Hellfire Code. Don Pendleton
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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