Hellfire Code

The sedan left Brookhaven city limits and merged onto the highway, heading toward Atlanta. It was possible the driver had a ruse in mind, but somehow Bolan didn’t think so. Unless the hit team had observed him park his vehicle, they wouldn’t know he had transportation close by. In all probability, the driver would think he’d gotten away clean. At most, he’d be looking for marked police units that might have a description of his car. That would have him a little paranoid and thus less watchful of civilian vehicles.

They continued along the highway until they entered the city, and soon the sedan took a north side exit. Bolan continued to follow at a relatively neutral distance. He reached into the bag sitting next to him and pulled out a Fabrique Nationale Herstal FNC compact assault rifle. The FN-FNC was as versatile and dependable as the acclaimed FAL. However it chambered the 5.56 mm round, the most popular high-velocity slug in use by military units around the world. At a cyclic rate of 800 rounds per minute, the weapon had become a trusted ally in Bolan’s war and he often included it in his basic mission arsenal.

Bolan was checking the weapon to ensure he was ready for action when the sedan’s brake lights caught his attention. The vehicle made a sharp turn onto a side street between a pair of large, abandoned buildings. He noticed they had entered a rundown industrial area, and most of the businesses were either closed or abandoned. It seemed like a strange place to set up shop, but Bolan could see where it might prove the perfect place to hide something—something like an elite hit team.

The Executioner increased speed and prepared for action.

THE SOUND OF TIRES crunching gravel and skidding to a halt brought Lyle Prichard to the steel hopper window of the old warehouse. This whole deal had him a bit jumpy. He hadn’t been very keen on the idea of maintaining this ridiculous vigil from the moment Alek Stezhnya had ordered it, and now they had company. He checked his watch and hoped it was Galeton and the crew returning from Hagen’s place. They were already an hour overdue.

Prichard looked through the slightly open window to stare at the alleyway below and confirmed it was the sedan. It was about damn time. Now maybe they could get the hell out of here. After their operation in Atlanta, Stezhnya had insisted on returning to headquarters in the Philippines and leaving him in charge to complete their operations. Hagen had remained the one loose end in their business here in the States, and apparently Garrett Downing didn’t like loose ends. Assuming Galeton and the crew had done their job, they could now report the mission completed and return to the temporary training grounds south of Milan.

Prichard turned from the window and looked at Mick Tufino. The Italian’s feet were propped on a plain, metal table. A half-smoked cigarette dangled from his mouth while he flipped through a Hustler magazine.

“They’re back,” Prichard said.

“That’s nice.” Tufino grunted.

“For chrissake, put that down and start getting our gear together, Mick,” Prichard said. He flipped open his cellular phone with a snap of his wrist. “I’ll call the boss and let him know we’re ready to extract.”

Tufino sent Prichard a flat look before tossing the magazine aside and getting to his feet. He went to the bags stacked nearby and began to inventory their equipment. Two of the bags contained an assorted cache of automatic weapons, including four M-16 A-3 carbines, four MP-5 subguns, and a pair of HK 33Es. Another bag held most of Tufino’s demolitions. He’d packed twenty-five, one-pound sticks of C-4 plastique, an equivalent number of detonators, plus some standard GI-issue M-1 fuse igniters. They hadn’t needed any of it for these missions, but Tufino didn’t like to be shorthanded and Prichard could appreciate that. It was good to have such supplies in a pinch.

Prichard heard the door on the first floor roll open, and then a set of footsteps rapidly ascend the stairs. He furrowed his eyebrows at that. There should have been four men coming up the steps, and to hear one set of footfalls seemed a bit odd. Maybe the rest had waited in the sedan, but that didn’t make much sense. He and Tufino sure as hell weren’t going to carry all this equipment down the steps themselves.

A moment later Galeton’s head popped into view followed by the rest of his lanky form. The color of his skin was visible from across the room even in the dim light afforded by the two of at least a dozen overhead lights, the only ones actually working. Prichard had never seen Galeton look so ghastly and haggard.

“What—?” Prichard began.

“We’ve got problems!” Galeton called.

“That’s not what I want to hear right now,” Prichard said as he looked in Tufino’s direction with a measure of panic.

“What kind of problems?” Tufino asked.

