скачать книгу бесплатно
Aolani began to wonder about the other two cars in the lot, parked side by side, some twenty yards away. She’d driven past them when they entered, and both had seemed unoccupied, but there could be gunmen lying on the seats for all she knew.
Get real, she told herself.
Nobody could have known where she and Polunu had been going when they left her flat that evening, not unless he leaked the word himself. Unthinkable. He was afraid to show his face outside, much less invite his would-be killers to a meeting with the man who—Aolani hoped, at least—would stop their so-called revolution in its tracks.
“You want some gum?” she asked Polunu.
“No, thanks. It’ll make me more nervous.”
Aolani opened her purse and reached inside, touching the can of pepper spray that was wedged between her wallet and hairbrush. She felt a little better, knowing it was there—but not by much. It would offer no defense against a gun.
What did she really know about gunfighting anyway? Hell, or any kind of fighting, for that matter?
Whole lot of nothing, Aolani thought, and shut her purse.
“No gum?”
“Forgot I need to buy some,” she replied distractedly.
He’s not late, Aolani told herself. Allow for flight delays, airport security, slow baggage claim, a lineup for the rental car, the Honolulu traffic.
So, chill.
If the men who wanted Polunu dead knew where they were, she and her jittery companion would be toast by now.
Also, the odds against a random hit team cruising Honolulu’s streets and spotting them outside the Royal Mausoleum by accident were astronomical. Next to impossible, she thought.
Next to, but no guarantees.
The tension made her crave a cigarette, even though she’d quit smoking eighteen months ago.
Damn you, Polunu, she thought. If we get out of this alive, I just might murder you myself.
THERE IS NO “Five-O” in Hawaii. No Jack Lord with perfect hair. In fact, no state police by any name. Still, Bolan watched his speed as he drove into Honolulu on Kamehameha Highway, not wanting attention from a traffic cop, then switched up to Nimitz Highway for a while. He also watched his rearview mirror to make sure he wasn’t followed.
He thought about the contacts he’d been sent to meet and wished that he could fill in some of the blank spots that he’d found in their respective dossiers, which Hal Brognola had given to him. One was a revolutionary who had bailed out on his former comrades in Pele’s Fire, an island terrorist group, when the going got too rough for his aesthetic taste. His name was Mano Polunu. The other, Leia Aolani, was supposed to be “a nationalist home-rule moderate.” Polunu reached out to Aolani for help after his desertion, telling her Pele’s Fire was planning something big in the next few days. Aolani in turn reached out to a fellow moderate who had contacts in the FBI.
Both Aolani and Polunu, apparently, held strong views on the subject of Hawaii’s link to the United States. As Bolan understood the wrangle, which had carried on from sometime in the late eighteenth or early nineteenth century, a portion of Hawaii’s native Polynesian population wanted more emphasis on native culture and religion, more influence in the state government, physical secession from the U.S.A. or some combination of the former, as yet to be agreed upon.
As usual, whenever issues of the sort aroused strong feelings, there were armed extremists who would hear no voices and no viewpoints other than their own. Bolan had seen the same phenomenon in Scotland, Northern Ireland, Asia, Africa, Latin America and even in parts of the United States.
Get half a dozen zealots in a room, then hand them guns and watch the bloodletting begin. It never failed.
Hard times had come to the Aloha State, but Bolan hoped that he could stop the action short of an all-out catastrophe.
It didn’t trouble Bolan, going in without liaison to the FBI, Homeland Security or local law enforcement. All of them had jobs to do, but none were quite in Bolan’s line—or else, wouldn’t admit it, if they were.
Bolan required no writs or warrants, analyzed no evidence in antiseptic labs, reviewed no testimony.
And, in general, he took no prisoners.
As for the allies he had yet to meet, Bolan devoutly hoped that they could do their part, pull their own weight. He’d have enough to think about, without adopting any nursemaid’s chores along the way.
The fact that one of his Hawaiian contacts was a woman didn’t bother Bolan in the least. He’d fought beside some female warriors he respected, loved a couple of them and could think of one or two who might’ve kicked his ass.
