Hellfire Code

A crazy notion on their part. Almost as crazy as standing on a corner near a market, chain-smoking cigarettes and drinking Gatorade by the bucketfuls. Why he couldn’t have simply paid the houseman of his air-conditioned office to keep up this vigil and notify him of any changes he’d never understand. But the call earlier that day had come directly from the deputy director for Foreign Operations.

“What’s so important about this Neely anyway, sir?” Levine asked the DDFO after his brief.

“It’s not my place to ask why, Warren, and it’s not yours, either,” was the reply. “I don’t like it any more than you, but those are our orders and so we follow them. We can’t screw this up. Understand? You keep on this Neely and don’t let him out of your sight.”

“But, sir, I have a lot of work—”

“Your other duties are rescinded. You just keep this guy under surveillance until you hear otherwise. Got it?”

The next thing Levine heard was a dial tone.

So he’d packed up his stuff, changed into the lightest and most comfortable clothes he had and then set out for the address the DDFO had given him. Six hours later, he was still hanging around and this Neely character hadn’t made a move. Levine tried to remain inconspicuous, but after hanging around so long he figured it was about time to hang a sign around his neck and shoot off fireworks.

What he knew about Neely wouldn’t have fit written in the palm of his hand. The guy was ex-NSA and “of special interest to certain members on Pennsylvania Avenue.” Or at least that’s how the DDFO had painted the picture. Okay, so either Neely was dirty or so important that Levine could shirk all of his other ridiculously important tasks to baby-sit. Not to mention he wouldn’t fool someone with Neely’s training.

The door to Neely’s apartment building swung open and Levine would be damned if it wasn’t Roger Neely who stepped into the afternoon sunlight. Levine turned so he could keep the guy in his peripheral vision, but not so as to pretend he had any interest in the man. He counted fifteen seconds before risking a fresh glance in time to see Neely making distance with a vigorous stride.

Levine cursed the insanity of it all. On an almost deserted street this time of day he’d most likely draw Neely’s attention if he followed him, and that would blow his cover, as if he really had any to start with. If he lost this guy he’d attract attention from the boss, and that led down a path of career destruction. Of course, maybe unemployment would get him home.

Levine considered this a moment longer but finally opted to pursue his quarry.

ROGER NEELY SPOTTED the observer almost immediately when he stepped out the front door of his Manila apartment. He’d seen the guy earlier, watched him while sitting in the window ledge smoking a cigarette after a two-hour romp with Malaya. The man had Agency written all over him, which of course didn’t surprise Neely in the least. Well, as long as he didn’t have to face that big bastard with the cold, blue eyes one more time. Especially not now, after he found himself at the mercy of Garrett Downing.

There had been a time when Neely felt good about what he was doing for his country. He didn’t know exactly who Matt Cooper worked for—and obviously he knew that wasn’t the guy’s real name—but he did believe Cooper was on America’s side. Neely was on America’s side, too, but he couldn’t risk Malaya and his baby. How Downing had ever managed to find out about his wife and child, secreted in Manila to protect them from exposure to danger, he couldn’t be sure. Then again, what did it matter? Downing had connections everywhere and could get to just about anyone; at least, that’s what Neely believed and that’s what mattered.

Neely had hoped once he did what Downing asked, the guy would leave him alone. After all, he’d arranged to get Neely secretly out of the country and back to Manila, and to protect him. Of course it didn’t seem he was doing a very good job of that now. Once Neely gave him the information on the location of the New Corsican Front’s underground headquarters, he figured that would square things.

Apparently not.

Downing’s representative, a muscular and intense man with a brush cut and Russian accent, had first made contact. Neely had never met Downing in person and had only spoken to him once by phone. The Russian-American, who Neely later discovered was named Alek Stezhnya, apparently headed “the Apparatus,” a group of highly specialized commandos hailing from nearly every continent, and they served to enforce the goals of Downing’s Organization of Strategic Initiative. Somehow, Neely had become a full-fledged member of the OSI and he’d never had any interest to start. But the threat against Malaya and Corinne, whether direct or implied, was more than enough to keep Neely interested. He would have joined the AARP if Downing had told him to.

