For nearly a minute neither man spoke

“Whatever’s going on between you two is none of my concern,” Bolan growled. “Will you help me or not?”

Subaharam nodded and Neshbi began to speak. “I do not know who might want to rekindle the hatred between my people and the government. But we are certain it was started by an outside influence.”

“Any idea who that influence might be?” Bolan asked.

“At first I thought it might be your CIA,” Neshbi replied. “Now I am uncertain who is behind it, but I think they are trying to threaten the alliance.”

“What alliance?” Bolan queried.

“You did not know? The MEK has formed an accord with the Armed Islamic Group.”

“For what purpose?” Subaharam demanded.

“What else? The utter destruction of the West.”

Other titles available in this series:

Omega Game

Shock Tactic

Showdown

Precision Kill

Jungle Law

Dead Center

Tooth and Claw

Thermal Strike

Day of the Vulture

Flames of Wrath

High Aggression

Code of Bushido

Terror Spin

Judgment in Stone

Rage for Justice

Rebels and Hostiles

Ultimate Game

Blood Feud

Renegade Force

Retribution

Initiation

Cloud of Death

Termination Point

Hellfire Strike

Code of Conflict

Vengeance

Executive Action

Killsport

Conflagration

Storm Front

War Season

Evil Alliance

Scorched Earth

Deception

Destiny’s Hour

Power of the Lance

A Dying Evil

Deep Treachery

War Load

Sworn Enemies

Dark Truth

Breakaway

Blood and Sand

Caged

Sleepers

Strike and Retrieve

Age of War

Line of Control

Breached

Retaliation

Pressure Point

Silent Running

Stolen Arrows

Zero Option

Predator Paradise

Circle of Deception

Devil’s Bargain

False Front

Lethal Tribute

Season of Slaughter

Point of Betrayal

Ballistic Force

Renegade

Survival Reflex

Path to War

Blood Dynasty

Ultimate Stakes

State of Evil

Force Lines

Contagion Option

Hellfire Code

Mack Bolan®

Don Pendleton

Goodness without wisdom always accomplishes evil.

—Robert Anson Heinlein

I have no fight with others who walk a like path to mine. But they make my cause inhumane and despicable when they kill without cause. I will hold them responsible for that.

—Mack Bolan

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

PROLOGUE

A torrential downpour had slammed into the six men for the past hour, soaking them to the bone, not to mention reducing visibility to such a point they could hardly make out their target.

Alek Stezhnya had spent the better part of his career in the worst hellholes the world had to offer, but those spots had yet to beat May in Atlanta, Georgia. He wiggled his toes. The pressure squished water into the spaces between his wool socks and leather combat boots. Okay, so his employer paid him enough to stand here drenched, but that still didn’t excuse this sorry mess. The sooner he could get out of here and back to the comfort of shelter and warm, dry clothes the better his temperament.

Stezhnya lowered the infrared night-vision device, flipped a switch to kill the power and then handed it to his aide for storage. Fortunately, that particular make of NVD was waterproof. Not that it mattered, since the rain washing across the lenses smeared any hope of a clear image. Stezhnya made a conscious effort not to let it bother him. Instead, he checked his watch.

They could still do this thing by the numbers.

Stezhnya held up two fingers, and the signal was passed along the line of men spread across the rooftop every ten meters. Their target, a three-story apartment complex in one of Atlanta’s seedier neighborhoods, stood directly across from them. According to Stezhnya’s intelligence, the New Corsican Front, a French Islamic terrorist group operating an underground smuggling operation inside the U.S., kept their human cargo in twin apartments on the top floor. And Stezhnya knew he could trust that intelligence since it had come from the former deputy director of the NSA, Garrett Downing.

Stezhnya lost his position with an elite commando unit in the Russian army following the dissolution of the USSR. He immigrated to the U.S. with relative ease, since his American mother returned a few years prior after her husband succumbed to alcoholism. Downing’s connections inside the NSA led him to Stezhnya. When Downing offered him the chance to head up a new elite antiterrorist unit known as the Apparatus, Stezhnya immediately accepted. After many months of training and preparation, the Apparatus had its first assignment.

“Take them down,” Downing had ordered. “All of them. Understood?”

Stezhnya understood perfectly. He owed the terrorists payback for the lives of a few men with whom he’d served in Russia, not to mention for the loss of his home. Now a mere fragment of what had once been a glorious nation, the Soviet Union owed some of its demise to terrorism. The KGB had fought nearly every known terrorist organization over the past two decades. Only corruption, misery and death resulted, and now someone had to pay. Terrorist groups like the New Corsican Front seemed the logical choice.

Stezhnya gave the signal as soon as the two minutes elapsed.

One of the men stepped forward and raised a crossbow to his shoulder. He sighted through an IR scope that ran the length of the weapon, then squeezed the trigger. The lightweight grappling hook attached to the crossbow bolt sailed across the opening between his position and the opposing roof. The man waited for a few moments, then yanked up and back on the crossbow at a critical moment. The sudden change in direction caused the rope to loop around a thick, steel ventilation pipe emerging from the rooftop. Eventually it became entangled in the grappling hook. The bowman quickly tied off to a roof stanchion on their end and then nodded “all-clear” to Stezhnya.

Stezhnya pointed at his aide, Lyle Prichard, and a man named Barry Galeton. He gestured for them to begin the perilous journey across the rope to the apartments. They were young, not as experienced as some of the other men in the Apparatus, but Stezhnya couldn’t afford to be selective right now. If the trip proved too treacherous, it was better to lose those with less talent than to risk the veterans.

Prichard seemed intense, focused. The lanky black man swung his legs into position and proceeded across the rope with undaunted enthusiasm. Stezhnya had first met him when Prichard worked as a cop in L.A.

Every man in the Apparatus had been hand-picked by Downing because their profiles matched the kind of men he sought: young, idealistic, impressionable. These were the key traits of revolutionaries. Downing trusted Stezhnya to lead them to victory, and there was no way he’d betray that trust. The Russian knew he would persevere even if it meant his life. They had to succeed simply because they couldn’t afford not to. America was under siege, and it was up to the Apparatus to do something about it. Downing would have enough trouble gaining support for his cause, and Stezhnya wanted to make sure the Apparatus was part of the solution, not the problem.

Galeton waited until Prichard was about halfway across before following him. The rope was a twisted-fiber blend with a polymer sheath, rated to one thousand pounds. It would easily have held twice the weight presently testing it.

Once both men were safely across, Stezhnya went next. He crossed the gap with the speed and efficiency of a practiced expert. The pair on point had a perimeter established by the time Stezhnya reached them.

Stezhnya ordered Galeton to take point. They had left one man behind to cover their exit. Once they completed the operation, there wouldn’t be time to go back the same way they’d come. That meant a more conventional means of exiting the target area to facilitate rapid extraction, which in this case happened to be the back door. The getaway driver sat waiting in a panel van parked on the next block.

It took less than two minutes for their Italian demo expert, Mick Tufino, to burn through the rooftop door lock with a high-temperature minitorch. The group descended the stairs, now producing the weapons they had stowed in waterproof bags. The old stairwell stunk faintly of urine mixed with industrial cleaners. It was pungent combined with the odors of sweaty men in wet clothes.

They traversed the steps from the rooftop door to the third-floor landing without a sound. Galeton reached the door, waited for Stezhnya’s approval to open it and then stepped into the hallway. He tracked both sides with the muzzle of his weapon, a Spectre M-4, and then indicated the rest of the group could follow. At this point, they would split into two teams. Stezhnya would accompany Prichard to one apartment, Galeton and Tufino to the other. The last man on the team, a former Somali peacekeeper named Kofi Jamo, would provide rear guard action if required, and ensure no stragglers escaped. Of course, the idea was to make sure the terrorists never left their apartments.