He was almost there, a few more blocks remaining until he saw his contacts in the flesh, instead of hidden-camera photos that had caught them unawares.
Expect the worst, hope for the best.
And maybe, this time, harsh reality would fall somewhere between the two.
“WE OUGHTA TAKE HIM now,” Ehu Puanani said.
“No,” his brother, Tommy, said. “They’re waiting for somebody, and I want to find out who it is.”
“What fucking difference does it make?” Ehu demanded.
“Stop and think a minute, will you, Ehu, just this once? Suppose they’re talking to the cops or FBI. You wanna know about it in advance, or just be taken by surprise when they bust down your door?”
Ehu sat sulking, fiddling with his shotgun, but at least he kept it down below the dashboard, so that Tommy didn’t have to scold him a second time.
From the stolen Audi’s backseat, Billy Maka Nani asked, “You think they’re really talking to the Feds? I mean, that’s gonna ruin everything, you know?”
“Not necessarily,” Tommy Puanani said. “Depends on how much they already spilled, and whether they’ve got any evidence to back it up.”
“Last time I looked, the Haole-Homeland gang wasn’t so worried about evidence. They lock you up without a charge and send you off to someplace where you get tortured, and then the courts say you’re an enemy combatant, so it doesn’t matter, anyway.”
“We are,” Tommy Puanani said. “Enemy combatants is exactly what we are.”
“Is that some kinda consolation when they fasten the electrodes on your balls?”
“Forget that chickenshit,” Ehu said. “When the smoke clears, haole bastards will be kissing up to us and asking what we want, instead of telling us the way things gotta be.”
“That’s right, bro,” Tommy told his younger brother. “Just remember that before you jump the gun and ruin everything.”
“You wanna tell me what I ruined?” Ehu challenged him.
“Nothing, so far.”
“You’re goddamned right.”
“I plan to keep it that way, too. So follow orders like a soldier, and stop bitching all the time.”
Ehu gave him a fuck-you look, but kept his mouth shut for a change. Small favors.
They had a second team on Polunu and the woman, parked across the street, behind a filling station, in a Chevy Blazer that they’d stolen from a strip mall. Changed the plates, gave it a hasty racing stripe, and they were good to go. In that car, John Kainoa had the wheel, with Ben Makani riding shotgun and Steve Pilialoha in the back. All armed and waiting for the signal to move in.
But Tommy Puanani had no desire to rumble with the FBI. Who would? His homeboys couldn’t match the haoles’ budget, damned sure couldn’t match their arsenal—at least, not yet—and if it came to fighting with the Feebs, next thing he knew, they would be fighting with Marines and everybody else on Uncle Sam’s payroll.
The plan they had in place was so much better, but to pull it off, they had to know if any part of it had been exposed.
Granted, Mano Polunu was a minor player when he bailed, gone yellow in the stretch, but there was no way of deciding what he might know until they could pin him down and question him. Of course, the next best thing would be to silence him forever.
But sometimes, next best wasn’t good enough.
So, they would wait and see.
If Polunu and the woman met some other asshole moderates with no official status, Tommy Puanani’s men could kill them, then and there. If it was cops or Feds, though, then the killing would require more delicate finesse.
But every minute Polunu spent in custody or talking to the law, the more danger he posed to everything the movement stood for, everything it might accomplish in the next few days.
With Polunu silenced, then the plan could move ahead on schedule. They could strike a blow that would be felt from Honolulu all the way to Washington, D.C.
A shot heard round the world, damn right.
The haoles loved that kind of shit, as long as they did all the shooting.
Tommy Puanani’s ancestors had been kings before the haole sailors had “discovered” what they liked to call the Sandwich Islands, some 230 years ago. The native life had gone to hell since then, but it was not too late to salvage something from the ruins.
Or, at least, to pay the haoles back in spades for all the damage they had done, Tommy vowed.
BOLAN SLOWED on his approach to the Royal Mausoleum State Monument, scouting the grounds before he took the final action to commit himself.
There were three cars in the parking lot, two sitting off together in a corner, and the third positioned closer to the entrance of the park. Bolan saw no one in the first two vehicles, although they could’ve been concealed. At least two people clearly occupied the third car, facing the street and watching traffic pass.
