Blood Toll

The Hawaiian’s heavy features split into a grin. He was truly a giant of a man, muscles bulging on top of muscles, his protruding brow and sunken eyes giving him a Neanderthal appearance. The kukri was still held loosely in his huge right fist.

“Drop the knife,” Bolan said, the 93-R in a two-handed grip before him.

“Uh-uh.” The Hawaiian shook his head. “You want the knife, you have to take it.” Then the giant whipped the kukri underhanded right at Bolan’s face.

The soldier ducked. The kukri slammed into the wall behind him, handle-first, leaving a dent in the drywall. The Hawaiian was already on the run again, slamming into the fire door fronting the stairwell. Bolan grabbed the kukri and dropped it into his canvas messenger bag, hurrying after the escaping native.

When he rammed open the stairwell door, the first barrage of gunfire rang out. Bolan ducked back as heavy slugs ricocheted in the metal-and-concrete stairwell. The Hawaiian continued to fire blindly up the stairwell as he ran down the stairs.

Bolan pulled his secure phone from its pouch and speed-dialed Stony Man Farm. Price came on the line after a brief delay.

“Striker?”

“Barb,” Bolan said quickly, “is HPD’s liaison in position yet? Has she called in?”

“Just a few minutes ago,” Price told him. “About the time we got your text message. She was en route to the Holiday Inn Waikiki. She’s probably there by now.”

“See if you can get in touch with her,” Bolan said, “and give her my direct line when you do it. Tell her to keep her eyes open for a big Hawaiian, 300, maybe even 350 pounds. Aloha shirt, sandals, long ponytail, built like a truck. Armed and dangerous. We need to stop him.”

“I’m on it.”

Bolan closed the phone and kept going, careful to stay far enough behind to avoid drawing more of the Hawaiian’s gunfire. On the third-floor landing he found scattered shells. Beyond these, in the corner of the landing, was a speedloader. Bolan scooped it up as he continued down the stairs, glancing at it just long enough to confirm it was loaded with .44 Magnum semiwadcutter bullets. The big Hawaiian had to have fumbled the loader while trying to change out his empties on the run, choosing to continue his flight rather than stopping and letting his adversary catch up.

Bolan didn’t stop moving until he reached the access door to the lobby. There, he finally paused and holstered the 93-R. Then he took a couple of deep breaths and stepped through slowly.

There was no unusual activity in the lobby. Either the stairwells were better insulated than Bolan might have thought, or the gunshots had sounded like slamming fire doors from the other side. Either way, nobody seemed particularly alarmed at street level, nor was there any sign of the Hawaiian among the milling tourists. Bolan’s phone began to vibrate.

“Yeah,” Bolan said into the phone.

“Cooper?” The female voice was unfamiliar. “Agent Matt Cooper?”

“This is Cooper,” Bolan said. “Sergeant Diana Kirokawa?”

“Yes, Agent Cooper.”

“Do you see him? The big Hawaiian, did he come past you?”

“No,” she said. “I’m out front now, but he didn’t come this way. At least not after I got here.”

“All right,” Bolan said. “I’m in the lobby. I’ll come out.” He closed the phone. As the soldier passed the lobby entrance to the hotel bar, his sharp eyes caught the broad back of the big Hawaiian. Bolan backed up, out of sight for a moment, and snapped his phone open again, dialing Sergeant Kirokawa back.

“Kirokawa.”

“Cooper,” Bolan said. “Change of plans. I’ve got our boy. I need you to cover the hotel bar. I’m coming at him from the lobby entrance. Can you get into position?”

“I can.”

“Good. Watch yourself. He’s packing a .44 Magnum and has a thing for big blades.”

Bolan slipped into the bar. The Hawaiian was heading toward the back, obviously angling for a rear exit. He either hadn’t seen Bolan or he was pretending not to, which was just as well. The Executioner couldn’t afford a firefight in these crowded confines. It wasn’t happy hour, but there were enough people in the nightclub bar to turn any exchange between Bolan and his prey into a civilian bloodbath.

The soldier’s quarry headed to the men’s room at the back of the nightclub. Bolan followed, but when he reached the door, he stopped. Given the Hawaiian’s preferred tactics, there was a good chance he’d wait just inside the doorway. Bolan stepped back to just within kicking range and toed the door inward with his boot.

