Don Pendleton - Hellfire Code

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.

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.