“Drop the knife,” Bolan said.

“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 the Executioner’s face.

Bolan 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.

Bolan pulled out his secure phone and speed-dialed Stony Man Farm. “Barb,” he said quickly, “get in touch with our liaison. Tell her to keep her eyes open for a big Hawaiian, over three hundred pounds. He’s armed and dangerous and we need to stop him before he kills someone.”

Blood Toll

The Executioner®

Don Pendleton

www.mirabooks.co.uk

The Cold War isn’t thawing; it is burning with a deadly heat. Communism isn’t sleeping; it is, as always, plotting, scheming, working, fighting.

—Richard M. Nixon,

1913–1994

Men with power, seated comfortably in rooms far removed from the battlefield, play their games of brinksmanship believing their opponents will blink first. They are always surprised when the enemy pulls a gun instead of blinking.

—Mack Bolan

Special thanks and acknowledgment to

Phil Elmore for his contribution to this work.

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

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

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Epilogue

1

Mack Bolan slammed the steel hilt of his Cold Steel combat dagger against the back of the Chinese sentry’s head. The guard crumpled without resistance, making a choked moan deep in his throat as he folded. His micro-Uzi fell to the asphalt.

The Executioner checked to make sure he was not merely playing possum, then secured the man’s hands and feet with plastic restraints and dragged him out of sight.

The loading dock of Cheinjong Industrial Supply was located among a cluster of commercial buildings just off Mokauea Street, in the shadow of the Kapalama Military Reservation. Shifting the OD canvas messenger bag slung over his shoulder, Bolan pulled himself up onto the dock before sheathing his knife in the custom Kydex rig on the chest harness of his formfitting blacksuit. The black composite grips of the suppressed Beretta 93-R machine pistol filled his hand as he drew the trusted weapon from its shoulder holster and moved the selector to 3-round burst.

The instructions from Brognola and Stony Man Farm had been clear, the mission seemingly straightforward. Jimmy Han, a federal investigator nominally attached to Brognola’s Justice Department, had been dispatched to investigate suspicious commercial shipments. Cheinjong Industrial Supply had, over the past eighteen months, received numerous shipments of machine parts, electronics and chemicals that could conceivably be used to build everything from bombs to EMP and jamming equipment. Taken separately, the shipments were not noteworthy. As a whole, they added up to a potential security risk.

Han was an experienced field agent, but three days ago he had disappeared. The local authorities had been alerted discreetly, but there was no sign of Han in the local hospitals or morgues, nor could he be located anywhere else in Honolulu. Worse, Aaron “The Bear” Kurtzman and his cyberteam at the Farm had turned up links between Cheinjong and a series of holding companies associated with the People’s Republic of China. A new cold war was ratcheting up between the United States and the ChiComs, as Brognola put it. The big Fed’s voice, when he finally contacted Bolan to put him on Han’s trail, had been grim.

“The Man has ordered this information classified at the highest levels,” Brognola had told the Executioner, “so I’m not telling you this. Seventy-two hours ago, a pair of Russian-made, Chinese-operated Sukhoi Su-30MK2 Flanker jets engaged a patrol of Navy Hornets in Taiwanese airspace.”

“Casualties?”

“None,” Brognola said, “but one of our pilots had to eject after his plane and one of the Flankers clipped each other. As far as we know, the Chinese plane landed safely.”

“What’s the fallout?”

“It’s not good. The Chinese are calling it a deliberate act of provocation and talking about withdrawing their diplomatic personnel from American soil.”

“So what’s the connection?” Bolan asked him.

“The timing is suspicious,” Brognola said. “Hours after the incident, Han missed his check-in. We lost touch with him and haven’t been able to locate him since. Aaron and his people have found connections to the highest levels of the Chinese government’s covert-ops groups. There’s something China doesn’t want found—and I think Han was in the right place at the wrong time. That’s what makes this so delicate.”

“So you want me to find out what happened.”

“Barb is working with the locals on my authority,” Brognola told him. “Once she settles down all the egos involved, we’ll have a liaison assigned to you. In the meantime I’ll have Aaron vet whomever the locals assign.”

“That will work.”

“Bring Han out, Striker,” Brognola said, using Bolan’s Stony Man code name. “We need to know what he’s discovered.”

Twelve hours after that phone call, Bolan was infiltrating the Cheinjong Industrial Supply building. Bolan crept through the loading dock and eased open the crash bar of a metal fire door. The access corridor beyond was dark. Unclipping a combat light from a pocket of his blacksuit, Bolan swept the corridor with the powerful light held below the Beretta in a supporting grip. At the end of the hallway, another fire door waited. The soldier paused and listened at the doorway.

There were voices beyond. Two men, speaking Chinese, were approaching his position. Bolan took a step back and leveled the Beretta at the doorway, ready to send bursts of 9 mm hollowpoint rounds through the opening. The crash bar on the opposite side of the door moved with a hollow metal creak. Bolan’s finger tightened on the 93-R’s trigger.