The restroom door slammed back into its frame, the big man on the other side obviously trying to catch his pursuer by surprise and hit him with the door as he came through. Bolan quickly stepped forward and countered with a vicious front kick of his own, planting the treads of his combat boot squarely in the dark wood. Shock reverberated through his foot; it felt as if the door had slammed into a boulder. There was a choked yell from the other side.

Bolan shouldered through the door, drawing his Desert Eagle and preparing to shoot. He needn’t have worried. The Hawaiian was on the floor of the men’s room, holding his face, blood gushing from his flattened nose.

“You broke my nose!” he said thickly.

“Don’t move,” Bolan said from behind the Desert Eagle. “Roll onto your back and lace your fingers behind your head.”

“My nose!”

Bolan nodded. “Be glad it was your nose and not a hole through your head. Now roll over.”

BOLAN CALLED Sergeant Kirokawa, and together they escorted the big man to a marked HPD cruiser parked outside. The big Hawaiian sulked in the back of the marked car, testing the plastic cuffs strapped around his wrists, his nose swathed in adhesive bandages from the cruiser’s first-aid kit. Bolan had used three of his plastic restraints, just to be sure. He wouldn’t have been surprised if the Hawaiian could snap one or even two of them if he had the time to work at it.

On the trunk of the cruiser’s hood was a pile of personal effects taken from the prisoner. His leather wallet, creased and faded with age, contained a Hawaii driver’s license issued to David Kapalaua. The thick features of the man staring blankly from the photograph matched those of the big native locked in the back of the cruiser, except for the recent alterations to the man’s nose.

The wallet bore nothing of use apart from the ID. The Executioner checked the wireless phone’s call history, but there was nothing there. The phone either had not been used or, more likely, Kapalaua was in the habit of clearing the numbers after he used it.

Finally, Bolan picked up a small device he could not immediately identify. It was about the size of a television remote. There was a single button on its face. The soldier thought at first it might be some kind of detonator, but if it was, it was unlike any he’d seen before. Turning it over in his hands, he discovered the slots of an audio grille on the rear side of the plastic casing. No, it was not for a bomb, he decided. On a hunch, he pressed the button on the face of the unit.

The device began beeping rapidly and loudly. Bolan extended his arm, pointing the device through the rear window of the cruiser at the back of Kapalaua’s head. The beeping slowed marginally but remained insistent. He tried aiming the unit in other directions, finally pointing it at the ground. When it came closer to his body, it started beeping faster again.

Realizing what was happening, Bolan passed the device over his arms and legs. As the unit moved over the left-hand thigh pocket of his blacksuit, it began squealing with feedback and the beeping became a single, continuous tone. Bolan pushed the button on its face again and the device was silent.

From his pocket, he produced the card key he’d used to enter Jimmy Han’s room. Experimenting with the signaling device, Bolan satisfied himself that the unit was a tracker somehow linked to the card key.

“What have you got there?” Sergeant Diana Kirokawa’s lilting voice came from behind him. Kirokawa was a petite five feet, four inches, her half Caucasian, half Japanese features delicate but firm. Her large brown eyes were alert and wary. Lustrous shoulder-length black hair framed her face. She wore a conservatively tailored women’s suit that, while professional and sophisticated, didn’t hide her figure. Her badge was visible on a chain around her neck, and the cut of her suit jacket did not quite conceal the Glock 19 holstered on her hip.

“Our friend there,” Bolan said, “was carrying some interesting hardware.”

“Bando?” Kirokawa chuckled. “He always is.”

“You know him?”

“He’s a regular at HPD,” she said. “David ‘Bando’ Kapalaua, God’s gift to women, tough guys and Hawaiian nationalists. Turns up every eighteen months or so. He’s been busted for assault, disturbing the peace. Mostly bar brawls, though sometimes it’s NHL rabble-rousing. Last time around he threatened a guy with some kind of sawed-off sword or machete or something.”

“NHL?” Bolan asked. “Hockey?”