The two teams took out the flimsy apartment doors with well-placed kicks. Stezhnya tracked the room and quickly realized his eight targets ranged around a large table. The room smelled faintly of spices, a smell that wasn’t unfamiliar to Stezhnya. He’d fought and killed enough of this kind in the past to know their culinary preferences. That alone fueled the rage he felt as he and Prichard simultaneously triggered their weapons.

Their enemy never stood a chance.

The Spectre M-4s chattered their messages of death, spraying the hapless targets with 9 mm Parabellum bullets. The sound of autofire was thunderous inside the confines of the small apartment. Plaster dust and wood-chips were whipped into the stale air from rounds that went either wide and dug into walls, or ate into furniture. The Spectre M-4s were ingenious inventions, sporting special 50-round capacity magazines that looked like they held the typical thirty rounds. In less than fifteen seconds, Stezhnya and Prichard pumped one hundred rounds of high-velocity ammo into their targets.

They changed out magazines before the last body hit the ground. Blood and smoke commingled with the stench of spent gunpowder. Stezhnya whirled on his heel and headed for the hallway, Prichard in tow. They met with the others outside.

“It’s done?” Stezhnya asked Galeton and Tufino.

The pair nodded and Stezhnya grunted with satisfaction.

Jamo took point and started for the stairwell exit when noises attracted their attention. Stezhnya turned and noticed an old woman had entered the hallway from the apartment next to the one he and Prichard had stormed.

“What’s all this racket?” the woman demanded. Obviously she was hard of hearing.

Stezhnya turned and continued for the exit, instructing his men to follow and ignore her, but then they heard a shout. Several more of the terrorists emerged from the apartment and toted hardware of various makes.

The Apparatus reacted just as their repetitive training mandated. They fanned out, brought their weapons into play and opened up on the newcomers with sustained bursts. Stezhnya tried to warn them to utilize discretion, but at that range chances were abysmal the old woman wouldn’t be hit. Fate wasn’t on her side, and a moment later she toppled with the terrorists under the onslaught of automatic weapons fire.

“Damn!” Stezhnya barked at his men. “Damn it to hell, you just killed her for nothing! Now shag your asses! Move!”

There wouldn’t be a second chance, because now the hallway was filled with onlookers—some of them big and armed with an array of implements—and murderous intent raged in their faces. Stezhnya continued sounding retreat. Obviously some people in the crowd seemed determined that Stezhnya and his group were not leaving. After all, they had just gunned down a helpless old woman.

“You all brought your shit into the wrong place, whitey!” shouted one hulking black man with a baseball bat.

The man started toward them, and a few exchanged glances among the rest in the crowd was enough evidence for Stezhnya that they weren’t going to get out of this easily. The crowd rushed them and as Stezhnya backpedaled for the exit, he roared at his men to retreat. They tried, but the hallway proved too narrow for any type of orderly departure. Tufino and Jamo opted at the same moment to open fire with their weapons, probably more in the desire to drive back the crowd than to kill anyone. It didn’t have the desired effect, and even though the team rushed for the exit, they continued a covering barrage that proved lethal.

Stezhnya pushed through the exit door and descended the steps, the ghostly images of more bystanders falling on the firestorm of 9 mm stingers etched into his conscience. He could now hear the shouts of excitement mixed with fear from his men as they quickly followed. It was anything but a calculated retreat, but they managed to reach the back of the small apartment building without further incident and immediately made haste for the waiting van.

Stezhnya reached down and withdrew a tactical radio clipped to his belt. It took him a moment to notice it had stopped raining.

“Alpha One to Bravo Six.”

“Bravo Six, sir.”

“We’re out. Make for your rendezvous point.”

“Understood.”

Stezhnya replaced the radio and continued along the escape route, his men now in position around him. He couldn’t feel anything in his legs. In fact, he couldn’t feel much throughout his body. Stezhnya couldn’t say he was proud of everything he’d done in life, but he could affirm he’d never engaged in atrocities as a soldier. Tonight had been nothing short of murder. In all likelihood, Garrett Downing would be furious with him. One simple mission and they’d blown it all to shit. Without question, he’d impose some form of punishment. His men had committed an atrocity, but Stezhnya would be held responsible as their leader.

Yes, there would be hell to pay.

CHAPTER ONE

Mack Bolan breathed deeply, appreciating the fresh, mountain breeze that whistled through a stand of trees. He enjoyed the solitude but was ever watchful for some change in the current climate. He knew blacksuits were patrolling the grounds, perhaps even a couple observing him at that moment. But Bolan rarely let his guard down, no matter how safe the environment. Even here at Stony Man Farm.

Bolan’s week-long vacation to Stony Man Farm drew nearer the end, and it had proven his only safe haven. Just about anywhere else in the world he could think of would have been too dangerous. Bolan could hardly expect to enjoy some down time if he had to spend it looking over his shoulder, and the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia proved as good a rest spot as any. Sometimes Bolan took only the bare basics in a day pack and headed into the mountains for a couple of days. Those were times where he could reflect on the past, charge his mental batteries before rejoining his War Everlasting.

For the moment, though, Bolan would enjoy his R and R in Virginia. He knew it wouldn’t last much longer.

Recent intelligence revealed a group calling itself the New Corsican Front had established an underground for getting French-Islamic terrorists into the country. He didn’t have much to go on, but Bolan knew enough to believe the operation existed beyond speculation. Actually, he’d been waiting for additional intelligence, but his contact had missed their rendezvous in Atlanta. The Executioner wouldn’t typically have worried about something like that; it might not have meant anything. But the fact ex-NSA analyst Roger Neely hadn’t followed standard procedure bothered Bolan. It had never happened before, and he couldn’t think of any reason for it to change now.

A pager clipped to his belt signaled it was time for his meeting.

Bolan emerged from the trees and headed for the farmhouse. The Farm had gone through some renovations in the recent past, adding a new dimension to its layout. The addition—simply referred to as the Annex—boasted some of the most advanced electronic surveillance and counterintelligence equipment in the world. The modern subterranean facilities were camouflaged on the surface by a wood chipping mill. Call it pure nostalgia, but Bolan preferred the warm, charming surroundings of the old operations center secreted beneath the farmhouse to those of the modern, sanitary Annex. Meetings in the old War Room seemed cozier and somewhat less impersonal. Able Team and Phoenix Force espoused similar sentiments, so to keep the peace Brognola deferred to majority rule.

The Executioner entered the farmhouse and descended the stairs two at a time. He reached the basement and entered the War Room, expecting to find Brognola, Barbara Price and Aaron “The Bear” Kurtzman waiting. He wasn’t disappointed.

“Striker,” Brognola said. He got to his feet and shook Bolan’s hand. “It’s good to see you.”

“Likewise, Hal,” Bolan said. As they took their seats he added, “I assume you have something for me.”

“Indeed.” Brognola looked at Price.

Price nodded and then turned to Bolan. “At your request, we started a full inquiry into Roger Neely. You aren’t going to like what we found.”

“Is he dead?”

“No, he’s hiding. Or at least he thinks he is. He’s taken up residence in a small apartment in Manila with a native woman.”

Bolan’s eyebrows rose. “The Philippines? Well, if I didn’t have reason to be concerned before, I do now. That doesn’t sound at all like the man I know.”

“You would think a man with Neely’s training and experience could do better than that,” Brognola said. “Maybe he wants to be found.”

“Or he knows I can find him there and no one else can,” Bolan replied.

“We think we might know why he’s there,” Price continued. “It seems to have everything to do with the New Corsican Front. You said before he was working on getting some more intelligence for you?”

“Yeah,” Bolan replied. “Neely got word their underground was smuggling French-Islamists into the country. He was supposed to get back to me with something more solid but he blew the meet. That’s why I called you.”

“Well, that was the angle we worked from. There’s been a buzz in certain circles within the CIA and NSA. In fact, the American intelligence community suspects the NCF is actually a cover for this smuggling operation. You see, officially the NCF exists as a special interest to protest the treatment of French-Arab citizens and American involvement in Muslim countries. They get financial support from a number of sister organizations. They don’t deny their actions in saving victims from persecution, particularly if they can make it look as if America is behind its perpetration.”