Neely cursed himself for allowing this kind of manipulation. How many times had he been taught not to develop any strong bonds to anyone with whom he’d had a professional affiliation? It made innocent people a target, and the agent a test bench for blackmail. But his love for Malaya and his daughter went well above any of the NSA’s regulations, and he would do anything to protect them. Even swear allegiance to a man like Downing.

Neely slowed his pace, listened carefully to ensure the man followed, and then set his eyes upon the goal. He considered this a defining moment since the Russian-American had called to say Downing wanted to meet personally. He had a plan in place, and once he heard what Downing had to say he planned to tell the guy where to get off, then take Malaya and Corinne and beat it out of here.

Neely took comfort in the weight of the 9 mm SIG-Sauer pistol concealed at the small of his back beneath the loose flower-print shirt he wore. His clothing would have seemed absurd most anywhere else, but it fit the part of a gaudy, wide-eyed tourist perfectly. The short haircut would have most pegging him as a career military, probably Navy, on shore leave and looking for a bit of action. And that was exactly what he wanted them to think.

Neely rounded the corner and found the first cab in a group lined along the sidewalk. As the afternoon turned toward evening, people would start leaving the cool interiors and enjoying the ocean breezes that blew off the Pacific. The cabbies waited for them like vultures circling desert carrion, hopeful for an easy fare to the uptown area of Manila crammed with clubs and local watering holes.

Neely leaned through the window and handed the cabdriver a twenty-dollar bill. “This is yours if you agree to leave here now, drive to the downtown area and then circle back.”

The cabbie expressed suspicion as he pulled an unlit cigarette from his mouth. “What’s the catch?”

“No catch,” Neely said. “Another cab might follow you, but don’t worry about that. Now I’m out of time, so do it or don’t.”

“Done,” the cabbie said as he snatched the twenty.

While the cabbie started his engine, Neely turned and found shelter in the vestibule of an apartment complex. The follower rounded the corner a moment later as the cab sped from the area. The man obviously figured Neely was in the cab, because he jumped into the back of the next available car and gestured for the driver to follow. Neely watched through the long, narrow window of the apartment building as they pulled away. After about a minute lapsed, Neely stepped onto the street and continued toward the address the Russian-American had given him for the meet.

Neely took personal satisfaction at the thought of surprise on the man’s face once he realized he’d been duped.

GARRETT DOWNING SAT with Alek Stezhnya and awaited Neely’s arrival. Stezhnya had seemed impatient during the vigil, and Downing couldn’t resist a smile. Despite the fact Stezhnya was a professional soldier, his youth and inexperience in some matters made him a bit impetuous. Not that Downing minded all that much. Downing had a special interest in games like chess, where only his intellect and savvy would see him through. He’d excelled at these things at the War College in Bethesda and later in the NSA.

If there was one thing people couldn’t have said about Downing, though, it was that he was self-serving. He believed in America—cherished the Constitutional concepts of freedom and security—but he thought enough time had gone by that the government should be doing a better job of protecting the country. Sure, the President and his predecessors had talked up a great game about pursuing the terrorists abroad, not giving them a chance to attack the country once more, but Downing didn’t see much accomplishment. If anything, the American taxpayers had shelled out billions of dollars to bring down the dictators and political radicals of the world, and really very little to combat true terrorism.

Well, Downing believed they had reached a point where enough was enough. The people were sick of paying the high price of freedom, and seeing nothing in the results to make it seem as if the investment were paying off. In the next forty-eight hours, Downing planned to change all that.

Downing stood and went to the portable bar of his makeshift office. These weren’t ideal surroundings, but it worked for this kind of meeting.

“Would you like a drink?” Downing asked Stezhnya.

“No, sir,” Stezhnya replied. “You know I don’t drink.”

Downing shrugged, poured a double malt Scotch whiskey over rocks and then turned and smiled at Stezhnya as he studied him over the rim of his glass. “That’s right. Dulls the senses, clouds the mind, and all that rot. Right?”

Stezhnya’s smile looked forced. “Something like that, sir.”

“Do you think I’m crazy?”

“Sir?”

“Don’t be surly, Alek,” Downing said as he took another sip of his drink and returned to his seat. “I asked you if you think I’m crazy.”