“No.” Kirokawa shook her head. “New Hawaiian League. One of a handful of native separatist groups operating in the state. They believe Hawaii was illegally occupied and annexed by the United States. Bando here has been at the center of a few rallies and protests that didn’t exactly stay peaceful. The NHL has the usual gripes about racial prejudice directed at Hawaiians, of course, but they’re also working to reestablish a sovereign Hawaiian government, separate and distinct from the United States. You see, Cooper, I’m just a ‘Hawaii resident,’ even though I was born here. Only natives like Bando are, to his thinking, actually Hawaiians. The New Hawaiian League would like to make that clear and back it up with force.”

“How violent are they?”

“Bando’s a thug,” Kirokawa said, “but he’s never been much more. The New Hawaiian League makes him special, in his mind, but I don’t know how much even he really believes in it.”

“Then he’s into something new, something bigger than him. Somebody’s pulling his strings. The gun’s not the hardware I was referring to.” Bolan held up the tracking device. “This is some kind of electronic monitor. It’s linked to a card key to a room here at the hotel. I think your boy tracked me here using it. I’m willing to bet something like this isn’t usual equipment for the Hawaiian nationalist on the go.”

“No, definitely not.” Kirokawa nodded.

“My people have a courier on the way,” Bolan told her. “When he or she gets here, I’m going to send this device for analysis.”

“It’s your show,” the sergeant agreed. “I’ll have Bando taken in. I assume you’ll want to question him.”

“Absolutely,” Bolan said. “I’ll meet my courier and then meet you at the stationhouse. I have a car.”

“I’ll have mine driven back, then,” Kirokawa said. “Just let me make arrangements. You’re not about to get rid of me. Things are just getting interesting.”

3

General Song Hui, late of the People’s Liberation Army, stationed himself at the edge of the mats in the training hall. Hwong Zhi noted his presence but remained focused on his workout, striking with renewed intensity the multilimbed mook jong, the wooden dummy shared by multiple kung fu styles. Stripped to the waist, the cords of his muscles in stark relief in the spotty track lighting of the training room, Hwong Zhi was an imposing figure, tall even among Westerners.

Song was of medium build and possessed singularly unremarkable features. Yet there was a palpable aura of menace about Song, an intensity that radiated from his dark eyes. Comrade Song, as the general now insisted he be called, was one of the few men whom Hwong Zhi truly feared. Hwong, as Comrade Song’s field commander, was a blooded warrior of years’ experience, but something about the much smaller man made Hwong nervous.

The general’s presence in the training room signaled an abrupt end to the inner peace and physical release Hwong normally felt during a workout. The interruption could mean only bad news.

“We have a problem,” Song said without preamble.

Hwong walked to the edge of the mat area, pulling the tape wraps from his hands as he did so. “Yes, Comrade General?”

“Kapalaua and his people have failed. I have just received a report from the field. He is in custody as we speak.”

“It was always a possibility,” Hwong admitted.

“It was wrong to use Kapalaua and his Hawaiians.” Song’s face creased with a frown. “You should have sent a tactical team, and you should have interrogated the prisoner more thoroughly.”

“Had I continued to torture the prisoner,” Hwong countered, “he would have died, taking his secrets with him. When we finally caught him taking photos within the Cheinjong facility, the only thing in his possession apart from the camera was that hotel key. Cheinjong was already compromised. Why not use it to bait the trap?”

“As you say,” Song admitted. “But in assigning an amateur to pursue the lead, we have lost it.”

“I know Kapalaua’s people,” Hwong assured him. “They will not let their would-be king languish in custody. If necessary, I will help them along, but I doubt I will need to do so. I have contacted them already through the usual channels. Our spy is well-placed within HPD and is relaying the information to the NHL even now.”

“The sensor you gave him could tip off the Americans.”

“Unlikely,” Hwong said. “It is a sterile device. Even if they suspect, they will have no proof.”

“I do not like it.”

“Kapalaua’s involvement will continue to confuse the Americans concerning our involvement and our ultimate goals,” Hwong insisted, “even as Kapalaua himself sows discord and creates chaos.”

“You are still maintaining your timetable?” Song’s expression remained stern, but his tone was less harsh.

“Insofar as it is possible.” Hwong nodded. “I must be flexible, of course, and if Kapalaua cannot be freed in time it may be necessary to fill the void in leadership with personnel of our own. That can be done, however. They trust me and have become accustomed to dealing with several of my best operatives.”