“What you don’t hear in the papers is many of the people they’ve pipelined into America have a history of violence and known affiliations with terrorist groups,” Brognola added.

“Fine, so let’s assume Neely’s telling the truth. The million-dollar question is, why did he run?”

Price nodded at Kurtzman who dimmed the lights and projected a photograph on the screen. “That very distinguished-looking gentleman is Garrett Downing, age sixty-two, born in North Carolina. We think he’s the chief reason Neely’s hiding.”

Bolan did a double take at Price. “You’re talking about the Downing who’s former deputy director of the NSA?”

“The same.”

Bolan knew the name well, as did most anyone involved in covert operations for the U.S. government. Downing had spearheaded most of the projects dealing with electronic surveillance and countersurveillance following establishment of the Department of Homeland Security. His guidance and direction had tipped the scales to America’s advantage and put her well ahead of the game in technical sciences to achieve a superior intelligence community. His passion had saved countless lives, and significantly reduced not only the casualties of terrorist attacks in America but the chances of a repeat attack on American soil.

“How does Downing fit into this?” Bolan asked.

“Less than twelve hours ago, we received a report of a slaying of twenty persons in Atlanta,” Kurtzman said. “I wouldn’t have thought much more of it until our systems flagged it for probability scenarios on various algorithms I use to scan all data throughput.”

Bolan nodded. “Neely believed Atlanta was one of the major areas of operation for the NCF.”

“What Bear discovered is almost incomprehensible,” Brognola said. “Reports are still coming in, but I got wind as soon as it went down and we sent a team to investigate. It fell into the Justice Department’s jurisdiction when we discovered automatic weapons were used and thirteen of the victims were of French-Arab descent.”

“Looks like maybe someone beat you to the punch on this underground operation, Striker,” Price remarked.

Bolan nodded. “So how does Downing fit into this?”

“He’s taking credit,” Price said.

“Come again?”

“Downing claims the people who executed this operation were a special team of commandos operating under his orders. He also said this was the first official act of what he’s calling the Organization for Strategic Initiative.”

“Great,” Bolan said.

Brognola cleared his throat. “He issued a very heartfelt apology through all the major networks, as well as the press, for the families of the innocent people who died. He said while tragic, the losses were acceptable when we consider the costs of battling terrorists. He promised the next operation would be on a much larger scale, which signals there may be more, and I quote, ‘casualties of war’ before it’s over.”

“Sounds like a real lunatic,” Kurtzman remarked.

“Hardly,” Bolan replied.

“Mack’s right,” Price agreed. “Downing might sound fanatical but he’s not crazy. He views himself as a patriot.”

“An idealist,” Bolan added. “That makes him more dangerous.”

“Whatever his reasons, we obviously can’t let him continue,” Brognola said. “The President had suggested we use one of the teams to handle it, but I told him since you were here and already pursuing a lead we should ask for your intervention. He agreed.”

“Fine,” Bolan said with a nod. He looked at Price. “You mentioned Downing was the reason you thought Neely split the States. What’s the connection there?”

“Everything we have on Roger Neely says he’s a straight shooter all the way,” Price replied. “There’s no middle-of-the-road with this guy. His psychological profiles suggest he’s fiercely loyal, and his past performance reviews indicate he does everything strictly by the book. For a guy like that to suddenly give it all up and run tells us he’s afraid.”

“And with good reason,” Kurtzman interjected. “Barb, may I?”

Price inclined her head and Kurtzman keyed the projector to project a new photograph. “This man is Peter Hagen, fifty-nine years of age, born in Sarasota, Florida. He’s an MIT graduate who served as senior technology officer during Downing’s tenure at the NSA. He resigned the same year Downing did, but at the time he was working on a secret project to develop a comprehensive assault platform with Multi-Geo Transversal capabilities.

“MGT is a relatively new concept the U.S. military has only been inclined to pursue over the past six years or so. In essence, the concept is centered on small-scale assault mobility operations, like those conducted by elite military teams or antiterrorist units. Multi-Geo Transversal is actually the shorter version of Multiplied Geographical Transportation Universality.”

“Sounds like something out of a science-fiction novel,” Bolan said.

Kurtzman chuckled. “Simply put, MGT theory theorizes effective first-strike scenarios by small, specialized teams mobilized through some mechanism capable of traveling by sea, air or land.”

“A multiterrain vehicle, then,” Bolan said. “Is that all we’re talking about here?”

“MGT is a wee bit more than that. A core group of military scientists first toyed with this idea toward the end of the 1990s. The thought was that if they could create a transport with MGT abilities, it would allow them to cross-train smaller units more effectively. This, in turn, would reduce the cost of special operations, and by eliminating the coordination of multiple branches during insertion and extraction operations, secrecy stood severely reduced chances of compromise.”

“You see, we think Downing diverted enough funds from government surplus and project remainders to actually come up with a prototype,” Price said. “Peter Hagen was the brainchild of the operation at the time, but he’s now supposedly working in the civilian sector with a government contractor.”

“And guess where he’s currently residing?” Brognola asked.

“Atlanta,” Bolan said with a nod. “Okay, that’s enough evidence for me. What’s the plan?”

“We’re inserting you as a last minute add-on with the federal task force Justice sent to investigate the slayings down there,” Price said. “You’re cover will be Matt Cooper, a weapons specialist with the ATF. We have the full credentials ready.”

“You should have no trouble fitting in there,” Brognola added.

“Right,” Bolan agreed. “I’ll have to find some way of getting in touch with this Hagen. What do we know about him?”

Price handed him a personal digital assistant and smiled. “That contains all the information we have on Hagen and Downing.”

“It also has the ability to access our mainframe data systems through a cable network or wireless connection,” Kurtzman added. “You can even plug it into a phone line and get to us by dial-up.”

“Understand, the information on that device is encoded and will only unlock if you place your thumbs simultaneously on the back of it,” Price said. “If anyone other than you attempts to access the information or tampers with it in any way, the thing will instantly melt its circuits.”

“A little extra fail-safe we added at Hunt’s suggestion,” Kurtzman said with a grin.

Bolan could believe it. Some of the greatest minds on Earth comprised Kurtzman’s technical team. Huntington “Hunt” Wethers, the black former cybernetics professor from Berkeley with a near genius IQ; Carmen Delahunt, former FBI agent turned assistant extraordinaire; Akira Tokaido, a young computer hacker with an intellect as profound as his punk rock attire.

“I’ll find this Hagen,” Bolan assured them. “What has me more concerned, though, is Neely. I’ve known Roger quite a number of years now, and he’s always been dependable. Something must have really scared him that he would run.”

“We believe it’s possible Downing found out about Neely’s involvement from a mole inside the NSA,” Brognola replied. “It’s proving it that might be a bit more painful.”

“We’ll keep an eye on Neely,” Price said. “I promise if anything happens we’ll let you know right away.”

“I just don’t want things to go sideways before I can get to him, Barb,” the Executioner said. “I’m sure this is his way of calling for help.”

Price nodded, and Bolan could see from her expression that she empathized with his concerns. Since he had severed official ties with his government, Stony Man had never interfered with his right to pursue private missions. If anything they had supported him more times than he could recall. He’d tried to return the favor whenever possible. Sure, he could have walked away right now from this thing and chosen to go after Neely instead, but he knew that wouldn’t do any good.

Bolan believed Neely was on the run because of Downing. The only way he could clear Neely’s name was to get the heart of the issue as soon as possible. Barb and Hal were right. This mission had to start at the source, and the soldier knew if he could get to the source of Downing’s operation he could get to Downing. By removing the threat posed by Downing’s OSI group and whatever project this Hagen was working on, the threat to Neely would probably go away, as well.

“We’ve arranged for a commercial flight out of Dulles,” Brognola said. “Tonight. I wish we could have sent Jack with you, but he’s currently on assignment in Turkey with Phoenix Force.”

