Raymond Benson - 2012 - Hitman: Damnation Read Free Page B

was the monumental layout of gourmet food— sauteéd ackee , seafood, and
steaks, steamed and sautéed vegetables of every color and type, a variety of
salads, conch chowder, Jamaican jerk chicken, curry goat, fried plantain, and
an abundance of tropical fruits. For dessert, guests could try other Caribbean delectables such as gizzada ,
grater cake, potato pudding, and banana fritters, along with the more
traditional fare of chocolate cakes and fruit pies. 47 hadn’t eaten dinner, so
he allowed himself to blend with the crowd, fill a plate, and take advantage of
the host’s hospitality before he got down to the business at hand.
                 The hitman moved to a tall dining station, around which
guests could stand and eat. From there he could survey the entire deck. Roget’s intel was correct. Fernandez
had employed several guards—all of whom were armed—and positioned them at key
points on the ship. It was forbidden for guests to bring weapons aboard, but his own men? No problemo .
                 That
was good. All was going according to plan.
                 47
scanned the crowd and didn’t see Corado . But he
spotted Emilio Fernandez, surrounded by young, gorgeous females, making his way
through the throng and greeting familiar faces with handshakes and smiles. The
man was about forty, resembled a friendlier version of Al Pacino in Scarface, and oozed smarminess. As the billionaire moved closer, 47 prepared himself for the cue to go “onstage.”
                 “And
hello to you, señor,” Fernandez said to him.
                 “Good
evening.” 47 gave him a smile. He could play a part well if he had to. What was
uncomfortable for 47 when he was himself, he was smoothly able to fake when on
a mission. In many ways, it was something like a game to him. Could he pull off
the deceit? That was the thrill.
                 “Emilio
Fernandez. I don’t believe we’ve met.” The man held out a hand.
                 “Michael
Brant.” 47 shook his palm. The man’s grip was somewhat clammy. Fernandez was
obviously someone who got where he was through his money, not by any strength
or machismo. Unlike Corado , wherever he might be.
                 “Oh, Mr. Brant. You’re in …” Fernandez snapped his fingers
in succession, trying to remember what he’d heard about his guest.
                 “Water. I have a water company in Luxembourg.”
                 “Right! How canny of you to invest in water. How long ago did
you do it?”
                 “My
family has been in water since before I was born. I inherited the business.”
                 “I
see. Well, smart family! We all need water, don’t we? Welcome aboard, Mr.
Brant.”
                 “Gracias. You have a lovely yacht, sir.”
                 “The
Daphne is my pride and joy.” The man spotted someone he knew and waved. “I must
move on. Please enjoy yourself, Mr. Brant. Many of the women aboard the yacht,
I understand, are more than willing to make the acquaintance of a man such as yourself .” He winked lasciviously and walked away with his
harem. One of the girls, a dark-skinned, lithe model type, gazed at 47 over her
shoulder as they disappeared.
                 An invitation?
                 47
paid no attention. Now sated, it was time for the hunt.
                 He
circled the deck and finally homed in on Corado . The
man sat with a lovely young Hispanic woman at a table near the bulkhead
entrance to the cabins and lower levels of the ship. Two burly bodyguards
accompanied him; both men stood behind Corado , with
their arms folded in front of their broad chests. Corado was a small man, probably in his late forties. Most likely
had a Napoleon complex. He had a walrus mustache and slicked-back black
hair with touches of gray. A big fat Cuban cigar dominated his mouth. All