“Somebody beat us to Hagen,” Galeton replied.

“Okay, so where’s the rest of the crew?” Prichard asked.

“Dead,” Galeton said.

As Galeton came close Prichard could see his comrade was visibly shaken.

“What?” Tufino rasped.

“I’m serious,” Galeton said with a nod. “I think it was that Cooper guy Stezhnya said we should watch for.”

“Stezhnya also told us he’d be taken care of,” Tufino said, the anger evident in his voice.

“Well, obviously he was wrong,” Galeton replied harshly.

Before Prichard could comment further, the sound of another vehicle approaching echoed through the deserted factory building. Prichard spun on his heel and dashed to the window. A plain, unmarked car slowed to a halt behind their rented sedan. Prichard watched a moment longer and saw a lone, tall driver in casual dress exit the vehicle. He held the thin, unmistakable silhouette of an assault weapon tightly against his muscular form.

Prichard stepped from the window and gestured for Tufino to pull weapons from their stash. Galeton tossed the Uzi at Tufino who traded it for one of the MP-5s. Tufino then withdrew a pair of the M-16 A-3s. Prichard yanked the .45-caliber Detonics from his shoulder holster, jacked the slide, then holstered it and took one of the M-16s from Tufino. The three men fanned out, each toward a point of cover that would also facilitate interlocking fields of fire.

According to the intelligence Stezhnya had given them, Cooper was some type of secret operative. They didn’t know much more about him than that, and apparently even all of Downing’s connections had come up with zilch on the guy. This Cooper apparently had no registered face, no identity, not even a set of fingerprints. Evidence suggested he’d probably engaged in other special operations, but where or when those operations had taken place, and what authority had sanctioned them, remained a mystery.

Prichard only hoped he wasn’t a cop. He didn’t care for killing cops if there was some way out of it.

“We take him alive if we can,” Prichard whispered to the others. “Shoot to wound.”

The men grunted their assent, then fell silent to wait.

WHEN BOLAN EXITED the vehicle, he studied the massive sliding door that stood open just wide enough to squeeze through. He then looked up and saw dim lighting through the third-story hopper windows, one of which was ajar, and human shadows on the ceiling that moved with frenetic pace. Obviously the occupants had seen him and were now scrambling to set up an ambush.

The optimal plan at this point was to find another way into the rundown factory. If all else failed, then he’d have to try for a frontal assault, but Bolan wasn’t feeling particularly suicidal at the moment.

Bolan sprinted the length of the factory and rounded the far corner. He stopped and looked up to find a fire escape. It was rusted with age but appeared more than adequate to hold his weight. He searched the area and quickly spotted a large garbage bin nearby. He trotted to it, pushed his weight against it and smiled with satisfaction when it gave under a test push. The wheels groaned and squeaked under protest as Bolan shoved it into position beneath the fire escape. He slung his FNC, then leaped nimbly onto the lip of the bin. He jumped up and reached the bottom rung of the fire escape. Muscles tensed as he pulled his weight up through the narrow opening and into a seated position on the grated walkway.

Bolan catfooted up the steps until he reached the third story. He found the door ajar, which didn’t surprise him. The building was abandoned, a number of its windows broken. It was little more than a shell that its owners had left to its own fate long ago, which meant nobody would care who entered.

The soldier slipped through the door and crouched. No sounds greeted him, and he wondered for a moment if he’d been duped into a well-laid trap. Then he heard the slightest movement, just a shuffle of feet, and it told him he was close. One of the ambushers was becoming impatient. That was good. It would give Bolan a point of reference; determine the location of his enemy and perhaps their numbers.

The Executioner felt his way through the pitch-black hallway and carefully placed each step. It wouldn’t do to let them hear him before he was in a position where he felt he held the advantage. Bolan continued his slow, agonizing journey but eventually the sight of two men crouched behind large wooden crates rewarded him. He couldn’t see their faces, but a cursory inspection was enough to tell him neither was the man driving the luxury sedan he’d followed here. The closer gunner was black and the other, swarthy and dark-haired. Bolan made the latter for Greek, maybe Italian. Since neither matched the description of the sedan driver, he knew at least three lay in wait for him.

