wasn’t there then! My memory was lying to me!
The shadow man. The faceless figure. Death. Swimming right at me. Reaching out. Ready to take me.
I tried to swim away, but my hands were tied behind my back and I was no longer in water. I was submerged in thick, wet cement, and it was more difficult to maneuver in that substance than in quicksand.
The dark black arms embraced me. They were strong and viselike. I struggled against him, but I couldn’t move. I desperately wanted to see his face, though, so I turned my head to look.
Nothing there. Just a blank spot where eyes, nose, and a mouth should be.
Death had me.
No!
I was aware that I was no longer lying on my side on the foundation floor. I was squatting. I didn’t recall moving into that position, but I had done it. Summoning every ounce of strength in my legs, I pushed off and upward. Death’s arms released me. I was free! But it was like swimming through molasses. The surface was close, yet so very far away. With my wrists bound, it was a near hopeless dream.
But I kicked my feet like a machine and slowly ascended, inches at a time.
I sensed I was nearing the top.
Harder! I had to kick harder!
And then … at last … my head broke the surface and I gasped the lovely, valuable oxygen. A surge of power coursed through my veins as I filled my lungs with the warmth of …
Life.
I climbed out of the pool of wet concrete and stood at the edge. I was covered in the stuff. I must have looked like a monster. I was a walking gray thing.
First—I had to get out of the restraints. As I’d told Birdie back in Chicago, they’re breakable if you know how. They had a weakness, no matter if you were tied in front or back. In this case, since my hands were behind me, I simply had to bend forward at the waist so that my tailbone jutted out a bit. Then, I made sure the little cubelike “lock” on the tie was positioned in the center, between my wrists, on the inside of my arms. I had to rub my tied hands against the back of my belt a few times in order to slide the lock around to the appropriate spot. Then, even though it was somewhat awkward, I raised my arms behind me as far as they would go—and I slammed them down against my tailbone. The square lock was breakable if the right amount of force was applied in just the right place.
I was successful. My hands were free.
I then wiped the mucky concrete off my eyes so I could see, but otherwise the stuff was caked on.
The van and cement truck were still there. The men were not in sight, but I heard them laughing on the other side of the truck. Probably having a smoke or a drink and celebrating. I trudged over to an area where stacks of lumber and bricks were covered by plastic tarps. I found a two-by-four the length of a baseball bat.
That would do.
I couldn’t move very quickly because of the goop all over me. It was already starting to settle and dry. Nevertheless, I plodded over to the truck and listened.
“Pass me that bottle.”
“Who was this guy we buried, anyway?”
“I don’t know. Ashton just told us to do the job and not to tell anyone, especially not Reverend Wilkins.”
“What time did the Colonel leave?”
“Seven, I think. Won’t be back for a couple of days.”
“So we don’t have to be back ti
ll morning?”
“Let’s get out of here. I know a good titty bar in Alexandria.”
They were getting out of there, all right. Permanently.
I stepped out in front of them. I must have been an awful sight. One man screamed, and another yelled the F-word. I raised the two-by-four and brought it down hard on the guy called Frank, who had the sense and reflexes to go for his gun.
The sound of his skull cracking was very, very loud.
The guy they called Mac tried to bolt. I stuck my leg out and tripped him. By then I was already swinging the two-by-four at the third man. He tried to duck, but he wasn’t quick enough. The wooden club glanced off the top of his head but didn’t do much damage. Mac started to crawl away, but I slammed my boot on top of his back, pinning him down. At the same time, the face of the guy who’d ducked was even with my elbow, so I jabbed it into his nose. He yelped and fell back against the cement truck, giving me ample time to level the two-by-four and swing it at him as if his head were a curveball.
Finally, I directed my full attention to Mac, the truck driver. He didn’t seem to be a guard; he had no weapon. Just a worker assigned the wrong duty at the wrong place and at the wrong time.
That wasn’t an excuse.