“Cowboy’s arranged to have all your special friends waiting for you in Atlanta,” Price said with a knowing wink.

That was good news. John “Cowboy” Kissinger was Stony Man’s chief armorer and a first-rate operative. Cowboy had a unique talent for assessing the needs of the Stony Man crew before they even knew what they needed. Rarely did a weapon jam or fail when serviced under Kissinger’s practiced eye and meticulous craftsmanship.

So Garrett Downing was calling out the terrorists. Unfortunately, he’d chosen to ignore the rules of the game and he’d called out the Executioner, as well. Even in war the purposeful taking of innocent lives was unacceptable. Bolan knew that creed well, and he’d lived by it. It had earned him the respect of his comrades and the moniker of Sergeant Mercy. The Executioner would have to teach Garrett Downing this lesson the hard way.

And he planned to hold the first session of class in Atlanta.

CHAPTER TWO

Bolan’s flight touched down short of midnight.

Toting only a carry-on with two days’ change of clothes, Bolan bypassed baggage claim and headed straight to the underground parking garage where his car waited. Scrutinizing the garage a moment, he retrieved a special key from his pocket and used it to access the trunk. He traded his carry-on for a satchel there and the keys to the door and ignition, then climbed behind the wheel and exited the garage.

A light mist coated the windshield. Bolan maneuvered into the departure lanes with signs pointing the way to Interstate 85. Even at that hour, Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International wore its proud distinction as the busiest passenger airport in the world. Bolan took advantage of the logjam to open the satchel and retrieve a leather shoulder holster. At a red light, he slipped into the rigging and retrieved his Beretta 93-R, which had been wrapped in a thick silicon-coated cloth. After loading the Beretta with a 20-round clip of 135-grain Hi-Master rounds, Bolan nestled the pistol in the holster beneath his left arm.

Another ten minutes passed before he reached the highway and headed northeast. According to the dossier provided by Stony Man, Peter Hagen lived in the affluent suburb of Brookhaven. The Executioner wasn’t sure what to expect. Hagen might not have a clue about Downing’s current whereabouts, or even if Downing had continued to pursue the idea of his multiterrain vehicle.

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?”

“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.

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 the guy’s real name—but he did believe Cooper was on America’s side. Neely was on America’s side, too, but he couldn’t risk Malaya and his baby. How Downing had ever managed to find out about his wife and child, secreted in Manila to protect them from exposure to danger, he couldn’t be sure. Then again, what did it matter? Downing had connections everywhere and could get to just about anyone; at least, that’s what Neely believed and that’s what mattered.

Neely had hoped once he did what Downing asked, the guy would leave him alone. After all, he’d arranged to get Neely secretly out of the country and back to Manila, and to protect him. Of course it didn’t seem he was doing a very good job of that now. Once Neely gave him the information on the location of the New Corsican Front’s underground headquarters, he figured that would square things.

Apparently not.

Downing’s representative, a muscular and intense man with a brush cut and Russian accent, had first made contact. Neely had never met Downing in person and had only spoken to him once by phone. The Russian-American, who Neely later discovered was named Alek Stezhnya, apparently headed “the Apparatus,” a group of highly specialized commandos hailing from nearly every continent, and they served to enforce the goals of Downing’s Organization of Strategic Initiative. Somehow, Neely had become a full-fledged member of the OSI and he’d never had any interest to start. But the threat against Malaya and Corinne, whether direct or implied, was more than enough to keep Neely interested. He would have joined the AARP if Downing had told him to.

Neely cursed himself for allowing this kind of manipulation. How many times had he been taught not to develop any strong bonds to anyone with whom he’d had a professional affiliation? It made innocent people a target, and the agent a test bench for blackmail. But his love for Malaya and his daughter went well above any of the NSA’s regulations, and he would do anything to protect them. Even swear allegiance to a man like Downing.

Neely slowed his pace, listened carefully to ensure the man followed, and then set his eyes upon the goal. He considered this a defining moment since the Russian-American had called to say Downing wanted to meet personally. He had a plan in place, and once he heard what Downing had to say he planned to tell the guy where to get off, then take Malaya and Corinne and beat it out of here.

Neely took comfort in the weight of the 9 mm SIG-Sauer pistol concealed at the small of his back beneath the loose flower-print shirt he wore. His clothing would have seemed absurd most anywhere else, but it fit the part of a gaudy, wide-eyed tourist perfectly. The short haircut would have most pegging him as a career military, probably Navy, on shore leave and looking for a bit of action. And that was exactly what he wanted them to think.

Neely rounded the corner and found the first cab in a group lined along the sidewalk. As the afternoon turned toward evening, people would start leaving the cool interiors and enjoying the ocean breezes that blew off the Pacific. The cabbies waited for them like vultures circling desert carrion, hopeful for an easy fare to the uptown area of Manila crammed with clubs and local watering holes.

Neely leaned through the window and handed the cabdriver a twenty-dollar bill. “This is yours if you agree to leave here now, drive to the downtown area and then circle back.”

The cabbie expressed suspicion as he pulled an unlit cigarette from his mouth. “What’s the catch?”

“No catch,” Neely said. “Another cab might follow you, but don’t worry about that. Now I’m out of time, so do it or don’t.”

“Done,” the cabbie said as he snatched the twenty.

While the cabbie started his engine, Neely turned and found shelter in the vestibule of an apartment complex. The follower rounded the corner a moment later as the cab sped from the area. The man obviously figured Neely was in the cab, because he jumped into the back of the next available car and gestured for the driver to follow. Neely watched through the long, narrow window of the apartment building as they pulled away. After about a minute lapsed, Neely stepped onto the street and continued toward the address the Russian-American had given him for the meet.

Neely took personal satisfaction at the thought of surprise on the man’s face once he realized he’d been duped.

GARRETT DOWNING SAT with Alek Stezhnya and awaited Neely’s arrival. Stezhnya had seemed impatient during the vigil, and Downing couldn’t resist a smile. Despite the fact Stezhnya was a professional soldier, his youth and inexperience in some matters made him a bit impetuous. Not that Downing minded all that much. Downing had a special interest in games like chess, where only his intellect and savvy would see him through. He’d excelled at these things at the War College in Bethesda and later in the NSA.

If there was one thing people couldn’t have said about Downing, though, it was that he was self-serving. He believed in America—cherished the Constitutional concepts of freedom and security—but he thought enough time had gone by that the government should be doing a better job of protecting the country. Sure, the President and his predecessors had talked up a great game about pursuing the terrorists abroad, not giving them a chance to attack the country once more, but Downing didn’t see much accomplishment. If anything, the American taxpayers had shelled out billions of dollars to bring down the dictators and political radicals of the world, and really very little to combat true terrorism.

Well, Downing believed they had reached a point where enough was enough. The people were sick of paying the high price of freedom, and seeing nothing in the results to make it seem as if the investment were paying off. In the next forty-eight hours, Downing planned to change all that.

Downing stood and went to the portable bar of his makeshift office. These weren’t ideal surroundings, but it worked for this kind of meeting.

“Would you like a drink?” Downing asked Stezhnya.

“No, sir,” Stezhnya replied. “You know I don’t drink.”

Downing shrugged, poured a double malt Scotch whiskey over rocks and then turned and smiled at Stezhnya as he studied him over the rim of his glass. “That’s right. Dulls the senses, clouds the mind, and all that rot. Right?”

Stezhnya’s smile looked forced. “Something like that, sir.”

“Do you think I’m crazy?”

“Sir?”

“Don’t be surly, Alek,” Downing said as he took another sip of his drink and returned to his seat. “I asked you if you think I’m crazy.”

Stezhnya shrugged. “I suppose some people might think of you as crazy, sir.”

“I didn’t ask you what other people think, I asked what you think.” Downing didn’t make it a habit to let people off the hook so easily.

“No, sir. I don’t think you’re crazy. I think you’re eccentric.”

“Good,” Downing said. He slapped the thigh of one leg crossed over the other and leaned back in the chair. “I’d hate to think you see yourself as working for some crazy. I’m not a nutcase, you know.”

