Raymond Benson - 2012 - Hitman: Damnation by Raymond Benson Page A

her? Sure, the kids might miss having a father,
but there was no question that the husband was going the wrong direction on a
one-way street.
                 Over
Bill’s shoulder, 47 saw Cherry give him a barely perceptible nod. It was a
signal, a green light.
                 Agent
47 spoke. “Bill.”
                 The
man whirled around, furious. “What?”
                 The
killer grabbed the man’s head in his gloved hands, wrenching it sharply to the
right. With a sickening pop, the third cervical vertebra snapped and a shard
was driven through Bill’s spinal cord.
                 Bill’s
mouth gaped as he fell. He died before he hit the floor, his body slumped in an unnatural position.
                 A
moment of silence passed.
                 “Thanks,
47,” Cherry said, exhaling deeply. “If he had gotten out of here alive, I’d be
in deep shit.”
                 “What
about the body? Won’t the police suspect you?”
                 “I
know an excellent cleanup crew. They’ll destroy every bit of evidence. He was
never here.”
                 47
gazed at the corpse.
                 “You
did me a favor, 47,” she said. “It’s something I’ve wanted to do for a long
time. He was a sick bastard.”
                 “I
didn’t do it because of your domestic situation,” 47 replied. “I did it because
I had no choice. He knew too much.”
                 Cherry
eventually nodded. “Is there anything else you want? Anything?”
                 The
assassin considered her words for a moment and then gestured to the “medicine
cabinet.” She snickered a bit, went over, and unlocked it. “Help yourself ,” she said.
                 He
found several bottles of oxycodone and stuffed them
in his jacket pocket.
                 Back
upstairs, he asked to use the washroom while Cherry made the call to her crew.
He popped a pill and swallowed it with water in a cupped hand. Then he simply
and quietly left the townhouse without saying goodbye and grabbed a taxi on 7th
Avenue.
                 Next stop, the airport.
                 TEN
                 I’d
just landed at O’Hare. Chicago. Dana Linder’s next campaign stop was a rally at
the Jay Pritzker Pavilion in Millennium Park. Facing the Great Lawn. Tomorrow.
                 I’d
be there.
                 I
rented a car and drove to Des Plaines, not far from the airport. The storage
facility was easy to find. I already had the key; I didn’t even have to check
in at the front desk. Just parked at the storage building, climbed the stairs
to the second floor, and unlocked door 210. My briefcase and other equipment,
including a custom-made U.S. military M40A3 sniper rifle with a removable
stock, were waiting there for me. The drop-off had worked like a charm.
                 I
drove in to the city and parked in one of the garages in the Loop. The weather
was turning cooler. Chicago was the Windy City, so the temperature was lower
than in New York.
                 Millennium
Park was packed with people no matter what time of day. They expected a few
thousand people at Linder’s rally tomorrow. Police had already put up those
wooden sawhorse blockades around the area for crowd control. Volunteers were at
work putting up banners and signs. The pavilion was a beehive.
                 Time to get to work.
                 Planning
an operation usually consisted of three things.
                 One, research. You had to get to know your target. I’d
studied everything I could about Linder. I knew she was married and had two
teenage boys. I knew she was smart and employed even smarter people to be
around her. She’d be well protected.
                 Two,
know the scene. If possible, you had to visit the