“I remain skeptical concerning this aspect of the plan,” Song repeated.

“It will work,” Hwong insisted. “I’ve been funding Kapalaua and his New Hawaiian League for months, assuring them the People’s Liberation Army will back them covertly in throwing off the shackles of American oppression. I have provided the New Hawaiian League with the necessary weapons and explosives. At the critical moment, the American people will believe their government is dealing with domestic separatist terrorism. That will allow us to continue with the operation, making our demands behind the scenes.”

“It had better work,” Song said. “We can afford no mistakes.”

“I am aware of that, Comrade General,” Hwong said.

“Are you, Hwong Zhi?” Song stared through the larger man. “We are the SST—the Sword of Sun Tzu, the most ambitious covert military operation undertaken in the industrial age. If we are to teach the Americans a lesson about their arrogance, they cannot know what we are doing until it is too late. Isolated terror events are not enough. The disruption of Honolulu must be so total and the threat so real that the Americans dare not retaliate. Only when we have America’s neck in the garrote can we dictate terms to its government in secret.”

“I understand, Comrade General.” Hwong bowed slightly. “I will not fail.”

“See that you do not,” Song intoned. “Honolulu and therefore Hawaii must be ours. When we have the Americans by the throat, we will release them—but only after Taiwan’s rebel government has been overthrown and the island is once more under the direct control of the mainland. We will teach the Americans to remain uninvolved, or pay the steepest of prices in kind.”

“Yes, Comrade General.”

Song turned on his heel and was gone. Only when he was certain that the man was out of earshot did Hwong release the breath he had been holding and head to the shower. He was accustomed to Song’s speeches, but he also knew not to ignore them.

It was widely rumored within the higher levels of the organization that Song had previously overseen a covert operation on American soil, an operation further rumored to have failed. The result was that Song fretted over the operation like an old woman, at times. He was ruthless and cunning, to be sure, but he now feared risk. Hwong had no such compunctions. He was a soldier, a fighter, a veteran of some years’ trials within Chinese special operations. He knew that without risk, there was no reward, and without nerve, there was no success.

Hwong well remembered the Hainan incident, which in many ways had only recently repeated itself. When one of the People’s Republic’s fighters had collided with the U.S. spy plane seventy miles off the coast of Hainan Island, forcing the craft to land on Chinese soil, some in the People’s Liberation Army had agitated for immediate military response. Cooler heads had prevailed, and Hwong knew the correct decisions had been made. They simply would not have been ready had the SST been activated in Hawaii at that time.

During the Hainan incident, however, the Americans sat helplessly as China held the spy plane’s air crew, using the time spent in largely pointless negotiations with the blustering Americans to dissect and analyze the technology of the plane itself. Chinese intelligence teams sifted through what could be recovered of the sensitive material and other data the Americans thought they had destroyed before landing. The wealth in information was equaled only by the gain in stature as the People’s Republic stood up to the hated United States, international bully and would-be policeman of the world.

It was Hainan that showed Hwong the Americans could be beaten—and it was Hainan that validated the SST’s plan for teaching the United States that its place in the world was changing. Spread too thin in its interminable “war on terror,” the American forces simply could not afford to wage war with an increasingly mighty China.

Hwong finished toweling himself off. He pulled a sleeveless black T-shirt over his head. He replaced the paddle holster, bearing his .45 ACP Heckler & Koch USP Compact pistol in his waistband at his right side. The chunky polymer-framed weapon could not be used to link China or its operatives to the SST’s operations. Hwong’s people were similarly armed, despite the fact that some of them preferred the 9 mm round. He insisted on homogeneity in personal kit and had mandated the use of the .45. He did allow his team some latitude in choosing other personal accessories.

From the training hall, Hwong entered the makeshift squad room where his assault team of handpicked elite soldiers waited.

The team snapped to attention as Hwong entered the squad room, but he nodded to them quickly. “Resume your duties,” he said. “There are more important things afoot than protocol and respect for authority.” Even as he said it, he hoped his faith was not misplaced and none of his people was secretly reporting directly to Song. The general placed great stock in hierarchy and respect for authority. He would be none too pleased to hear Hwong making light of these.