Bolan stepped from the shadows and leveled his weapon at the black man. “Don’t move,” he commanded in an icy tone. The other man started to shift and he added, “Either of you. You’re not that fast.”

“Looks like you got the drop on us, my friend,” the black man said.

“I’m not your friend,” Bolan said. He directed his voice toward the general direction of the loft and called, “Whoever else is waiting, you might as well show yourself!”

The hesitant sound of quickened breathing, the creaks in the floor as someone shifted weight on his feet, and the enemy appeared to Bolan’s left in a swift and sudden blaze of autofire. It was the sedan driver, and he made a beeline for another piece of cover, tried to flank Bolan with a suppressing volley. The Executioner swung the muzzle of his weapon with practiced ease and held back the trigger on a long burst as he led the target just slightly. The man stepped right into the path of Bolan’s fire, and the 5.56 mm slugs ripped an ugly pattern in his chest. He spun from the impact and skidded along the dusty floor.

The other pair seized the attempted distraction of their cohort’s sacrifice, but as Bolan had previous alluded, they weren’t that fast. The soldier hit the floor, and twin bursts of slugs from the M-16 carbines zinged well over his head. He answered the assault with a blinding one of his own, the slugs hammering away at the targets. The first shots took the black man full-force in the gut and slammed him into the crate he’d been using for cover. Bolan’s second burst caught the survivor in the thigh and grazed his right midriff. He shouted in pain, released his weapon and sat back on his haunches as the carbine clattered to the floor.

Bolan crossed the expanse in seconds and kicked the weapon well out of reach. He then moved close enough to see that the man was badly wounded, perhaps fatally if they didn’t do something to stop the spurting blood from his leg wound.

“You got a medical kit?” Bolan asked.

The man still seemed in shock as he nodded and pointed in the direction of several large bags. Bolan dug through the weapons and found a large red case that contained bulky field dressings. He moved quickly with the entire pack, knelt at the wounded man’s side and expertly stripped one of the dressings and applied it. He then tore a long strip from a roll of gauze wrapping, folded it in two and quickly applied it to the bandage. That accomplished, he tore a second strip and after thumbing rounds from one of the clips for the Beretta, used it to twist the bandage tightly enough to provide a makeshift tourniquet.

“That should hold,” Bolan said. He looked into the man’s eyes, which were rapidly going dim. A second glance revealed blood seeping to the surface of the thick bandage.

The man looked at him and grimaced with pain. “Maybe not.”

They both knew it at that point.

“You know,” the guy continued, “we had you figured all wrong, Cooper. They led us to believe you were one of the bad guys. I’m thinking now maybe we were the bad guys.”

“Yeah,” Bolan replied quietly. “Maybe so.”

“You won this round,” the guy said, the tone in his voice even weaker. The light began to leave his eyes.

“The innocents killed last night. Your men did it?”

“Yeah,” he replied. “But they ain’t my men.”

“Who gave the orders?” Bolan pressed. “Downing?”

The man seemed to have only enough strength now to nod. He coughed—although to Bolan it seemed more like a ragged exhalation—but then said, “You’re a decent man, Cooper. For patching me…up…I mean…”

“Do something decent in return,” Bolan said. “Tell me where I can find him. Where can I find Downing?”

Before he died, the guy managed to rasp, “Manila.”

CHAPTER FIVE

The Executioner contacted Stony Man once clear of the warehouse in Atlanta.

“I’ll need the first bird that can get me to the Philippines,” Bolan said.

“You’re in luck,” Price told him after keying an inquiry into Stony Man’s information supernetwork. “There’s a flight leaving for Andrews inside of two hours. From there it looks like you might have a pretty long wait. It’s been more difficult to get military flights into and out of the Philippines since the loss of our bases there.”

“I’d like to get Jack,” Bolan said. “Any chance of that?”

“David called less than an hour ago with an update. They should be here by morning.”

“You think Jack can cut and run straight for Andrews?”

“I think it’d take an army to hold him back,” Price replied.

Bolan would have bet on it. He and Jack Grimaldi, Stony Man’s ace pilot, were longtime allies and friends. In fact, Bolan had known the man longer than any other Stony Man operative. Grimaldi, tough and tireless, had taken Bolan out of an incalculable number of scrapes.

