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

place where the hit was going
to take place. That’s what I was doing today. I wanted to get a sense of the
light during the day, the location of various man-made and natural obstacles,
and the possible escape routes. Where were the danger spots? What was the
safest spot from which to operate?
                 Three,
plan the hit. I had to know what weapon I was going to use and how I’d use it.
Ideally, it was always good to make a kill appear as if it were accidental.
This time, however, the client wanted a public assassination. Why, I didn’t
know. I didn’t care. A job was a job. If the client was really the U.S.
government, as the Agency suspected, then killing a politician in front of TV
cameras seemed very odd to me. You’d think they’d want to do it
surreptitiously, make it look like an accident. I was supplied the M40A3 sniper
rifle by the client. It was a fine weapon. I’d test it tonight. The ammunition
looked sound. I was supposed to leave the rifle behind after the kill. Maybe it
could be traced to someone else. Maybe they were trying to frame another
killer, which could be done by identifying the serial number. Fine with me; I’d
be long gone before the police realized what had happened.
                 I
did sometimes get special requests from a client. For example, I’ve had to show
the client’s photograph to the target right before he died. So he’d know who
ordered the hit. His last dying thought. Made sense. It was some kind of justice for the client. There was no right or wrong when it
came to what I did for a living, no matter who was doing it. I couldn’t feel
bad for Dana Linder. Sure, her family would be upset. Her death would make
international news. I didn’t know if she was a good person or a bad person. I
didn’t care. I suppose in some way it helped me when I knew the target was a
bad person, but it usually didn’t make much difference to me.
                 I
just did the job as professionally and perfectly as I could.
                 For
the next hour, I walked around the park and found the best spot from which to
shoot Dana Linder. The rifle had a range of a thousand yards. That was plenty.
The big, curvy silver-steel bridge at the southeastern edge of the park was
promising. I spent a half hour pacing the distance from the highest point of
the bridge to the stage. I then checked my calculation with a handheld laser
the size of a pen. My pacing was off by only three yards. It would do. The
items I picked up at Cherry’s place would also play big parts in the
undertaking. I found a suitable container for one of them in the middle of the
expansive lawn in front of the pavilion. I examined the sky and noted the cloud
formations. I’m pretty good at predicting the weather. At any rate, I’d monitor
the local meteorologists’ reports. It was definitely windy that close to Lake
Michigan, so I would have to adjust my aim. There were flagpoles on the west
side of the park. The flags would give me a good indication of wind velocity
before I took the shot. Perfect.
                 Knowing
my escape route in detail had saved me several times; it was often the key to
making the hit appear to be magic. So I spent another hour walking the streets
around the park. Although it was getting colder, I took the time to mentally
map out the best spots for cover. If a firefight broke out, I needed to know
what offered adequate protection—for me or an opponent. I knew I could rely on
being faster and more precise than a normal person, but nothing really beat
being smart and planning ahead.
                 There
was one more thing to do—I just had to pick up a couple of items I’d need. That
included a disguise.
                 As
I left the park, a double-decker bus drove by on Michigan Avenue. It was full
of tourists, both on the top level and inside. They waved at people on the
street. For a second, I could swear I saw that