The six officers present were, with the exception of Wu Ya, unremarkable in appearance. This was essential for covert operations; the men would need to blend in with their surroundings. Hwong’s height, so unusual among Asians, had always been something of a liability for this reason, though his features were bland enough that most took him for a half-Westerner of some sort.

Wu Ya, however, was an unnatural giant of a man for any race. He stood over six feet and weighed three hundred pounds. His heavily muscled frame was dominated by a face carved from granite. Heavy brows met over small, dark eyes that saw everything. Wu Ya was a killer, as were they all, but Hwong knew that Wu preferred to kill with his bare hands.

Wu had offered many times to spar with Hwong, but the field commander had yet to take his subordinate up on the offer. To Hwong, the prospect of dueling Wu with fists seemed a little too real, a little too close to fighting for his life. As part of the team, Wu’s great size was put to its logical use; the man was tasked with carrying and operating the squad’s HK 21 belt-fed machine gun.

Most of the other squad members were cleaning and checking their own HK weapons. These were HK UMP submachine guns, chosen by Hwong for their modern design and ammunition compatibility. All the weapons and their ammo were, again, untraceable, at least to the People’s Republic.

Hwong continued to take mental inventory of his squad. Standing over his kit, his UMP reassembled and his magazines fully loaded, Chen Yi pantomimed a slow knife kata. In his hands were his balisongs, the twin blades glinting in the overhead light from the fluorescents. As Hwong watched, Yi slashed one imaginary opponent, then two, then a third, pausing to work his deadly skill in a series of flashing opening and closing movements with the split-handled butterfly knives.

Tsai Ming, also a knife aficionado—though he carried a simple AK-47 bayonet—watched Chen Yi almost enviously. The two sparred on occasion with sheathed blades or rubber training knives. As Hwong understood it, Chen was usually the victor. Hwong encouraged the competition as long as it prompted his men to improve their skills. He wanted no rivalries among them, however, and had warned them of this more than once.

Tsai Ming was also the squad’s demolitions expert. He would oversee many of the preparations for the Honolulu plan, as a great deal of explosives work would be needed in rigging appropriate deterrents.

Li Huang racked the action of his UMP several times, his manner methodical and aloof. He was Hwong’s second in command in the field and had proved to be a worthy officer many times. He was, however, the most likely candidate to be Song’s spy among Hwong’s elite squad, as Li showed the most political ambition. This was expected and, in most ways, inevitable. It would do, however, to remind himself more often of that, Hwong thought.

Wiry Jin Tai, slighter and shorter than the others, was a skilled helicopter pilot. Of all his squad, Hwong knew Jin the least, though the man had served with him for two years. He was an able pilot and utterly quiet in all other respects.

The sixth and final man on Hwong’s elite team was Zho Wen, who was the only one who frequently worried Hwong. Zho enjoyed taking lives, enjoyed it with an almost sexual satisfaction. He was, however, very highly connected in Chinese military and political circles. To discipline Zho too harshly—or to dishonor him by removing him from the team—would be to incur wrath so great that it might end in Hwong’s execution regardless of any mission successes he achieved.

Several times, Hwong had been forced to clean up after Zho Wen. As a result, he was never given leave alone. Hwong usually sent him with Wu, with strict orders to stop the man from murdering prostitutes or street beggars. In the field, however, Zho performed well, channeling his murderous desires into fierce fighting ability. It would, Hwong often reflected, have to be enough. There would conceivably come a time when Hwong would have to arrange for Zho to be killed in action during an operation.

“The comrade general extends his encouragement and expresses his confidence in your abilities,” Hwong said smoothly. “We will shortly commence with full field operations in executing our long-planned operation. This is the fulfillment of years of planning and positioning, both our people and the assets they will need to carry out our nation’s ambitions. You will do your duties. You will show no fear. You will not fail.”

The men nodded as one.

“We will not fail, Commander,” Li said aloud.

“Good.” Hwong nodded. “Prepare yourselves. Soon, the world will change. It is we will who change it.”

4

Bolan guided the Dodge Charger into traffic, the engine rumbling throatily in eager response. Next to him, Sergeant Kirokawa flipped shut her phone and glanced his way. “The interrogation room will be ready when we reach the station,” she informed Bolan. “We’ll have Bando to ourselves. I wouldn’t get your hopes up, though. He’s not the most cooperative person I’ve ever met.”