Hellfire Code. Don Pendleton

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.

      CHAPTER THREE

      A hot, humid gust of wind swept across the nearly barren streets of south Manila.

      Late afternoon was the hottest part of the day this time of year, hot enough that not even the monsoon rains had any effect. These were the same times where Warren Levine wondered how he ended up with a thirty-six-month assignment in this godforsaken hellhole. The fact he’d spent the better part of his teenage years here—a bit of an occupational hazard for the child of a widowed Navy father—had apparently left the higher ups with the impression he actually liked the Philippines.

      A crazy notion on their part. Almost as crazy as standing on a corner near a market, chain-smoking cigarettes and drinking Gatorade by the bucketfuls. Why he couldn’t have simply paid the houseman of his air-conditioned office to keep up this vigil and notify him of any changes he’d never understand. But the call earlier that day had come directly from the deputy director for Foreign Operations.

      “What’s so important about this Neely anyway, sir?” Levine asked the DDFO after his brief.

      “It’s not my place to ask why, Warren, and it’s not yours, either,” was the reply. “I don’t like it any more than you, but those are our orders and so we follow them. We can’t screw this up. Understand? You keep on this Neely and don’t let him out of your sight.”

      “But, sir, I have a lot of work—”

      “Your other duties are rescinded. You just keep this guy under surveillance until you hear otherwise. Got it?”

      The next thing Levine heard was a dial tone.

      So he’d packed up his stuff, changed into the lightest and most comfortable clothes he had and then set out for the address the DDFO had given him. Six hours later, he was still hanging around and this Neely character hadn’t made a move. Levine tried to remain inconspicuous, but after hanging around so long he figured it was about time to hang a sign around his neck and shoot off fireworks.

      What he knew about Neely wouldn’t have fit written in the palm of his hand. The guy was ex-NSA and “of special interest to certain members on Pennsylvania Avenue.” Or at least that’s how the DDFO had painted the picture. Okay, so either Neely was dirty or so important that Levine could shirk all of his other ridiculously important tasks to baby-sit. Not to mention he wouldn’t fool someone with Neely’s training.

      The door to Neely’s apartment building swung open and Levine would be damned if it wasn’t Roger Neely who stepped into the afternoon sunlight. Levine turned so he could keep the guy in his peripheral vision, but not so as to pretend he had any interest in the man. He counted fifteen seconds before risking a fresh glance in time to see Neely making distance with a vigorous stride.

      Levine cursed the insanity of it all. On an almost deserted street this time of day he’d most likely draw Neely’s attention if he followed him, and that would blow his cover, as if he really had any to start with. If he lost this guy he’d attract attention from the boss, and that led down a path of career destruction. Of course, maybe unemployment would get him home.

      Levine considered this a moment longer but finally opted to pursue his quarry.

      ROGER NEELY SPOTTED the observer almost immediately when he stepped out the front door of his Manila apartment. He’d seen the guy earlier, watched him while sitting in the window ledge smoking a cigarette after a two-hour romp with Malaya. The man had Agency written all over him, which of course didn’t surprise Neely in the least. Well, as long as he didn’t have to face that big bastard with the cold, blue eyes one more time. Especially not now, after he found himself at the mercy of Garrett Downing.

      There had been a time when Neely felt good about what he was doing for his country. He didn’t know exactly who Matt Cooper worked for—and obviously he knew that wasn’t