“I never thought you were, sir,” Stezhnya replied evenly.

Downing considered his glass for a time, and finally said, “I love my country, is all. Perhaps too much. And I’m sorry about the loss of innocent people. Very sorry.”

“As am I,” Stezhnya interjected in a quiet voice.

“Bah, I don’t blame you, Alek,” Downing said. “You were responsible for the mission, sure, and it didn’t go as planned. Still, you got the job done. That’s the important thing. What I am trying to say, and not very well, is I’d trade the lives of a few countrymen over an entire country. Including my own.”

Stezhnya nodded and then looked at his watch. “Neely’s late.”

“He’ll be here,” Downing said.

A rap at the door caused the Russian-American commando to jump to his feet and reach beneath his jacket. Downing raised a hand to signal he should relax and then gestured toward the door. Stezhnya padded across the room and opened the door a crack, one hand inside his jacket. He opened it a little more to admit a somewhat haggard-looking Roger Neely.

“Ah, Mr. Neely,” Downing greeted. He rose from his chair and extended a hand. Neely looked behind him and noted Stezhnya had closed and locked the door before he shook Downing’s hand. “We were just talking about you. Please, have a seat.”

Neely took the seat Stezhnya had occupied. The Russian chose to stand over his shoulder, a move Downing noticed made Neely nervous. Well, that was fine because he needed Neely’s cooperation. Downing hated having to put Neely in a situation like this—forcing him to betray trusts and leak sensitive information—but it was for a much greater cause. Downing would not, of course, have brought any real harm to Neely’s family but he couldn’t let Neely onto that secret. Downing knew Neely would eventually attempt to escape with his wife and daughter, but he hoped it wouldn’t come to that before he’d finished with the man.

“So, we finally meet face-to-face,” Downing said with a deep sigh. “What a moment, yes?”

“I’m thrilled to be here for it,” Neely said drolly. He cast another suspicious glance over his shoulder.

“You’ve been a great service to us, Mr. Neely,” Downing said. “I do hope we can count on your continued cooperation.”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Oh, come now. Your NSA file suggests you’re quite the patriot. I’m positive you would want to further show your support if you better understood our mission and goals.”

“What I understand is thirteen dead people who should still be alive,” Neely said. “Somehow, I don’t think much else matters when you go around wasting kids and grandmothers.”

Downing shook his head with sadness. “We were just speaking of this. It was not my desire that innocent people suffer. It was an unfortunate accident. But in war we must accept the fact that innocent lives can and often are lost, that casualties are a consequence to both sides, and we must come to terms with that fact.”

Neely’s smile lacked warmth. “We’re not at war, Downing.”

“Oh, but we are,” Downing replied. He rose and went to the small window overlooking the street below the three-story building. “In fact, we’ve been at war for some time now. We declared that war when the terrorists chose to attack us on our own soil. Even before that, I’m afraid.”

He turned to look at Neely, folded his arms. “You see, we’d been battling terrorism for years. You know the history of our secret societies. Of course, we’d done a good part of it behind the backs of our fellow citizens, but that was only so we could protect them from the horrors of our war. And yet after all this time, how far have we really come? I ask you, Mr. Neely, how much closer are we to victory? So we’ve overthrown a dictator here and there, kept one or two network cell leaders on the run. But what real benefit has this reaped for us? Nothing.

“Our people continue to live in fear, and we still issue regular high-level alerts for terrorist threats. We scan air and sea alike for any danger, search our people at airports and train stations and bus depots without evidence of wrongdoing. We detain citizens at border checkpoints, thereby restricting freedom of movement. And what I find most detestable is that we permit our government, under the guise of that ridiculous and unconstitutional Patriot Act, to impose any sort of order it sees. Washington bureaucrats continue to operate unchallenged and unchecked, Mr. Neely, and good Americans continue to die. So while we do what we think needs to be done to stop terrorism, groups like the New Corsican Front are smuggling in an army of devils right under our very noses. And what do we do about it? Again nothing!”

“And you plan to change that?”

“We’ve already changed it,” Stezhnya barked.

Downing nodded with a smug and satisfactory expression. “Alek is correct. The New Corsican Front lost thirteen of their men in our operation in Atlanta. That’s thirteen who won’t threaten our country with suicide bombs. Thirteen who won’t shoot or blow up any American children tonight. Thirteen who won’t hijack any planes or kill any service people in defense of some outdated religious ideology.”

Neely’s sneered. “That’s also seven people who won’t watch their sons and daughters graduate high school, or spend Christmas with their families. Seven people who won’t kiss their children good-night. Seven people who won’t attend church this Sunday. Doesn’t sound like much to be proud of.”

“So, you’re not going to let go of that,” Downing said. “I see. That’s too bad, Mr. Neely, because I had big plans for you.”

“Really.”

“Indeed. You’re well respected in the intelligence community, with many good connections. You could probably provide me with significant information. At best, you could identify the individual who keeps meddling into these affairs.”

“I’ve already told you, I don’t know who he is,” Neely protested. “He uses the name Matt Cooper, but it’s an alias and not one I can find in any of our systems. He’s probably some kind of black ops. We were friends…sort of. But I’m sure by now he knows I betrayed him. Plus, I don’t know how much more use I could be to you. Somebody was following me.”

Downing could see Stezhnya become immediately alert. “Who followed you?”

“Don’t worry,” Neely said. He waved it away. “I made sure to lose him well before I got here. But I don’t know who he is. I’m assuming he’s either with the NSA or a Company man.”

Downing looked at Stezhnya and frowned. “You need to take care of that.”

“Yes, sir,” Stezhnya replied.

“Now just wait a goddamned minute,” Neely cut in. “Don’t start going around killing our spooks, or you’re going to bring a whole shitload of people down on your operations here, and I’m sure you’re anxious to avoid that kind of attention. Besides, this guy isn’t important enough to worry about.”

“What makes you think so?” Stezhnya asked.

Neely looked at the man and expressed incredulity. “What are you, some sort of ignoramus? If he knew anything about you two, he wouldn’t have been assigned to watch me. You go and off the guy, you’re just proving to whoever he’s working for that there’s something to have them concerned. That’ll just send a message they need to come down and look at things more closely.”

Neely looked at Downing and pleaded, “That’s why you should forget about me. I’m no more good to you, because I don’t know anything else. I just want to be left alone. If I don’t do anything to arouse this guy’s suspicions, then that should be enough to throw him off your trail.”

Downing studied Neely for nearly a minute, looked for deception. He had to admit Neely was right. Their work sat at a critical juncture, and he didn’t want to call unnecessary attention to this area. The Philippines were his central base of operations. He couldn’t afford to have soldiers of the same side scrutinizing this part of the country too closely. Up until now he had the luxury of operating in secret, and when he was so close to the goal he needed to maintain the status quo.

“Okay, Mr. Neely, what you say makes sense,” Downing said. “For now, you’re free to go. But don’t make any attempt to contact this man or do anything foolish.”

“Fine,” Neely replied. As he rose from his chair and headed for the door, he added, “Just try not to kill any more noncombatants. Okay? I don’t like being a participant to murder.”

Something turned cold in Downing’s otherwise impassive expression. “I don’t like to brag, Mr. Neely, but we’re just getting started. Part of this operation was a way of raising support for the OSI, to be sure, but we’ve only scratched the surface. Before all is said and done we’re going to show the world we take care of our own, and in so doing will send the terrorists a message.”

“Oh, yeah?” Neely scoffed. “And what kind of a message is that? Your wanton disregard for human life?”

“Not at all,” Downing replied. “We’re going to demonstrate what kind of trouble they’ve bought themselves for threatening the peace and stability of America. In just a short time, we’re going to bring hell itself to them.”

CHAPTER FOUR

Mack Bolan couldn’t be sure if he or Peter Hagen had been the target, although it hardly mattered at this point. Rain and plaster chips rained on him from the fractured ceiling. The soldier choked back a cough. He couldn’t allow himself to succumb to the dust-thickened air as long as the threat remained.