“Good. Tell him I’ll meet him at our private hangar.” The wait in Washington would give Bolan a chance to catch some shuteye. “Is Hal there?”

“No, I finally ordered him to bed.”

Bolan grinned. “Now that’s an order from you I’d have no trouble following.”

“Watch it,” Price replied in a soft, teasing voice. “Anyway, what’s the news?”

“Very little,” Bolan said. “Hagen didn’t live long enough to tell me about anything he might have been working on for Downing. In fact, he gave me the whole righteous indignation act. Then Downing’s murder crew killed him before I could extract any real information.”

“What about this crew?”

“Same ones who did the job on that NCF house,” Bolan replied. “I managed to get one of them to talk before he died. I was surprised to find ID on all three of them. I’ll send you the names via up-link once I reach the airport.”

“We’ll be waiting,” Price said. “Anything else?”

“Downing’s behind this whole deal, no doubt there. But I don’t get the feeling he had direct control on this hit team.”

“Why not?”

“These guys were professionals, well-trained. Black ops all the way. Definitely a military man headed this crew.”

“Well, Downing does have a lot of connections from his NSA days,” Price said. “Maybe he’s got ex-military training his special teams.”

“Possible,” Bolan said. “There was something especially familiar about these teams, though. I can’t quite put a finger on it. Maybe it’ll come to me with time. For now, you can assume I’m going to push this all out.”

“What support do you need?”

“Have Cowboy send additional munitions reserves with Jack. In the meantime, I’ll try to stay out of trouble.”

“You do that,” Barbara Price replied.

A LARGE PART of the Filipino population would have said the Ninoy Aquino International Airport stood as the iconic symbol of the country’s poor economy. The few who would have disagreed with that view numbered those with questionable standards on what was “clean and modern.”

In any case, Bolan wasn’t here on a sightseeing tour so it didn’t matter to him. The heat and humidity assaulted him like a wet, wool cloak, and Bolan could understand why Grimaldi had chosen to stay behind in the comparatively cool interior of the jet. Not that he didn’t deserve the rest. Bolan would have preferred to bring the pilot along for backup, but he figured the guy deserved a respite after the long flight.

Bolan had changed into lighter wear for his arrival, and didn’t prompt a second look as he moved past the baggage claim and headed for the exit. He had learned long ago the value of role camouflage. He’d used it since nearly the start of his war with the Mafia. The soldier based it on the concept that careful study of an environment would reveal telltale clues of what others accepted as normal. It was then a simple matter of exploiting those details and appearing just as everyone would expect, thus blending into the setting and attracting as much or as little attention as required. Bolan had effectively applied the technique to penetrate everything from Mob Families to the narcotics underworld, even terrorist groups on occasion.

Bolan left the terminal and stepped onto the sidewalk bordering twin lanes jammed with cars of various makes, models and colors. Noxious fumes spewed from tailpipes throughout the long, covered port that made Bolan want to choke when mixed with the sweltering heat. One of the most popular vehicles in the country was the Jeepney. Bolan hailed a brightly colored one covered with bumper stickers and sporting a red-orange paint finish. It took him nearly a minute of broken conversation before he was satisfied the driver knew where he wanted to go.

As they left the hectic scene, Bolan reflected on the mission ahead. All leads pointed to Manila, and the natural place to start would be the downtown apartment where the CIA surveillance had located Roger Neely. According to official reports, Neely was on a scheduled two-week vacation. Bolan had no reason to think Neely’s choice to come here was anything other than it appeared. It didn’t seem an unusual choice for a vacation spot, since Neely’s career-Navy father had spent a long tour of service here. The woman and child he was reportedly spending time with was another matter entirely. Stony Man’s intelligence had dug up very little on the native woman, Malaya, or the mysterious child. Bolan suspected the most obvious: she was Neely’s mistress and the little girl was their daughter.

Bolan recalled his conversation with Barbara Price on the trip overseas.

“The apartment is rented in Malaya’s name,” Price said, “but from everything we can determine she doesn’t have a cent to her name. She doesn’t work, and she doesn’t collect any form of public assistance from the Filipino government.”

“So she has no income but somehow she survives,” Bolan replied.

“Exactly. I think it’s obvious where she gets her money, though.”

