Hellfire Code

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.