Hellfire Code. Don Pendleton

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      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.

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