Don Pendleton - Hellfire Code

Kurtzman had managed to pull some very basic schematics from data fragments within an obsolete NSA mainframe. The information proved fascinating and simultaneously puzzling. Bolan had never touted vast technical savvy, but one thing he did understand was the frightening prospect of a vehicle like that. In the hands of personnel trained to utilize it properly, such a dreadnought could prove a formidable opponent he wouldn’t be able to neutralize with mere small arms. The schematics alluded to twenty-six-inch homogenous armor, which belied a significant ability to withstand even heavier munitions.

Bolan could believe Downing would have credible reasons to pursue the construction of this vehicle. If Stony Man’s intelligence proved correct—and Bolan had learned long ago to trust it—Hagen was the kind of guy who could build it. Still, the lead wasn’t as solid as Bolan preferred.

Then again, he had other things to worry about. Like the twin set of headlights quickly moving up on his back end as he slowed to make the exit at Brookhaven. As the vehicle got within a few feet of his rear bumper, the driver switched to his high beams. The Executioner knew that trick, and he closed one eye so as not to be blinded by the bright-white glare in his rearview mirror.

Bolan would have chalked up the whole thing to an impatient motorist had it not been for the second vehicle that raced up the shoulder of the exit ramp into a parallel position. Unfortunately for this crew, the Executioner knew that trick. The driver would get his car just far enough past him and then veer into his path. An untrained driver would jam on the brakes, and the rear vehicle would contact the bumper and spin the target so that it left the ramp and crashed onto the highway below. Then the assailants would finish the job before the driver could recover.

The Executioner beat them to it.

Bolan increased speed, then turned the wheel hard right. The driver of the parallel vehicle stomped on his brakes and went the only place he could without ending up scrap metal below—to his left and directly into the path of his colleague’s vehicle. The second driver couldn’t stop his car in time and smashed into the swerving car’s rear driver’s-side door. The car spun as the one that struck it started to fishtail. Force of impact sent the first car skidding through the intersection at the top of the ramp. Its tires struck the sidewalk hard enough to flip the car onto its side. It slid into a telephone pole and ground to a halt.

The second vehicle, a late-model Buick, faired a little better. The driver managed to get it under control and bring it to a stop. For all the good it did him. Bolan was now EVA. He converged on the Buick with his Beretta 93-R in play. The driver saw him approaching and tried to open his door, but the impact had apparently wedged it shut. Three passengers bailed from the vehicle and reached for hardware, but Bolan already had them marked. He thumbed the fire selector switch to 3-shot mode as he targeted the closest enemy gunner and squeezed the trigger. The reports from the Beretta cracked sharply in the damp open air as all three rounds struck the man midtorso. The impact drove him backward into the rear seat.

Bolan grabbed what cover he could behind a metal light pole. The other pair returned fire, as eager to take him out. The Executioner had played the game more often, though, which proved unfortunate for his opposition. He waited for a lull in the fire, then sprinted directly toward the enemy gunners while they reloaded.

When the pair popped into view Bolan saw their eyes register surprise. He was now virtually on top of them. The Executioner squeezed the trigger once more, blowing off the better part of one man’s face. The remaining enemy gunman tried to draw a bead on Bolan, but his fumbling move was almost comical. The man’s shots went wide of Bolan’s left shoulder. The soldier dropped him with two rounds to the chest and a third to the throat. The man’s head bobbed to and fro awkwardly before his knees gave out and he collapsed to the ground.

The entire exchange had taken less than a minute, and the driver was just now coming to the realization he wasn’t getting out through his door. He slid over to the passenger side and made his exit in time to get disentangled with the toppling corpse of his cohort. He shoved the body aside and managed to get both feet on the ground. He stood and found himself facing the smoking muzzle of the Executioner’s pistol.

“Stand still,” Bolan ordered him.

He did.

“Who sent you?”

The guy didn’t answer at first, but a hard tap on the forehead with the Baretta changed his mind. “I’m n-not sure. We just took some money from this guy who told us to watch for you.”

“What guy?”

“Don’t know,” he replied. He nodded at the dead man lying between their feet. “Eddie took the money. I didn’t even get my cut yet.”

Bolan never took his ice-blue eyes from the man. He just gazed at him, trying to decide if he was hearing the truth or not. The four men hadn’t behaved like professionals. They were obviously just young thugs who had taken some money to rub out a target, and clueless they’d been pitted against a veteran operator. That meant whoever hired them either didn’t really know what to expect, or knew exactly what was coming and simply decided not to pass it on to the hired help.

Bolan’s eyes flicked once to the upended vehicle, but he saw no movement. He returned his attention to the lone survivor. “Take a message to your boss. Tell him next time he wants a crack at me he’d better send men to do the job, not punks.”

“But it’s like I said, man—”

“I’m not finished,” Bolan cut in. “Even if you don’t know who sent you, they’ll be in touch to make sure the job got done. Tell them it didn’t and then give them my message.”

The wailing of sirens in the distance signaled it was time to get moving. Bolan ordered the young hood to his stomach and made him interlock his fingers behind his head. Then he sprinted for his car and sped from the scene. He had absolutely no desire to meet up with the police this early in the game, even if he could explain it away using the ATF credentials supplied by Stony Man. He didn’t have that kind of time. He still had business to do with Peter Hagen.

But first he had to make a phone call.

BOLAN FOUND A PHONE BOOTH on a deserted street a few blocks from Peter Hagen’s palatial Brookhaven estate. He called a worldwide access number from memory that connected him directly to Harold Brognola. The Stony Man chief answered on the first ring.

“We have a problem,” Bolan told him.

“What kind of problem?”

“My cover may be compromised.”

“For the love of—” Brognola began, but he ended it with, “How?”

“Not sure. I had a run-in with a couple of wagons crewed by local hoods.”

“I take it you mean nonprofessionals,” Brognola replied with a sigh.

“Right,” Bolan said. “One of them loved life enough to talk, although he didn’t say much. Claims he and his crew were paid by some faceless wonder to make sure I wasn’t long for this life.”

“You think Downing’s on to you?”

“For lack of a better candidate, yeah,” Bolan said. “Let’s face it. The guy’s former NSA, which means he has eyes and ears all over the world.”

“That’s true.”

“And as much as I hate to say it, we know where the leak is if Downing’s people are on to me already.”

“Neely?” Brognola guessed.

“Right.”

“Okay, I’ll put Neely under round-the-clock surveillance immediately,” Brognola said. “Bear can freeze his assets until we get a better picture on this. At least he won’t go anywhere. What about your end?”