Bolan watched bullets dance across a nearby wall. China inside a cedar cabinet burst under their impact. The rounds shattered the glass in the doors and ripped massive gouges in the antique wood. A bullet trail stitched the wall and headed directly for Lupe, who now stood in the entryway of the den and screamed in horror at the sight of Hagen’s torn and broken body. Bolan leaped to his feet and threw his body toward Lupe, tackling the maid as a continuous stream of autofire buzzed the air where she’d stood a millisecond earlier. They hit the ground hard and the impact knocked the wind from the woman.

Bolan ordered her to keep her head down, drew and primed the Beretta, then crawled to the front door. He reached up, yanked on the latch-style handle, and opened the door wide enough to crawl onto the porch. The soldier rolled into the L-shaped hedge for cover, then risked a glance over the top.

A dark sedan sat parked at the curb and three men dressed in black stood in a line just outside its open doors. Bolan watched as they ceased firing their Uzi submachine guns and took a moment to reload. The Executioner seized the advantage in the lull. He pushed his body beneath the base of the hedge and came out the opposite side with a perfect field of fire on the enemy. He aligned his sights on the nearest target and squeezed the trigger. The single 9 mm Parabellum round took the man in the face. The impact spun the gunner and slammed him into the open door.

The other pair was still trying to reload while frantically searching for Bolan. One man reached down to grab his deceased comrade and drag him inside the sedan while the second guy fumbled with a fresh magazine. Bolan decided to change tactics, to prevent the enemy’s escape. He realigned his pistol sights on the driver’s side of the front windshield and pumped two slugs into it. The driver’s skull exploded into a gory mess under the Executioner’s skilled marksmanship.

Bolan returned his attention to the more immediate threat, which had now identified his position and was swinging an Uzi in his direction. The soldier thumbed the selector switch to 3-shot mode, snap-aimed and squeezed the trigger. The trio of 9 mm stingers struck groin, stomach and chest. The man dropped his weapon and grabbed at his stomach. His body pitched forward a moment later and landed prone on the wet lawn.

The remaining gunner had the body of one of his cohorts halfway inside the sedan when he saw the second man fall. Obviously he realized self-preservation was his only remaining option, so he quickly dived into the front seat and crawled to the driver’s side. Bolan climbed to his feet and sprinted toward the sedan as the surviving gunner fought with the deadweight of the body behind the wheel. The engine suddenly roared to life. Tires spun on the slick pavement as the sedan rocketed away from the curb.

Bolan changed direction and headed for his own car. He figured if he played his cards right, the guy would try to return to the safety of his own kind, and that meant he’d lead the Executioner right to the answers.

Bolan jumped behind the wheel, started the engine and gave chase to the fleeing sedan. He didn’t know exactly where it would all lead him, but he was desperate for answers. The enemy had been onto him since his arrival in Atlanta, and perhaps even before that. He didn’t like the thought that Roger Neely had betrayed him, but there was no other reasonable explanation. Few people outside of Stony Man should have known of any connection between what had happened in Atlanta and Dr. Peter Hagen. The only other people who would have that kind of information were Downing and any people he had on the inside.

What Bolan couldn’t help but wonder was if he had been the one to lead them to Hagen. He had made damn sure nobody followed him before he contacted the scientist, but it was possible he could have missed them. And if he hadn’t led them to Hagen, then why did they wait until Bolan was there before making the hit? Had they hoped to kill them both and somehow sow a disinformation campaign that would tie things up and leave Downing smelling rosy clean? That didn’t make much sense, since Downing had already claimed full responsibility for the operation in that slum neighborhood.

Well, he could figure it out later. For the moment the Executioner knew he had to keep his focus on the mission at hand. He stayed back far enough not to spook his quarry. Bolan had felt uneasy about leaving Lupe behind to contend with the mess there, but he didn’t think she was in any further danger. Whoever was behind this hit had probably accomplished what they went there to accomplish: the assassination of Peter Hagen. Bolan wasn’t buying the hit team had been there for him. There was something else going on here, something deeper and more insidious.

The sedan left Brookhaven city limits and merged onto the highway, heading toward Atlanta. It was possible the driver had a ruse in mind, but somehow Bolan didn’t think so. Unless the hit team had observed him park his vehicle, they wouldn’t know he had transportation close by. In all probability, the driver would think he’d gotten away clean. At most, he’d be looking for marked police units that might have a description of his car. That would have him a little paranoid and thus less watchful of civilian vehicles.

They continued along the highway until they entered the city, and soon the sedan took a north side exit. Bolan continued to follow at a relatively neutral distance. He reached into the bag sitting next to him and pulled out a Fabrique Nationale Herstal FNC compact assault rifle. The FN-FNC was as versatile and dependable as the acclaimed FAL. However it chambered the 5.56 mm round, the most popular high-velocity slug in use by military units around the world. At a cyclic rate of 800 rounds per minute, the weapon had become a trusted ally in Bolan’s war and he often included it in his basic mission arsenal.

Bolan was checking the weapon to ensure he was ready for action when the sedan’s brake lights caught his attention. The vehicle made a sharp turn onto a side street between a pair of large, abandoned buildings. He noticed they had entered a rundown industrial area, and most of the businesses were either closed or abandoned. It seemed like a strange place to set up shop, but Bolan could see where it might prove the perfect place to hide something—something like an elite hit team.

The Executioner increased speed and prepared for action.

THE SOUND OF TIRES crunching gravel and skidding to a halt brought Lyle Prichard to the steel hopper window of the old warehouse. This whole deal had him a bit jumpy. He hadn’t been very keen on the idea of maintaining this ridiculous vigil from the moment Alek Stezhnya had ordered it, and now they had company. He checked his watch and hoped it was Galeton and the crew returning from Hagen’s place. They were already an hour overdue.

Prichard looked through the slightly open window to stare at the alleyway below and confirmed it was the sedan. It was about damn time. Now maybe they could get the hell out of here. After their operation in Atlanta, Stezhnya had insisted on returning to headquarters in the Philippines and leaving him in charge to complete their operations. Hagen had remained the one loose end in their business here in the States, and apparently Garrett Downing didn’t like loose ends. Assuming Galeton and the crew had done their job, they could now report the mission completed and return to the temporary training grounds south of Milan.

Prichard turned from the window and looked at Mick Tufino. The Italian’s feet were propped on a plain, metal table. A half-smoked cigarette dangled from his mouth while he flipped through a Hustler magazine.

“They’re back,” Prichard said.

“That’s nice.” Tufino grunted.

“For chrissake, put that down and start getting our gear together, Mick,” Prichard said. He flipped open his cellular phone with a snap of his wrist. “I’ll call the boss and let him know we’re ready to extract.”

Tufino sent Prichard a flat look before tossing the magazine aside and getting to his feet. He went to the bags stacked nearby and began to inventory their equipment. Two of the bags contained an assorted cache of automatic weapons, including four M-16 A-3 carbines, four MP-5 subguns, and a pair of HK 33Es. Another bag held most of Tufino’s demolitions. He’d packed twenty-five, one-pound sticks of C-4 plastique, an equivalent number of detonators, plus some standard GI-issue M-1 fuse igniters. They hadn’t needed any of it for these missions, but Tufino didn’t like to be shorthanded and Prichard could appreciate that. It was good to have such supplies in a pinch.

Prichard heard the door on the first floor roll open, and then a set of footsteps rapidly ascend the stairs. He furrowed his eyebrows at that. There should have been four men coming up the steps, and to hear one set of footfalls seemed a bit odd. Maybe the rest had waited in the sedan, but that didn’t make much sense. He and Tufino sure as hell weren’t going to carry all this equipment down the steps themselves.

A moment later Galeton’s head popped into view followed by the rest of his lanky form. The color of his skin was visible from across the room even in the dim light afforded by the two of at least a dozen overhead lights, the only ones actually working. Prichard had never seen Galeton look so ghastly and haggard.

