Pele's Fire

The gunners hit the ground running

Bolan didn’t wait for them to organize. He fired a three-round burst into the nearer chase car’s windshield, where the driver’s head should be, and thought he heard a strangled cry before all hell broke loose around him.

Bolan couldn’t accurately count the muzzle flashes winking at him from behind the headlights, but he thought that there were only five. If he was right, if he had drawn first blood with the unlucky driver, then he had already shaved the hostile odds by seventeen percent.

That still left five assassins, armed and angry, throwing down at him with everything they had.

Aolani’s car would never be the same. Bullets were raking it from grill to trunk along the driver’s side, some of them coming through the now shattered windows. So far, Bolan could not smell any leaking gasoline, but that was just dumb luck. Both tires were already deflated on the driver’s side, and Bolan knew they wouldn’t leave the Punchbowl in it.

Assuming they ever left at all.

Pele’s Fire

The Executioner®

Don Pendleton

www.mirabooks.co.uk

Special thanks and acknowledgment to Michael Newton for his contribution to this work.

That men do not learn very much from the lessons of history is the most important of all the lessons that history has to teach.

—Aldous Huxley,

1894–1963

Collected Essays

I’ve learned enough from history to know that some mistakes should never be repeated. I can’t change the past, but with a little luck, I just might change the future.

—Mack Bolan

THE MACK BOLAN LEGEND

Nothing less than a war could have fashioned the destiny of the man called Mack Bolan. Bolan earned the Executioner title in the jungle hell of Vietnam.

But this soldier also wore another name—Sergeant Mercy. He was so tagged because of the compassion he showed to wounded comrades-in-arms and Vietnamese civilians.

Mack Bolan’s second tour of duty ended prematurely when he was given emergency leave to return home and bury his family, victims of the Mob. Then he declared a one-man war against the Mafia.

He confronted the Families head-on from coast to coast, and soon a hope of victory began to appear. But Bolan had broken society’s every rule. That same society started gunning for this elusive warrior—to no avail.

So Bolan was offered amnesty to work within the system against terrorism. This time, as an employee of Uncle Sam, Bolan became Colonel John Phoenix. With a command center at Stony Man Farm in Virginia, he and his new allies—Able Team and Phoenix Force—waged relentless war on a new adversary: the KGB.

But when his one true love, April Rose, died at the hands of the Soviet terror machine, Bolan severed all ties with Establishment authority.

Now, after a lengthy lone-wolf struggle and much soul-searching, the Executioner has agreed to enter an “arm’s-length” alliance with his government once more, reserving the right to pursue personal missions in his Everlasting War.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Epilogue

Prologue

Honolulu, Hawaii

“Here they come,” Tommy Puanani said. “Everyone get ready.”

“Man,” his brother, Ehu, muttered from the backseat of their stolen Ford sedan, “we all been ready for the past six hours.”

“Never mind that,” Tommy snapped. “Just do your job.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

It took iron will to keep from spinning in the driver’s seat and reaching for his younger brother, maybe slapping Ehu’s face. But what would be the point?

Across the street and half a block downrange, six young men wearing dress, blue U.S. Navy uniforms emerged from Club Femme Nu, a strip club known for hands-on dancers.

“There’s Benny, right on time,” John Kainoa said, from the shotgun seat.

So far, so good, Tommy Puanani thought. The cab with Benny Makani at the wheel appeared as if from nowhere, zigzagging through traffic on Kapiolani Boulevard to double-park in front of Club Femme Nu. The taxi was a boxy model, like a poor man’s SUV, that would accommodate six passengers if none of them was claustrophobic.

One young member of the six-pack spied the cab and waved to Makani.

“Gotcha,” Tommy said, as the six men jammed themselves into the seats of the taxi.

Benny Makani keyed the microphone of his dash-mounted radio and said, “Cab 41, with six fares leaving 1673 Kapiolani Boulevard, headed for 909 Halekauwila Street.” His four friends in the stolen Ford received the message via a walkie-talkie, resting on the console next to Tommy Puanani’s hip.

“Exotic Nights,” Kekipi Ululani said, naming the destination based on its address. It was another well-known strip club where some of the dancers provided “special services.”

“Whatever,” Tommy said as he fired up the Ford and nosed into the flow of traffic, following Makani’s cab.

“So, where’s he taking them, again?” John Kainoa asked.

“Nowhere special,” Tommy answered, staying focused on the taillights of the cab a block in front of him. “We tag along, see where he stops, and jump ’em.”

“These Navy SEALs know all that kung-fu shit,” Kekipi Ululani said.

“I told you once already,” Tommy said, “they’re just plain Navy. Get it? Not everybody in the goddamned Navy is a SEAL. Besides, that’s why we’ve got the guns.”