Stezhnya shrugged. “I suppose some people might think of you as crazy, sir.”

“I didn’t ask you what other people think, I asked what you think.” Downing didn’t make it a habit to let people off the hook so easily.

“No, sir. I don’t think you’re crazy. I think you’re eccentric.”

“Good,” Downing said. He slapped the thigh of one leg crossed over the other and leaned back in the chair. “I’d hate to think you see yourself as working for some crazy. I’m not a nutcase, you know.”

“I never thought you were, sir,” Stezhnya replied evenly.

Downing considered his glass for a time, and finally said, “I love my country, is all. Perhaps too much. And I’m sorry about the loss of innocent people. Very sorry.”

“As am I,” Stezhnya interjected in a quiet voice.

“Bah, I don’t blame you, Alek,” Downing said. “You were responsible for the mission, sure, and it didn’t go as planned. Still, you got the job done. That’s the important thing. What I am trying to say, and not very well, is I’d trade the lives of a few countrymen over an entire country. Including my own.”

Stezhnya nodded and then looked at his watch. “Neely’s late.”

“He’ll be here,” Downing said.

A rap at the door caused the Russian-American commando to jump to his feet and reach beneath his jacket. Downing raised a hand to signal he should relax and then gestured toward the door. Stezhnya padded across the room and opened the door a crack, one hand inside his jacket. He opened it a little more to admit a somewhat haggard-looking Roger Neely.

“Ah, Mr. Neely,” Downing greeted. He rose from his chair and extended a hand. Neely looked behind him and noted Stezhnya had closed and locked the door before he shook Downing’s hand. “We were just talking about you. Please, have a seat.”

Neely took the seat Stezhnya had occupied. The Russian chose to stand over his shoulder, a move Downing noticed made Neely nervous. Well, that was fine because he needed Neely’s cooperation. Downing hated having to put Neely in a situation like this—forcing him to betray trusts and leak sensitive information—but it was for a much greater cause. Downing would not, of course, have brought any real harm to Neely’s family but he couldn’t let Neely onto that secret. Downing knew Neely would eventually attempt to escape with his wife and daughter, but he hoped it wouldn’t come to that before he’d finished with the man.

“So, we finally meet face-to-face,” Downing said with a deep sigh. “What a moment, yes?”

“I’m thrilled to be here for it,” Neely said drolly. He cast another suspicious glance over his shoulder.

“You’ve been a great service to us, Mr. Neely,” Downing said. “I do hope we can count on your continued cooperation.”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Oh, come now. Your NSA file suggests you’re quite the patriot. I’m positive you would want to further show your support if you better understood our mission and goals.”

“What I understand is thirteen dead people who should still be alive,” Neely said. “Somehow, I don’t think much else matters when you go around wasting kids and grandmothers.”

Downing shook his head with sadness. “We were just speaking of this. It was not my desire that innocent people suffer. It was an unfortunate accident. But in war we must accept the fact that innocent lives can and often are lost, that casualties are a consequence to both sides, and we must come to terms with that fact.”

Neely’s smile lacked warmth. “We’re not at war, Downing.”

“Oh, but we are,” Downing replied. He rose and went to the small window overlooking the street below the three-story building. “In fact, we’ve been at war for some time now. We declared that war when the terrorists chose to attack us on our own soil. Even before that, I’m afraid.”

He turned to look at Neely, folded his arms. “You see, we’d been battling terrorism for years. You know the history of our secret societies. Of course, we’d done a good part of it behind the backs of our fellow citizens, but that was only so we could protect them from the horrors of our war. And yet after all this time, how far have we really come? I ask you, Mr. Neely, how much closer are we to victory? So we’ve overthrown a dictator here and there, kept one or two network cell leaders on the run. But what real benefit has this reaped for us? Nothing.

“Our people continue to live in fear, and we still issue regular high-level alerts for terrorist threats. We scan air and sea alike for any danger, search our people at airports and train stations and bus depots without evidence of wrongdoing. We detain citizens at border checkpoints, thereby restricting freedom of movement. And what I find most detestable is that we permit our government, under the guise of that ridiculous and unconstitutional Patriot Act, to impose any sort of order it sees. Washington bureaucrats continue to operate unchallenged and unchecked, Mr. Neely, and good Americans continue to die. So while we do what we think needs to be done to stop terrorism, groups like the New Corsican Front are smuggling in an army of devils right under our very noses. And what do we do about it? Again nothing!”

