Hellfire Code. Don Pendleton

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?”

      “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