“What—?” Prichard began.

“We’ve got problems!” Galeton called.

“That’s not what I want to hear right now,” Prichard said as he looked in Tufino’s direction with a measure of panic.

“What kind of problems?” Tufino asked.

“Somebody beat us to Hagen,” Galeton replied.

“Okay, so where’s the rest of the crew?” Prichard asked.

“Dead,” Galeton said.

As Galeton came close Prichard could see his comrade was visibly shaken.

“What?” Tufino rasped.

“I’m serious,” Galeton said with a nod. “I think it was that Cooper guy Stezhnya said we should watch for.”

“Stezhnya also told us he’d be taken care of,” Tufino said, the anger evident in his voice.

“Well, obviously he was wrong,” Galeton replied harshly.

Before Prichard could comment further, the sound of another vehicle approaching echoed through the deserted factory building. Prichard spun on his heel and dashed to the window. A plain, unmarked car slowed to a halt behind their rented sedan. Prichard watched a moment longer and saw a lone, tall driver in casual dress exit the vehicle. He held the thin, unmistakable silhouette of an assault weapon tightly against his muscular form.

Prichard stepped from the window and gestured for Tufino to pull weapons from their stash. Galeton tossed the Uzi at Tufino who traded it for one of the MP-5s. Tufino then withdrew a pair of the M-16 A-3s. Prichard yanked the .45-caliber Detonics from his shoulder holster, jacked the slide, then holstered it and took one of the M-16s from Tufino. The three men fanned out, each toward a point of cover that would also facilitate interlocking fields of fire.

According to the intelligence Stezhnya had given them, Cooper was some type of secret operative. They didn’t know much more about him than that, and apparently even all of Downing’s connections had come up with zilch on the guy. This Cooper apparently had no registered face, no identity, not even a set of fingerprints. Evidence suggested he’d probably engaged in other special operations, but where or when those operations had taken place, and what authority had sanctioned them, remained a mystery.

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.”

CHAPTER FIVE

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.

“Good. Tell him I’ll meet him at our private hangar.” The wait in Washington would give Bolan a chance to catch some shuteye. “Is Hal there?”

“No, I finally ordered him to bed.”

Bolan grinned. “Now that’s an order from you I’d have no trouble following.”

“Watch it,” Price replied in a soft, teasing voice. “Anyway, what’s the news?”

“Very little,” Bolan said. “Hagen didn’t live long enough to tell me about anything he might have been working on for Downing. In fact, he gave me the whole righteous indignation act. Then Downing’s murder crew killed him before I could extract any real information.”

“What about this crew?”

“Same ones who did the job on that NCF house,” Bolan replied. “I managed to get one of them to talk before he died. I was surprised to find ID on all three of them. I’ll send you the names via up-link once I reach the airport.”

“We’ll be waiting,” Price said. “Anything else?”

“Downing’s behind this whole deal, no doubt there. But I don’t get the feeling he had direct control on this hit team.”

“Why not?”

“These guys were professionals, well-trained. Black ops all the way. Definitely a military man headed this crew.”

“Well, Downing does have a lot of connections from his NSA days,” Price said. “Maybe he’s got ex-military training his special teams.”

“Possible,” Bolan said. “There was something especially familiar about these teams, though. I can’t quite put a finger on it. Maybe it’ll come to me with time. For now, you can assume I’m going to push this all out.”

“What support do you need?”

“Have Cowboy send additional munitions reserves with Jack. In the meantime, I’ll try to stay out of trouble.”

“You do that,” Barbara Price replied.

A LARGE PART of the Filipino population would have said the Ninoy Aquino International Airport stood as the iconic symbol of the country’s poor economy. The few who would have disagreed with that view numbered those with questionable standards on what was “clean and modern.”

In any case, Bolan wasn’t here on a sightseeing tour so it didn’t matter to him. The heat and humidity assaulted him like a wet, wool cloak, and Bolan could understand why Grimaldi had chosen to stay behind in the comparatively cool interior of the jet. Not that he didn’t deserve the rest. Bolan would have preferred to bring the pilot along for backup, but he figured the guy deserved a respite after the long flight.

Bolan had changed into lighter wear for his arrival, and didn’t prompt a second look as he moved past the baggage claim and headed for the exit. He had learned long ago the value of role camouflage. He’d used it since nearly the start of his war with the Mafia. The soldier based it on the concept that careful study of an environment would reveal telltale clues of what others accepted as normal. It was then a simple matter of exploiting those details and appearing just as everyone would expect, thus blending into the setting and attracting as much or as little attention as required. Bolan had effectively applied the technique to penetrate everything from Mob Families to the narcotics underworld, even terrorist groups on occasion.

Bolan left the terminal and stepped onto the sidewalk bordering twin lanes jammed with cars of various makes, models and colors. Noxious fumes spewed from tailpipes throughout the long, covered port that made Bolan want to choke when mixed with the sweltering heat. One of the most popular vehicles in the country was the Jeepney. Bolan hailed a brightly colored one covered with bumper stickers and sporting a red-orange paint finish. It took him nearly a minute of broken conversation before he was satisfied the driver knew where he wanted to go.

As they left the hectic scene, Bolan reflected on the mission ahead. All leads pointed to Manila, and the natural place to start would be the downtown apartment where the CIA surveillance had located Roger Neely. According to official reports, Neely was on a scheduled two-week vacation. Bolan had no reason to think Neely’s choice to come here was anything other than it appeared. It didn’t seem an unusual choice for a vacation spot, since Neely’s career-Navy father had spent a long tour of service here. The woman and child he was reportedly spending time with was another matter entirely. Stony Man’s intelligence had dug up very little on the native woman, Malaya, or the mysterious child. Bolan suspected the most obvious: she was Neely’s mistress and the little girl was their daughter.

Bolan recalled his conversation with Barbara Price on the trip overseas.

“The apartment is rented in Malaya’s name,” Price said, “but from everything we can determine she doesn’t have a cent to her name. She doesn’t work, and she doesn’t collect any form of public assistance from the Filipino government.”

“So she has no income but somehow she survives,” Bolan replied.

“Exactly. I think it’s obvious where she gets her money, though.”

“Neely.”

“Well, we’ve determined over one-third of his salary is unaccounted for. He doesn’t live high off the hog, has only a modest balance in a savings account, and no real investments to speak of outside of his government pension fund. A name search shows he regularly uses a charge card to purchase international traveler’s checks, balance paid in full every month without fail. Those check purchases stopped three weeks ago.”

“Are the checks traceable?”

“Bear’s on it now, but he says it’ll take time.”

“Well, either his money’s going to this woman or he’s socking it away for a rainy day.”

“If he’s on Downing’s payroll, taking care of this Malaya might be part of the deal.”

“Possibly,” Bolan replied. “I’m still skeptical about that.”

“Why?”

“Seems to me a man as fanatical about duty and honor as Downing is would probably use this woman more as leverage to keep Neely in line. I’ve known Roger Neely for some time, and he never struck as me the kind seduced by greed or power. But do something to threaten his family, I think he might cooperate.”

“That’s assuming a lot,” Price replied.

“Like what?”

“Like this Malaya and her kid are Neely’s family.”

“Okay, maybe they are and maybe they aren’t,” Bolan said. “Just do me a favor and have Hal get the CIA to back off on the surveillance.”

“Sounds like you have a plan.”

“In a way,” Bolan said. “I’d rather handle it myself. Neely knows me and he trusts me, and right now that may be the only thing going for us. I don’t want to spook him.”

Yeah, Bolan had Neely figured. The NSA agent was a straight-lace guy all the way according to his performance reviews. Smart, educated and born into a family of old money, Neely joined the NSA as a junior analyst following six years with a U.S. Army Signal unit where he’d specialized in cryptography and domestic intelligence. He met the challenge with acclaimed success, making analyst in an unprecedented three years and senior analyst on the eve of his fortieth birthday.