“And you plan to change that?”

“We’ve already changed it,” Stezhnya barked.

Downing nodded with a smug and satisfactory expression. “Alek is correct. The New Corsican Front lost thirteen of their men in our operation in Atlanta. That’s thirteen who won’t threaten our country with suicide bombs. Thirteen who won’t shoot or blow up any American children tonight. Thirteen who won’t hijack any planes or kill any service people in defense of some outdated religious ideology.”

Neely’s sneered. “That’s also seven people who won’t watch their sons and daughters graduate high school, or spend Christmas with their families. Seven people who won’t kiss their children good-night. Seven people who won’t attend church this Sunday. Doesn’t sound like much to be proud of.”

“So, you’re not going to let go of that,” Downing said. “I see. That’s too bad, Mr. Neely, because I had big plans for you.”

“Really.”

“Indeed. You’re well respected in the intelligence community, with many good connections. You could probably provide me with significant information. At best, you could identify the individual who keeps meddling into these affairs.”

“I’ve already told you, I don’t know who he is,” Neely protested. “He uses the name Matt Cooper, but it’s an alias and not one I can find in any of our systems. He’s probably some kind of black ops. We were friends…sort of. But I’m sure by now he knows I betrayed him. Plus, I don’t know how much more use I could be to you. Somebody was following me.”

Downing could see Stezhnya become immediately alert. “Who followed you?”

“Don’t worry,” Neely said. He waved it away. “I made sure to lose him well before I got here. But I don’t know who he is. I’m assuming he’s either with the NSA or a Company man.”

Downing looked at Stezhnya and frowned. “You need to take care of that.”

“Yes, sir,” Stezhnya replied.

“Now just wait a goddamned minute,” Neely cut in. “Don’t start going around killing our spooks, or you’re going to bring a whole shitload of people down on your operations here, and I’m sure you’re anxious to avoid that kind of attention. Besides, this guy isn’t important enough to worry about.”

“What makes you think so?” Stezhnya asked.

Neely looked at the man and expressed incredulity. “What are you, some sort of ignoramus? If he knew anything about you two, he wouldn’t have been assigned to watch me. You go and off the guy, you’re just proving to whoever he’s working for that there’s something to have them concerned. That’ll just send a message they need to come down and look at things more closely.”

Neely looked at Downing and pleaded, “That’s why you should forget about me. I’m no more good to you, because I don’t know anything else. I just want to be left alone. If I don’t do anything to arouse this guy’s suspicions, then that should be enough to throw him off your trail.”

Downing studied Neely for nearly a minute, looked for deception. He had to admit Neely was right. Their work sat at a critical juncture, and he didn’t want to call unnecessary attention to this area. The Philippines were his central base of operations. He couldn’t afford to have soldiers of the same side scrutinizing this part of the country too closely. Up until now he had the luxury of operating in secret, and when he was so close to the goal he needed to maintain the status quo.

“Okay, Mr. Neely, what you say makes sense,” Downing said. “For now, you’re free to go. But don’t make any attempt to contact this man or do anything foolish.”

“Fine,” Neely replied. As he rose from his chair and headed for the door, he added, “Just try not to kill any more noncombatants. Okay? I don’t like being a participant to murder.”

Something turned cold in Downing’s otherwise impassive expression. “I don’t like to brag, Mr. Neely, but we’re just getting started. Part of this operation was a way of raising support for the OSI, to be sure, but we’ve only scratched the surface. Before all is said and done we’re going to show the world we take care of our own, and in so doing will send the terrorists a message.”

“Oh, yeah?” Neely scoffed. “And what kind of a message is that? Your wanton disregard for human life?”

“Not at all,” Downing replied. “We’re going to demonstrate what kind of trouble they’ve bought themselves for threatening the peace and stability of America. In just a short time, we’re going to bring hell itself to them.”