His contacts? Or a trap?
In either case, he had to check it out. If something had been leaked and this turned out to be an ambush, he would simply have to fight his way clear of the trap, then find another angle of approach into the mission.
Bolan knew the second part would likely be more difficult. If someone on the other side knew he was in Hawaii, knew the why of his arrival, they’d be battened down with extra-tight security until they made their one big score.
Whatever that was.
Bolan needed his contacts to give his quest direction.
He turned into the parking lot and let the cars behind him roll on to their sundry destinations: meeting lovers, going out for dinner, to a movie, maybe heading for a second job. The normal things that Bolan hadn’t done—or even had much time to think about—for years.
Inside the parking lot, he drove the long way around to check the empty-looking cars. He slowed as he drove past them, staying far enough away that he could check for man-sized shadows lying underneath.
The last car was a Datsun Maxima, an older vehicle, but in decent shape. A woman occupied the driver’s seat, staring at Bolan in his rental car, while a pudgy, nervous-looking man squirmed beside her. Bolan recognized them both from photos in their dossiers, although while the man looked worse in person, the woman’s snapshots hadn’t done her justice.
They could still be covered, shooters huddled in the backseat, out of sight, but Bolan took a chance. Drawing the 93-R from its holster, he pulled in beside the Datsun, so that his driver’s window faced the lady’s.
“Leia Aolani?” he inquired.
She nodded without smiling. “Matthew Cooper?”
“Make it Matt. Mano Polunu with you, there?”
The nervous shotgun rider flinched as Bolan spoke his name. He flicked anxious eyes in the woman’s direction, but she wasn’t looking to see it.
“That’s right,” she replied. “You were briefed on the mainland?”
“Bare bones,” Bolan said. “Should we talk here, or go for a ride?”
Her pink, full lips were opening to answer Bolan, when a squeal of tires behind him cut her short. Glancing at his rearview mirror, Bolan saw a black sedan tearing along North Judd Street, toward a secondary entrance to the parking lot. There were three occupants, two of them staring at the point where he and Aolani sat in their respective vehicles.
“It’s time to go,” Bolan said.
“Right. You follow me, and—”
“No,” he interrupted her. “We either take one car or split and try to hook up later, when it’s safe. Your call.”
“I can’t just leave my car,” she said, her eyes wide and staring at the black car that was in the lot now, turning their way.
Bolan thought about it for a microsecond, knowing she was right. His rental wouldn’t trace to anyone, and he could always grab another from a different agency.
“Okay,” he said, his door already opening. He pocketed the rental’s keys, holstered his piece and took his two bags with him as he stepped across to Aolani’s car. She was already moving as he settled in the backseat, gun in hand once more.
“Have you done lots of combat driving?” Bolan asked her.
“Combat driving?”
“Right. The kind where—Watch it!”
Aolani swerved to miss the charging black sedan. Her swing was wide enough, but as they passed in opposite directions, Bolan saw a weapon thrust out of the black car’s left-rear window.
Bolan ducked and saw its muzzle-flashes winking in the tropic dusk. At least three slugs tore through the Datsun’s fender, rattling around inside the trunk.
“That’s combat,” Bolan said.
“Okay, got it! Jesus!”
Aolani stamped on the accelerator, racing toward the nearest exit from the parking lot. Bolan was sorry there’d been shooting here, which might bring the police to seize his rented car, but if they took the fight away, at least there was a chance the cops would miss this crime scene.
Maybe.
But it wouldn’t matter if they died, and Bolan wasn’t sold on Aolani’s combat-driving skills. She knew the city, but she wasn’t used to fighting for her life at high speeds behind a steering wheel.
In fact, Bolan guessed, she likely wasn’t used to fighting for her life at all.
He couldn’t navigate and fight at the same time, so Bolan told Aolani, “I need someplace to deal with them. Sooner’s better than later. We don’t want the cops involved if we can help it.”
“Deal with them?” she asked him, looking wide-eyed in the Datsun’s rearview mirror. “What does that mean?”
“It means I’d like all three of us to walk away from this, if possible,” Bolan answered.
“Is that a gun you’re holding?”