Downing had some leverage on Neely and he was using it to his maximum benefit.

When they reached Neely’s apartment building, Bolan passed the cabbie twenty U.S. dollars and then exited the Jeepney without waiting for change. He pushed through the cheap front door and ascended a flight of rickety wooden steps. They creaked with every footfall, and Bolan figured if Neely hadn’t been expecting him he was now. The lack of security held no surprises for the Executioner, especially not in this part of town. There was little crime, mostly because the residents in this section of Manila had little if anything of value to steal.

Bolan located Neely’s apartment and knocked. A minute elapsed before he knocked again and waited patiently in silence. He pulled a lock-pick set from his pocket and expertly overcame the cheap door handle. The apartments here didn’t even have dead bolts. Bolan opened the door wide enough to slip through, and then quickly swept the apartment only to find it empty.

The Executioner took a position in the darkened recess of a doorway and waited.

ALMOST TWO HOURS ELAPSED in Bolan’s vigil before he hit pay dirt. It started with the sound of keys jingling outside the apartment, then the click of the lock. Bolan peered out of his shadowy position to watch as the door handle turned and the door swung inward. He recognized his mark the moment Neely entered, and waited until the door closed before he stepped from the shadows and raised the Beretta. He aligned his sights on the back of Neely’s neck as the NSA agent closed the door and locked it.

“Don’t move,” Bolan ordered. Neely started to turn and Bolan drew back the hammer on the Beretta. “I said ‘don’t.’”

Neely froze.

Bolan walked over to Neely, pistol unwavering, and quickly frisked him. He found a 9 mm SIG-Sauer pistol tucked in Neely’s front pocket and relieved him of it. Bolan then grabbed Neely by the collar and pulled him backward into an overstuffed chair. He studied Neely for a moment, watched his eyes, but saw only surprise there.

“I can see from that look you weren’t expecting me,” Bolan said.

“Actually I was,” Neely replied. “I just didn’t think it would be this soon. It took you long enough.”

“Don’t try it,” Bolan said in a clipped fashion.

“Try what?”

“Try to make it sound as if this was all part of your plan. You skip on our meet without so much as getting a message to me. Then you show up in the Philippines, chumming it up with terrorists.”

“What terrorists? You mean, Downing?” Neely let out a snort. “That guy’s no terrorist.”

“I think ordering the wholesale slaughter of innocent people and then calling them ‘casualties of war’ qualifies him for the title,” Bolan replied.

“Downing didn’t order any such thing, Cooper,” Neely shot back. “His little hit team did all that on their own. It wasn’t intentional.”

“Doesn’t explain why you’re running,” Bolan said.

“Because Downing’s a crazy son of a bitch, and so is Stezhnya.”

“Who’s Stezhnya?”

“Alek Stezhnya.” Neely waved his hand with irritation. “He’s some type of gun-for-hire, ex-Russian military I think. The guy creeps me out. Both of them creep me out.”

Bolan expressed frostiness. “Most fanatics do.”

“They’re not fanatics, they’re—I don’t know…fatalists.” Neely paused to take a deep breath. “Look, Cooper, I didn’t mean for anyone to get hurt. I’m sick about it.”

“So do the right thing and tell me how I can get to Downing and his mercenaries.”

“I don’t know for sure.”

Bolan didn’t hide his skepticism.

“Look, I swear I don’t,” Neely said, throwing up his hands. “I know Downing has a base of operations somewhere south of here.”

“How far?”

“Can’t be sure, but I’m positive he’s operating out there.”

“The woman and child living here,” Bolan said quickly. “How do you figure in with them?”

“My wife and little girl.”

“Why aren’t they living with you in the States?”

“Because I had some difficulty with her immigration status,” Neely replied in a tone Bolan read as truthful. “It’s been hell trying to get her over there since the crackdown on terrorism. Lots of bureaucracy and red tape.”

“You shouldn’t have trouble given your connections,” Bolan challenged.

“I decided not to use them,” Neely said. “I was trying to keep it quiet.”

“Why?”

Neely gestured in a nondescript fashion. “Because I wanted to avoid Downing finding out about them. Somehow he got on to Malaya and Corinne before I could do anything about it.”

“So you came here to make sure they were okay,” Bolan finished.

“Yeah,” Neely said with a sigh of relief. “I had some vacation time coming and I thought I could beat him to it. First he contacted me and asked for my help. When I turned him down flat, he threatened my family.”

“Why you?”

“Who knows, but I’m sure it’s because he didn’t know who else might have the information he needed. Nobody has intelligence on the terrorists like the NSA. Hell, you probably know that better than most. There were times I figured you knew more than I did and I was just confirming your facts.”

“Maybe so,” Bolan interjected. “Keep talking.”

“Word on the inside is that Downing’s horned off a few important people. In NSA-speak that means he’s out of any favor with most of our internal bunch, and what few friends he has he either alienated with the Atlanta stunt or just plain murdered.”

“Where’s your family now?”

“I’ve moved them, hopefully where Downing and his goons can’t get their hands on them.”

Bolan shook his head. “Not likely, buddy. They managed to find out about them just like they managed to track you here. That tells me he has eyes and ears in town. The score’s zero and two in the other team’s favor. He’ll find them again. You can’t protect them and still do your job.”

“What job’s that?”

“Helping me get inside Downing’s operation here.”

“But I don’t even know where that is,” Neely protested.

“No, but you can contact him and set up a meet,” Bolan said. “That’s a step closer than I am right now.”

“Okay, so you get a step closer. Then what?”

“Leave that to me,” Bolan replied, boring through Neely with ice-blue eyes.

“What, are you some kind of one-man army?” Neely asked in a joking tone.

Bolan’s smile lacked warmth, and with good reason. “Maybe Downing thinks he’s invincible and maybe he thinks he’s out of reach from the American government. But he’s not out of my reach. Let’s leave it there.”

“Okay, I’ll set up the meet, but then I want out.”

“Fine. So let’s get back to this deal with your wife and daughter. You’ve told me the truth?”

“Nothing but, Cooper. On my mother’s grave. You have to believe me.”

“Maybe I do,” Bolan said. “When did you last see Downing?”

“Last evening,” he said without hesitation.

That seemed to match up with what Price had told him, so Bolan decided for the moment Neely was shooting straight. He still didn’t completely trust the guy, but he could see how it might have gone down like this. The thing he had to do now was get to Downing before anything else happened. Simultaneously, he’d have to contact Stony Man to see if they could arrange safe passage out of the country for Neely and his family.

Bolan decided to play his wild card.

“You know a scientist by the name of Peter Hagen?”

Neely appeared to search his memory, nodded slowly. “Yeah, I think so. If I remember right, he was some kind of big-wig with the special projects division at the Agency. In fact, now that you mention it, I think he worked under Downing’s tenure.”

“That’s him,” Bolan said. “You know of any reason why Downing would want him dead?”

“Not off hand, but I’m sure it has something to do with these big plans he keeps bragging about.”

“What big plans?”

“I didn’t get details. Downing doesn’t like to give out details. He’s the kind to hold on to what little pathetic power he has. All I know is what I’ve told you. Sounds like he has something up his sleeve, something he plans to use to spearhead his operations against the terrorists.”

“You don’t think he’ll stop with the NCF.” It wasn’t a question.

Neely produced something between a laugh and a snort. “Hell no! Downing’s just getting started, my friend. Whatever he’s planning, you can be sure it’ll be big and spectacular.”

Okay, so Downing obviously felt he had what he needed to make a move, which meant he was probably going to act soon. He’d eliminated Hagen—who in all likelihood had produced the technical goods Downing needed—and he thought he probably had Neely under control. Soon, very soon, he’d receive the word that his killing team in the States was no more. That would most likely put him in a rage, and he’d lean on this Alek Stezhnya to act. When Downing broke out whatever he thought was big and spectacular, the Executioner would have something big and spectacular of his own waiting. And he’d shove it right down the enemy’s throat.

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