CHAPTER FOUR

Mack Bolan couldn’t be sure if he or Peter Hagen had been the target, although it hardly mattered at this point. Rain and plaster chips rained on him from the fractured ceiling. The soldier choked back a cough. He couldn’t allow himself to succumb to the dust-thickened air as long as the threat remained.

Bolan watched bullets dance across a nearby wall. China inside a cedar cabinet burst under their impact. The rounds shattered the glass in the doors and ripped massive gouges in the antique wood. A bullet trail stitched the wall and headed directly for Lupe, who now stood in the entryway of the den and screamed in horror at the sight of Hagen’s torn and broken body. Bolan leaped to his feet and threw his body toward Lupe, tackling the maid as a continuous stream of autofire buzzed the air where she’d stood a millisecond earlier. They hit the ground hard and the impact knocked the wind from the woman.

Bolan ordered her to keep her head down, drew and primed the Beretta, then crawled to the front door. He reached up, yanked on the latch-style handle, and opened the door wide enough to crawl onto the porch. The soldier rolled into the L-shaped hedge for cover, then risked a glance over the top.

A dark sedan sat parked at the curb and three men dressed in black stood in a line just outside its open doors. Bolan watched as they ceased firing their Uzi submachine guns and took a moment to reload. The Executioner seized the advantage in the lull. He pushed his body beneath the base of the hedge and came out the opposite side with a perfect field of fire on the enemy. He aligned his sights on the nearest target and squeezed the trigger. The single 9 mm Parabellum round took the man in the face. The impact spun the gunner and slammed him into the open door.

The other pair was still trying to reload while frantically searching for Bolan. One man reached down to grab his deceased comrade and drag him inside the sedan while the second guy fumbled with a fresh magazine. Bolan decided to change tactics, to prevent the enemy’s escape. He realigned his pistol sights on the driver’s side of the front windshield and pumped two slugs into it. The driver’s skull exploded into a gory mess under the Executioner’s skilled marksmanship.

Bolan returned his attention to the more immediate threat, which had now identified his position and was swinging an Uzi in his direction. The soldier thumbed the selector switch to 3-shot mode, snap-aimed and squeezed the trigger. The trio of 9 mm stingers struck groin, stomach and chest. The man dropped his weapon and grabbed at his stomach. His body pitched forward a moment later and landed prone on the wet lawn.

The remaining gunner had the body of one of his cohorts halfway inside the sedan when he saw the second man fall. Obviously he realized self-preservation was his only remaining option, so he quickly dived into the front seat and crawled to the driver’s side. Bolan climbed to his feet and sprinted toward the sedan as the surviving gunner fought with the deadweight of the body behind the wheel. The engine suddenly roared to life. Tires spun on the slick pavement as the sedan rocketed away from the curb.

Bolan changed direction and headed for his own car. He figured if he played his cards right, the guy would try to return to the safety of his own kind, and that meant he’d lead the Executioner right to the answers.

Bolan jumped behind the wheel, started the engine and gave chase to the fleeing sedan. He didn’t know exactly where it would all lead him, but he was desperate for answers. The enemy had been onto him since his arrival in Atlanta, and perhaps even before that. He didn’t like the thought that Roger Neely had betrayed him, but there was no other reasonable explanation. Few people outside of Stony Man should have known of any connection between what had happened in Atlanta and Dr. Peter Hagen. The only other people who would have that kind of information were Downing and any people he had on the inside.

What Bolan couldn’t help but wonder was if he had been the one to lead them to Hagen. He had made damn sure nobody followed him before he contacted the scientist, but it was possible he could have missed them. And if he hadn’t led them to Hagen, then why did they wait until Bolan was there before making the hit? Had they hoped to kill them both and somehow sow a disinformation campaign that would tie things up and leave Downing smelling rosy clean? That didn’t make much sense, since Downing had already claimed full responsibility for the operation in that slum neighborhood.

Well, he could figure it out later. For the moment the Executioner knew he had to keep his focus on the mission at hand. He stayed back far enough not to spook his quarry. Bolan had felt uneasy about leaving Lupe behind to contend with the mess there, but he didn’t think she was in any further danger. Whoever was behind this hit had probably accomplished what they went there to accomplish: the assassination of Peter Hagen. Bolan wasn’t buying the hit team had been there for him. There was something else going on here, something deeper and more insidious.