And guns they had, for damned sure. Each of them was carrying a pistol underneath his floral shirt, for starters. Tommy Puanani had a mini-Uzi with a foot-long sound suppressor attached. His brother and Kekipi Ululani both had shotguns, 12-gauge pumps with sawed-off stocks and barrels. John Kainoa was their rifleman, packing a Chinese knockoff of the classic Russian AK-47 with a folding stock and 30-round banana magazine.

“Okay,” Ululani said, sounding somewhat mollified.

“Just be damn careful with them, yeah? No shooting till I say so, or it’s your head on the chopping block.”

Which, in this case, was not just a figure of speech.

They trailed the taxi along Kapiolani Boulevard, eastbound, until it turned into Waialae Avenue, then southeast from there until Makani found the spot he was seeking, underneath the elevated Lunalilo Freeway.

Tommy wondered if the haole sailors recognized their peril, even now. He guessed they were too drunk and horny to concern themselves with street signs or directions. In any case, it was too late to second-guess their driver as the Ford pulled in behind the taxi with its high beams on.

“Remember what I told you,” Tommy cautioned his companions. “No one fires a shot until I do.”

The sailors were unloading as Tommy stepped out of the Ford. They were confused and getting angry now, but Makani had them covered with an automatic pistol, barking at them to undress. The sailors began to argue, but the sight of four more men with firearms changed their minds, and they reluctantly complied.

It was an awkward business, stripping, when they’d had so much to drink. Their stumbling progress made Tommy Puanani nervous, but he hid it for the others’ sake. When the six uniforms were piled up on the asphalt, Makani gathered them and ran them over to the Ford.

“How ’bout you let us keep our Skivvies?” asked one of the now-sober sailors.

“No problem,” Tommy said, and squeezed the mini-Uzi’s trigger, raking them from left to right and back again, his thirty rounds expended in three seconds.

His companions fired, as well, the heavy shotgun blasts, the automatic rifle stuttering and Makani’s pistol.

Five seconds, maybe six, and it was over. Six young sailors were as old as they would ever be.

“All right,” Tommy said. “Put them in the cab. We’ll follow Benny out to Makapu’u and torch it there.” And as an afterthought he added, “Good work, my brothers. We are on our way.”

1

Leia Aolani was nervous. All right, she’d admit it—and who wouldn’t be, in the same circumstances? Still, she prided herself on maintaining a measure of cool, unlike some people she could mention.

The man seated beside her in the Datsun Maxima, for instance.

Mano Polunu wasn’t just nervous. He was twitching like someone about to collapse into a seizure. His head swiveled constantly, eyes scoping.

They sat parked outside the Royal Mausoleum State Monument’s wrought-iron fence, with gold crowns surmounting each fencepost. Inside the fence lay buried all but two of Hawaii’s ancient kings and queens, missing only King Lunalilo—who was planted at the Kawaiaha’o Church, in downtown Honolulu—and Kamehameha the Great, who’d been buried secretly in 1819, to prevent haole invaders from defiling his corpse.

All that death, and more to come.

But Aolani still thought they were on a mission for life.

Twitchy Polunu didn’t seem so sure.

“He’s late,” Polunu said, glancing at his watch for something like the third time in a minute. “I believe he’s late, don’t you?”

“The timing was approximate,” she once again reminded him. “He’s flying in from the mainland, remember. Could be flight delays, who knows? Then, once he’s on the ground, he has to get his bags and grab a rental car. Cut him some slack. We’re cool.”

“You think so, eh? We don’t even know who this guy is.”

“Polunu, I see the same things you see. Normal traffic on the street, and empty spaces in the parking lot. I don’t see any snipers in the bushes, and I don’t hear any bullets whistling around our heads.”

“You never hear the shot that kills you,” Polunu answered.

“Thanks for that, okay? Is it possible for you to chill out just a little? Turn the heebie-jeebies down a notch or two? For my sake?”

“I don’t think so, but I’ll try,” he said. “It’s just that I keep thinking—”

“That they’ll find you. Right, I get it. And I grant you, it’s a real concern. That’s why we’re here, Polunu, remember? We need help to end this thing and keep you safe. To keep Hawaii safe.”

“But we’re exposed out here. You see that, right?”

“See it? I planned it, Polunu. But what I don’t see is anybody sneaking up to kill you.”

“Us,” he said, correcting her. “It’s not just me, now. You’re marked, too.”

That made Aolani shudder a bit, despite the warm evening. “All the more reason to follow through and finish this,” she replied. “If we don’t get it right the first time, we won’t have a second chance.”

“Because they’re killers.”

“Damn it, I know that!” she snapped at him. “Will you stop harping on the obvious?”

“Sorry.” He didn’t sound it, not even a little bit.

They sat in silence for a while, listening to traffic sounds and watching cars glide past on Nu’uanu Avenue. None turned into the parking lot. Why should they, since the mausoleum was closed for the night?

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.