Don Pendleton - Hellfire Code

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.”

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.