Don Pendleton - Hellfire Code

“For now, I’ll stay on mission,” Bolan replied. “If you’re right about Downing’s plan to build this new MGT transport, we’re going to have bigger problems than a few hired punks.”

“Agreed. Hagen will definitely be your best source of information.”

“He may be my only source.”

“Good luck, Striker.”

“Thanks. Out, here.”

Bolan hung up and returned to his car. The mist had grown into a light rain, and the wet streets reflected the light from overhead lamps. Brookhaven boasted some of the most expensive homes in the area. Bolan had never been to this part of Atlanta, but from where he sat not a single house looked worth less than a half million. While Hagen’s choice to transfer to the corporate sector probably proved more lucrative, it seemed like a pricey neighborhood on a scientist’s salary.

Bolan took a moment to study Hagen’s dossier in the dim blue-green cast of the handheld’s LCD screen. Hagen had studied at MIT followed by a fellowship at CERN and USC, Berkeley. He then took a job with the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency. His work caught Downing’s eye—who at the time had just been appointed to the NSA—and Downing immediately hired him. Through that relationship they produced a number of significant technological advances. Senate investigators at one point accused Downing of shelling funds to unauthorized research, a charge he vehemently denied. Most of the upper echelon in Wonderland forgot it when Downing tendered his resignation. Maybe Hagen had been into Downing’s work for the friendship or money, and maybe he’d just done it to elevate his position with the NSA. Bolan didn’t really give a damn either way unless Hagen had stepped over the line. That’s where the Executioner would draw his.

Bolan started his car and circled the block twice to verify nobody had followed him. He parked half a block from the residence, killed the engine and watched the entrance. Two lights were on, he saw one in a downstairs room and a second upstairs window where the light existed only as a thin seam around the window blinds. Okay, so Hagen was divorced, had no kids, with little social life to speak of, so he was probably home alone. Good, that would make things a bit easier.

Bolan had opted to forego his blacksuit for the operation. First, this was a soft probe. He only wanted to ask Hagen some questions. Second, he would probably get farther dressed in his casual slacks, polo shirt and unmarked black windbreaker than as the Angel of Death. Money or patriotism most likely motivated a man like Hagen over violence and treachery, even if he was in Downing’s employ. The guy was a scientist, not a thug.

The soldier reached the door and perfunctorily rang the doorbell. Nearly two minutes passed before a young, petite woman in a traditional maid’s uniform opened the door. She was young but quite beautiful—Bolan guessed her at around nineteen or twenty—and appeared to be of Hispanic heritage. Her dark eyes studied Bolan, and although she smiled the Executioner could read just a hint of suspicion behind them.

“Hi,” he said, doing his best to be charming.

“Good evening,” she replied.

Bolan held up his badge. “My name’s Cooper, I’m with the ATF.”

“You’re with what?”

“Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives. Is Dr. Hagen in?”

“Yes, but he has retired for the evening.”

“You’ll have to wake him,” Bolan replied. “It’s an urgent matter and I need to ask him some questions.”

“It’s almost two o’clock in the morning,” she protested. “You can’t ask me to—”

“Lupe, who is that?” a voice called from what sounded like the top of the stairs.

Bolan prepared for any treachery, but Lupe only directed her voice over her shoulder and replied, “It is the police, Mr. Pete! They wish to talk with you.”

“The police?” Bolan could hear the stomping of feet as they descended the steps and, a moment later, a man appeared at the door.

Peter Hagen wasn’t as tall as he looked in the pictures, and he’d certainly gained a few pounds since leaving the NSA. In all the photographs Bolan had, the man normally wore large glasses with gold-plated wire frames. Now he stood and squinted at Bolan with unaided eyes. Tufts of gray hair pushed outward in every direction. He was unkempt with one side of his face flushed, and the red eyes were an indication he’d been yanked from a sound sleep by Bolan’s intrusion. That, and the crimson bathrobe he’d obviously donned with haste.

“Mister, you’d better have a damn good explanation for waking me up at this hour,” Hagen said.

Bolan flashed the badge again. “ATF, and I do. Are you Dr. Peter Hagen?”

“Humph,” was the scientist’s answer.

“My name is Cooper. I’d like to ask you some questions about work you did at the NSA,” Bolan said. “May I come in?”

“I suppose so,” Hagen said, opening the door some and stepping aside to allow Bolan to enter. “Lupe, make some coffee, will you? Agent Cooper, would you like anything?”

“No, thanks,” Bolan said.

Hagen showed the Executioner into a massive den. The walls were covered with trophies from bowling to golf, not to mention a decent taxonomical collection that included a goat, bear, elk and deer. One wall sported a very old Lee-Enfield rifle that Bolan dated from about a 1946, and twin stainless M1911-A1 trophy pistols mounted on a burnished wooden plaque. The room couldn’t have been more sporty and masculine.

“Have a seat,” Hagen said, waving toward a leather armchair as he took a seat in a recliner directly across from it. He yawned as he asked, “Now what do you need to know, Agent Cooper? I had a very long day, I’m very tired, and unfortunately for you I’m short on patience for night-owl visits from the Feds.”

“As I said, this won’t take long,” Bolan replied. “You were a lead scientist with the NSA throughout most of the 1990s, is that right?”

“You obviously know the answer to that already. So why ask?”

Okay, so Hagen wanted to be a hard-ass. Bolan couldn’t say he blamed the guy in one respect. After all, he’d dragged Hagen out of bed at a late hour and then started off the conversation by asking an obvious question. So now he had an idea of Hagen’s personality. The guy was no idiot, and he certainly didn’t mince words.

“Fair enough,” Bolan replied. “I’ll get right to the point.”

“Please,” Hagen interjected.

“Last night, twenty people were gunned down in an apartment complex in one of the poorest sections of Atlanta,” Bolan said.

“I saw it on the news.” Hagen yawned again.

“The perpetrators used automatic firearms. Thirteen of the targets were French Arabs. The other seven were innocent bystanders.”

“Again, I saw that on the news. I already know about it.”

“Then you also know the man who claimed responsibility for it is Garrett Downing.”

“What?”

Bolan scrutinized Hagen’s reaction. It was hokey.

“That’s preposterous!” Hagen said, jumping to his feet. “I’ve known Garrett Downing for more than twenty years. He’d never hurt a fly.”

“Yes, he would, and you know it,” Bolan said, jabbing a finger at Hagen. “Now sit down, Doctor. I’m not finished.”

“I think you are,” Hagen snapped. “You come in here, wake me up, start accusing a close friend of murdering innocent people, and then—”

The windows of Hagen’s den suddenly exploded. Fragments of glass and wood framing shrieked through the room, followed by the reports of automatic weapons fire. Hagen’s body danced and twitched under the impact of dozens of rounds. Angry slugs punched through his back and blew large holes up and down his front torso. Flesh and entrails splashed across Bolan’s face and shirt before the Executioner hit the floor with a speed that only came with years of experience. Bolan landed and turned to find Peter Hagen’s lifeless eyes staring at him.