William Dietz - Hitman - Enemy Within

At the end of the second day he waited until everyone else had gone to sleep, got up long enough to get dressed, and returned to bed. At that point he set his mental alarm clock for 2:30, but was so amped up that he couldn’t sleep, and was still awake when Number 6 padded by at 2:53.

That was the moment when the youngster slipped out from between the blankets, swung his still-bare feet onto the floor, and padded silently down the hall as he followed his enemy in the lavatory. Number 47 knew that one mistake, one errant sound, would be sufficient to alert the bully and cause him to glance back. And if that occurred, an even worse beating would come his way.

Adrenaline flooded his body, and his heart beat like a trip-hammer as he tiptoed into the dimly lit bathroom. And that’s where 6 was, directing a powerful stream into one of the urinals, as the loop fell over his head.

Number 6 was fast, but he was sleepy, and his first instinct was to try to tuck his penis away. So his hands didn’t come up until the ligature had already begun to constrict at his throat. The homemade garrote consisted of a length of cord from a window sash, affixed to two four-inch lengths of wood, both of which had been surreptitiously removed from one of the custodian’s brooms.

Urine sprayed left and right as 47 pulled the handles in opposite directions, and the two of them performed a slow pirouette as the struggle continued. They turned toward the long row of sinks on the other side of the room. Suddenly the attacker could see both himself and his victim in the big wall mirror. Because the boys were identical in appearance, it appeared as though 47 were strangling himself. At that moment, he knew why 6 liked to brutalize people. It was all about control. He discovered how addictive such power could be as 6 made gargling noises and attempted to stomp 47’s bare toes.

Then the bully’s eyes began to bulge, his lips turned blue, and a long, drawn-out, farting sound was heard as he soiled himself. That was when 47 expected to feel a sense of regret. But there was nothing other than a feeling of satisfaction as all life departed the other youngster’s body.

Number 47 wanted to release the garrote at that point, not out of a sense of revulsion, but to speed his escape. Especially since some other boy could enter the lavatory at any time and discover the grisly scene. But 47 knew that the only thing worse than a dead enemy was one who came back to life, filled with a burning desire for revenge. So in spite of the stench, the young assassin continued to pull the wooden handles in opposite directions, and counted to sixty.

Finally, confident that Number 6 was truly dead, 47 let go.

Then, in keeping with a boyish impulse to send a message to his clone brothers, he wrestled 6 into one of the stalls. The body was limp-a dead weight-so it was difficult to push the head into a toilet and make sure it remained there. But that’s what the newly minted killer was determined to do.

Finally that chore was accomplished, and it was time to return to the dorm. There he gathered up two pairs of socks, plus his boots, and a heavily loaded daypack. After having taken one last look around, Number 47 slipped out of the room.

A flight of stairs led down into the front hall, where Mrs. Dorvak was asleep behind the big desk, her head back, hands clasped over her protuberant belly. Number 47 smiled thinly as he tiptoed past. Maybe, if everything went especially well, Lazlow would fire the old cow for sleeping on duty!

Once in the hall beyond, he had to pause and pull on socks and boots before following a corridor to the side entrance. The much-abused door normally produced a horrible screeching sound whenever someone went to open it. But thanks to the grease lavished on its hinges the previous day, the door opened silently, and a blast of frigid air invaded the hallway.

But that was the easy part, 47 knew, because the real threat was patrolling the grounds outside, and his name was Bruno. The exact nature of the dog’s ancestry was unknown, although he was huge and resembled a mastiff. A bad-tempered mastiff that prowled the asylum’s grounds at night to keep intruders out, and to keep the boys in. Which Bruno managed to do with great efficiency. As far as 47 could remember, there had been only one escape attempt. It had concluded in a cacophony of horrible screams followed by a brief memorial service two days later.

So 47 had reason to be frightened as he left the protection of the asylum building and made straight for the pump house. That was where he had stashed a bow he had stolen from the gym-along with a single steel-tipped arrow. Dry snowflakes fell all around him, the air was bitterly cold, and his boots made a crunching sound as the ice-crusted snow gave under his weight.

Had Bruno heard him? Or caught his scent? There was no way to know, because everyone knew that Bruno’s hunts were silent, until his jaws closed on something, and it began to squeal.

Of course, since he didn’t want to attract any attention, that was good—or it could be, provided that 47 was able to pull the weapon out from under the pump house in one smooth motion, string the bow with cold fingers, bring the modified target arrow up into the proper position, pull the string all the way back, and let loose before Bruno could close with him.

After what seemed like hours of crossing the open ground, 47 skidded to a halt, fell to his knees in the snow, and stuck his right hand in under the dimly lit pump house. There was a brief moment of joy as his cold fingers closed around the arrow, but it was quickly followed by a sense of despair as he felt for the bow, and realized that it wasn’t there! Most likely the groundskeeper or a maintenance worker had come across the weapon while performing some chore, missed the arrow during the process, and returned the bow to the sports equipment room.

It was a horrible break, but there was no time to think about that as 47 heard a deep growl and turned to confront the oncoming dog.

The brute was airborne by that time, so all the twelve-year-old could do was throw up his arms in a futile effort to protect himself while he waited to die.

But the arrow was clutched in his left hand, its knife-sharp tip pointed outward, and as Bruno’s weight came down on it, the dog’s own momentum inadvertently pushed the other end of the shaft into the frozen ground! There was a pitiful yelp as the improvised point penetrated the mastiff’s skin, punched all the way through his heart, and emerged between his shoulder blades.

Number 47 took the full brunt of Bruno’s weight, and produced a grunt as all of the air was forced out of his lungs. It took him a minute to recover, but finally, after gasping like a just-landed fish, the youngster managed to suck some oxygen. It was only then, as he battled to push Bruno off his torso, that 47 realized the dog was, indeed, dead.

The boy was too scared, and too cold, to appreciate the full extent of his good fortune, but there would be time later to marvel at how lucky he had been. Or was it luck? Because even though the bow was missing, the arrow had been wielded by 47’s hand, which had made the “good luck” possible.

He shook his head to clear his mind of such thoughts. All 47 wanted to do now was turn and make a run for the metal fence that encircled the property.

It rattled as he leaped and his boots hit the mesh two feet off the ground. The boy’s breath came in short gasps as he began to climb. Less than a minute later he was over the top, dropping to the ground below, and jogging along a snow-covered access road, then onto the main road. There weren’t very many streetlights, but those there were wore halos, and led the way toward the highway, where he could hitch a ride to the city of Brasov.