The door stayed shut. The Executioner waited as the men on the other side continued their conversation. It was obvious from the tones of their voices that they were arguing. Finally, one of the two relented. Their conversation continued, rapid-fire, as the voices receded. Bolan gave them a ten-count before moving back to the door and easing it open.

The room beyond was a large machine shop of some kind. There were no personnel present that Bolan could see. Several tables bore electronic equipment, while boxes and wooden crates waited in stacks across the floor space. Metal housings, each the size of a thermos, were being turned out at one station. At an adjoining workbench, components were being fitted within each metal tube. As he moved quickly and fluidly across the floor, Bolan snagged one of the housings from the workbench and tucked it into his messenger bag. At the opposite end of the shop floor was a spiral metal staircase. He made for it and climbed quietly upward.

The second floor was divided into office space. Bolan stayed low to avoid the Plexiglas windows set within the walls. He could hear people moving about, so he duck-walked to the end of the corridor in which he stood, making for the wooden doorway opposite. He managed to open and shut the door just before someone walked quickly past.

The small office space was cluttered with cardboard boxes and dominated by a small desk and a smaller couch. Calendars, schedules and shipping documents were tacked and taped to the drywall.

Curled up on the couch was a slight Asian man in a white short-sleeved shirt and red tie.

Bolan whipped around the suppressed Beretta and prepared to silence the unlucky man as he stirred from his nap. The man muttered something, squinting in Bolan’s direction, sounding more embarrassed than alarmed.

The soldier held his fire. A pair of thick-lensed, horn-rimmed glasses sat on the desktop. The Asian man reached for these, patting the desktop lightly as if he could not see them. The Executioner moved in quickly, sliding the glasses back out of reach and rapping the butt of the Beretta firmly against the side of the man’s head. He squawked and fell back as Bolan followed him down, clamping one hand firmly over the man’s mouth.

“Do you understand English?” Bolan demanded.

The man nodded and started to speak, but Bolan clamped his hand down harder.

“Quietly,” Bolan cautioned. “If anyone hears us, you’re dead. Try to call for help, you’re dead. I need some answers.” The man nodded quickly.

“What is your name?”

“Wu Hong.”

“Are you holding anyone here, Wu?” Bolan demanded. When Wu hesitated, Bolan pressed the muzzle of the Beretta’s suppressor against the small man’s forehead. “Last chance, Wu.”

“We are,” Wu admitted.

“Where is he?”

“Here,” Wu said. “The office across from this one, in the opposite hall. Next to the conference room.”

“Where is everyone else?”

“The conference room,” Wu said gravely. “That is where they would be now. That is where I am supposed to be.”

“Will they come looking for you?”

“I do not know. Probably not.”

“Good,” Bolan said. “What’s going on here, Wu? Who are you? What are you building?”

“I cannot tell you.”

Bolan pressed with the Beretta again. Wu merely squeezed his eyes shut.

“Tell me.”

“I cannot,” Wu repeated. “You will have to kill me.”

Bolan knew he didn’t have time for a proper interrogation. He slammed the butt of the Beretta across Wu’s head again, putting the man out, then gagged him with his own tie and cuffed his arms and legs. Finally, he rolled the man over onto the couch, where it would look at least at first glance as if he was still stealing a nap. Checking the hallway, Bolan emerged and circled around to get a view of the opposite corridor.

A single Asian man sat on a metal folding chair outside the conference room. The door had a window in it, but this was covered from inside in what appeared to be newspaper taped to the glass. Shadows of movement played across the newspaper, which did not conceal the light from within the room. The guard in the chair was reading a dog-eared paperback novel. Next to the conference room door was another, this one unmarked and bearing no window. If Han was inside, the guard outside the conference room was there to keep an eye on the Justice operative as much as to mind whoever was meeting in the room behind him.

Bolan flattened himself against the wall, around the corner and out of the guard’s line of sight. Raising the combat light in the dim hallway, he started pressing the tailcap switch. The bright beam silently strobed the corridor. It easily overwhelmed the sparse overhead lights of the hallway, drawing the guard’s curious attention. The Executioner could hear the man’s metal chair slide across the plank flooring as he left his post to investigate.

The soldier waited for his prey to get within arm’s length. As the sentry passed him, Bolan stepped past and behind the man, viciously driving the aluminum head of the compact light into the base of the guard’s skull. Bolan struck twice more in rapid succession, hammering down the sentry. He hooked his arm around the man at the last second, easing him down as he folded. He wasted no time securing the sentry, instead heel-toeing back down the hallway to the conference room. The adjacent office door was unlocked. Bolan slipped silently inside, easing the door shut behind him.

With the combat light, he swept the dim, windowless room. There was no furniture. A few sheets of paper and some candy bar wrappers were scattered across the floor. A dirty bucket, obviously pressed into use as a toilet, sat in one corner. On the floor, sprawled against the far wall, was a body.