I raised the club as if I were chopping wood. Brought it down. He stopped squirming soon enough.
With that task completed, I scanned the construction site for something else I needed and saw it near the piles of lumber. I clumped over to the hose, turned on the water, and set about washing away the concrete that covered my body and clothes. It took nearly ten minutes; in the end I was sopping wet but completely clean.
All the while, cars zoomed by on the expressway. There wasn’t much for them to see. The bodies were behind the truck and I probably looked like an ordinary construction worker. I figured I must be near Alexandria, since Tomato-Face had mentioned it.
I went back to the three dead men. One of them was the van driver, but I couldn’t remember which one, so I searched their pockets until I came up with the keys, and also took some money from a wallet. Then, one at a time, I picked them up in my arms and carried them over to the rapidly drying pool of concrete. I dropped them in. Plop, plop, plop. They sank to the bottom.
The side of the van bore the legend GREENHILL SECURITY. I’d have to take it where I wanted to go and then abandon the vehicle as soon as possible. I was still puzzled by the turn of events. How did Colonel Ashton know who I was? From what the guard said, it sounded like Wilkins wasn’t involved and didn’t know. Could I be sure? Was Helen aware of it?
I knew one thing, though. Well, two.
First—I had to find out where Wilkins, Helen, Ashton, and his party flew. I had a score to settle with the Colonel.
And second—I wasn’t going to take any more oxycodone.
I needed to be at my best.
TWENTY-FOUR
Once he hit the road, Agent 47 found that he was in Pennsylvania, all the way up near Harrisburg. He wanted to get back to the compound as quickly as possible, but it was a long drive and he didn’t want to speed and risk being stopped by law enforcement. The two guards would not be missed until the following day. 47 wasn’t worried. He just didn’t feel well. His head still hurt, and he had the shakes. The withdrawal from the painkillers was already kicking in, with gusto. 47 stopped at a roadside Quik Mart to pick up a bottle of Advil, which did little to alleviate the throbbing hell in the back of his skull. He was more concerned about his reflexes, judgment, and effectiveness as he fought the withdrawal symptoms. He knew that some people went mad for a few days when kicking powerful addictive drugs. With his genetic advantage, would his experience be as bad? Worse?
He drove to Frederick, Maryland, got on I-270, and headed for the Washington, D.C., metro area. It would be the fastest route, especially at that time of night. Eventually, he merged onto I-95 and shot south toward Greenhill. At two in the morning he arrived in Stafford, the same small town where 47 had poisoned the old maintenance man. 47 thought it best to wait until daylight before attempting to get inside the compound. A visitor in the middle of the night would attract too much attention. There were no guards at the entrance—Greenhill was open to the public and was something of a tourist destination—but to visit his apartment was another matter. From what he’d heard at the restaurant site, it sounded as if only Ashton and the two guards knew about him. But he couldn’t be too careful. Whatever the case, 47 wanted his briefcase and clothes and was willing to risk being caught in order to retrieve them.
The assassin checked in to a roadside motel, hung up his still-damp clothes, and took a long hot shower. 47 thought that if there was a paradise, then that was it. After drying off, he crawled into bed. He knew that sleeping with a concussion—which he feared he might have—was dangerous. Nevertheless, he was dead tired and didn’t care. He turned out the light and was asleep within minutes.
The dreams and nightmares were vivid and disturbing. At various times Agent 47 thought he was being chased by various entities. Death, as usual, Colonel Ashton, and, oddly, Diana Burnwood. He relived the incident in Nepal, this time with Helen bizarrely by his side. When the Chinese bodyguard started to shoot at him, Helen was hit. Instead of bloody bullet holes puncturing her body, crimson-red roses sprouted there in the manner of time-lapse photography. Before he could reach out to her, 47 found himself running through the Church of Will compound. He kept colliding with Charlie Wilkins, who smiled and raised his eyebrow at him. The man held out his hand, palm upward, as if to offer solace to a poor sinner. 47 was inexplicably repelled by Wilkins, so he turned and ran in another direction—until he bumped into the reverend again. This sequence looped several times, as if 47 were in a maze without an exit. Finally, though, he discovered a clear pathway between the apartment buildings. But when he got to the end, the faceless figure of Death was waiting for him.