“Neely.”

“Well, we’ve determined over one-third of his salary is unaccounted for. He doesn’t live high off the hog, has only a modest balance in a savings account, and no real investments to speak of outside of his government pension fund. A name search shows he regularly uses a charge card to purchase international traveler’s checks, balance paid in full every month without fail. Those check purchases stopped three weeks ago.”

“Are the checks traceable?”

“Bear’s on it now, but he says it’ll take time.”

“Well, either his money’s going to this woman or he’s socking it away for a rainy day.”

“If he’s on Downing’s payroll, taking care of this Malaya might be part of the deal.”

“Possibly,” Bolan replied. “I’m still skeptical about that.”

“Why?”

“Seems to me a man as fanatical about duty and honor as Downing is would probably use this woman more as leverage to keep Neely in line. I’ve known Roger Neely for some time, and he never struck as me the kind seduced by greed or power. But do something to threaten his family, I think he might cooperate.”

“That’s assuming a lot,” Price replied.

“Like what?”

“Like this Malaya and her kid are Neely’s family.”

“Okay, maybe they are and maybe they aren’t,” Bolan said. “Just do me a favor and have Hal get the CIA to back off on the surveillance.”

“Sounds like you have a plan.”

“In a way,” Bolan said. “I’d rather handle it myself. Neely knows me and he trusts me, and right now that may be the only thing going for us. I don’t want to spook him.”

Yeah, Bolan had Neely figured. The NSA agent was a straight-lace guy all the way according to his performance reviews. Smart, educated and born into a family of old money, Neely joined the NSA as a junior analyst following six years with a U.S. Army Signal unit where he’d specialized in cryptography and domestic intelligence. He met the challenge with acclaimed success, making analyst in an unprecedented three years and senior analyst on the eve of his fortieth birthday.

Downing had some leverage on Neely and he was using it to his maximum benefit.

When they reached Neely’s apartment building, Bolan passed the cabbie twenty U.S. dollars and then exited the Jeepney without waiting for change. He pushed through the cheap front door and ascended a flight of rickety wooden steps. They creaked with every footfall, and Bolan figured if Neely hadn’t been expecting him he was now. The lack of security held no surprises for the Executioner, especially not in this part of town. There was little crime, mostly because the residents in this section of Manila had little if anything of value to steal.

Bolan located Neely’s apartment and knocked. A minute elapsed before he knocked again and waited patiently in silence. He pulled a lock-pick set from his pocket and expertly overcame the cheap door handle. The apartments here didn’t even have dead bolts. Bolan opened the door wide enough to slip through, and then quickly swept the apartment only to find it empty.

The Executioner took a position in the darkened recess of a doorway and waited.

ALMOST TWO HOURS ELAPSED in Bolan’s vigil before he hit pay dirt. It started with the sound of keys jingling outside the apartment, then the click of the lock. Bolan peered out of his shadowy position to watch as the door handle turned and the door swung inward. He recognized his mark the moment Neely entered, and waited until the door closed before he stepped from the shadows and raised the Beretta. He aligned his sights on the back of Neely’s neck as the NSA agent closed the door and locked it.

“Don’t move,” Bolan ordered. Neely started to turn and Bolan drew back the hammer on the Beretta. “I said ‘don’t.’”

Neely froze.

Bolan walked over to Neely, pistol unwavering, and quickly frisked him. He found a 9 mm SIG-Sauer pistol tucked in Neely’s front pocket and relieved him of it. Bolan then grabbed Neely by the collar and pulled him backward into an overstuffed chair. He studied Neely for a moment, watched his eyes, but saw only surprise there.

“I can see from that look you weren’t expecting me,” Bolan said.

“Actually I was,” Neely replied. “I just didn’t think it would be this soon. It took you long enough.”

“Don’t try it,” Bolan said in a clipped fashion.

“Try what?”

“Try to make it sound as if this was all part of your plan. You skip on our meet without so much as getting a message to me. Then you show up in the Philippines, chumming it up with terrorists.”

“What terrorists? You mean, Downing?” Neely let out a snort. “That guy’s no terrorist.”

“I think ordering the wholesale slaughter of innocent people and then calling them ‘casualties of war’ qualifies him for the title,” Bolan replied.