47 awoke in a sweat. The shakes were worse than ever. He felt nauseated and disoriented.
And yet it was morning, 7:15 A.M., and he had a job to do. It was exactly when he’d hoped to awaken. At least his internal clock still functioned.
The clothes were more or less dry, so he put them on, checked out of the hotel, and got back in the van. It had been untouched. 47 found it ironic that Stafford was awfully close to Quantico, the headquarters of the FBI. Had anyone in that organization known that the legendary Agent 47 from the International Contract Agency was within miles of their buildings, there would have been a scramble to see who could catch the hitman first.
47 left Stafford and boldly drove the van along the two-lane blacktop that ended at Greenhill. As he approached the site, he noticed a turnoff onto a dirt road just wide enough for the vehicle to traverse. Surprisingly, it was a back entrance to Greenhill’s private airstrip. Wilkins and his team normally got there by using a paved road that connected the compound with the area, which was comprised of a hangar, small control tower, and runway. Apparently the dirt road was a not-often-used rear entrance that snaked west through a dense forest until it emptied onto the main road. 47 parked the van there, hidden among the trees, and walked back. It wasn’t far to the compound.
It was a normal, active morning at Greenhill, with Church members bustling about and starting their day. Agent 47 calmly walked through Main Street, said hello to a few familiar faces, and headed for his apartment building. All the while he kept a lookout for security guards. The first one he came upon was patrolling the front of the three housing units.
Now was as good a time as any to test the waters.
The hitman nonchalantly strolled toward his building, nodded at the guard, and entered. The man did nothing. 47 stalled for a moment inside the building foyer and watched the guard. The man didn’t reach for his walkie-talkie to report a sighting. He didn’t draw his gun. He simply continued the slow pacing along the three buildings.
Good.
Agent 47 went to his room on the first floor, unlocked it with the key that had amazingly remained in his pocke
t during his ordeal in the concrete pool, and entered.
The place had been ransacked.
His clothes were thrown about, all the drawers in the dressers were open, and the closet was emptied.
That figured.
He changed into a clean set of work clothes, gathered the rest of his clothing, folded it as neatly as possible, and packed it in the backpack. The black suit was crumpled, but he could eventually get it pressed. After claiming his belongings, 47 left the room and returned outside. The guard was down at the third housing unit, so the hitman acted as if it was business as usual and headed for the toolshed—Stan’s Place. He used a key entrusted to him to get inside and locked the door behind him.
Nothing appeared disturbed. All the tools were in the proper places.
47 took a Phillips-head screwdriver, stooped beside the lathe, and unscrewed a side panel on the base. The briefcase sat among the wires, next to the motor, right where the hitman had stashed it.
He replaced the panel and looked out the dirty window. The coast was clear. 47 moved to the door, reached to open it, and froze.
Voices outside. Coming nearer.
“Stuart, I’m glad I ran into you. Can you do me a favor?”
47 recognized the speaker. It was Mitch Carson.
“Sure, what’s up?” Stuart Chambers. 47’s new nemesis.
“Charlie called, and there’s a change in his flight plan. Can you run this envelope over to the airstrip and give it to Louis? He should be there in the tower. I have to be at a meeting in five minutes. You’re not too busy, are you?”
“No, I can do it.”
“Thanks. Oh, and tell him to come see me. I need to go over some things with him about the upcoming campaign trip.”
47 couldn’t believe his luck. He could kill two birds with one stone, so to speak.
He waited a few moments, looked out the window again, and saw Carson walking toward the hill. As for Chambers, he climbed aboard one of the golf carts the staff used to get around Greenhill. The man took off and headed for the paved road to the airstrip.
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