Bolan knelt by the battered form of Jimmy Han, his face all but unrecognizable from the beatings he’d taken. The soldier checked his pulse. Han was alive, but in very bad shape. Bolan lifted the man gently by the shoulders and spoke to him quietly.

“Jimmy. Jimmy Han. Can you hear me?”

Han’s eyes fluttered open. He stared at Bolan blankly for a moment before drawing a ragged breath.

“Are you…?” he whispered.

“Brognola sent me,” Bolan said. “I’m taking you out of here.”

“Knew he wouldn’t…leave me.”

“Can you stand, Jimmy?” Bolan was only too aware that they were running out of time. If he didn’t get Han moving immediately, this soft probe was going to turn into a bloodbath.

“Wait…” Han said weakly. He tried to free himself from Bolan’s grip. “I need…”

“What is it, Jimmy?” Bolan said.

“Outlet.” Han pointed at the electrical outlet against the far wall.

Bolan eased Han to the floor and went to the outlet. Working a knife edge behind the plastic outlet cover, Bolan popped it off with a hard snap of his wrist. Inside the outlet was a white plastic square. The Executioner removed and examined it. He was holding a card key to a room at the Holiday Inn Waikiki.

“Hid it there,” Han rasped from the floor, “when they first threw me in here….”

“Jimmy?” Bolan said, taking Han by the shoulders again and lifting him to a sitting position.

“James,” Han managed to say. “James…”

Bolan could barely hear the man. He leaned in close. “Jimmy,” he said. “James. Talk to me. What is this key?”

“Five…” Han said softly. “Five-nineteen. Five-nineteen…”

Bolan watched as Han’s bloody, swollen face went slack. One of his eyes was swollen shut; the other turned glassy as the light behind it faded. A death rattle passed through his split lips. Bolan lowered the operative to the floor one last time and closed his staring eye.

Pocketing the key, Bolan rose. His first priority was to escape Cheinjong. He had been too late to save Jimmy Han; he could not afford to let Han’s message die with him. Beretta held before him, he slipped out the office door and back the way he’d come, stepping over the unconscious door guard as he went.

The conference room door opened. There was a pause, followed by alarmed voices shouting in Chinese.

Bolan kept walking, rounding the corner at the end of the corridor. He had almost made the stairway when the first gunshot rang out. The Executioner broke into a run, throwing himself down the stairs and across the machine shop, the floor above and behind him echoing with running footsteps. He caught a glimpse of his pursuers as he crashed through the fire doors to the loading dock. At least half a dozen men with pistols and subguns were chasing after him.

When the soldier’s combat boots hit the loading dock, the fire alarm inside began to ring like a school bell. This was obviously a signal to the sentries outside, who began to converge on Bolan’s position in response to the noise. One crossed Bolan’s field of fire and received a 3-round burst from the suppressed 93-R. The Executioner headed straight for the body, stepping over it without breaking stride and hurling himself at the perimeter fence.

As he scaled the fence, two more sentries caught sight of him. Bullets burned past him as he rolled over the barbed wire topping the fence, hitting the ground on the other side with a grunt. He snapped another pair of bursts back at the sentries as automatic fire sprayed the ground where he’d been. Cheinjong’s guards were willing to use overwhelming deadly force in broad daylight on American soil. As Bolan ran for the nearby commercial buildings, putting distance between himself and the shooters, he wondered why they’d been so quick to cross the line. Something big was going down, something Jimmy Han was trying to tell him.

Bolan’s rented Dodge Charger sat where he’d left it, in the narrow alleyway between two neighboring warehouses. The 3.5-liter engine growled when he turned the key. Leaving black marks on the asphalt, he guided the car through the alley, shooting out into traffic as he watched the rearview mirror. When two minutes passed with no sign of pursuit, he concluded he was not being followed.

Steering with one hand, Bolan removed his secure wireless phone from an inner pocket of his blacksuit. The scrambled line buzzed as he connected to Stony Man Farm, cycling through a series of encrypted cutouts. After a brief delay, Barbara Price was on the line.

“Striker?” Stony Man’s mission controller sounded tense. “What’s your status?”

“Jimmy Han is dead,” Bolan told her. “Beaten to death. Cheinjong Industrial Supply is staffed by Chinese-speaking Asians packing automatic firepower. They cut loose on me as I was leaving.”

“I’ve got Honolulu Specialized Services Division standing by,” Price said.

“Tell them to move on Cheinjong as fast as they can get into position,” Bolan said. “But don’t count on that being fast enough.”

“Striker?”

“They’ve got some kind of manufacturing operation going,” Bolan explained. “It looks professional, which means they’ll have planned for discovery. I wouldn’t be surprised if SSD finds nothing but empty rooms and half-eaten lunches.”

“I’ll do what I can to speed it up. What about you?”

“I’ve got a lead,” Bolan said over the throaty roar of the Charger’s engine, “but if this starts to get complicated I’m going to need local backup. Has Bear finished looking over my HPD contact?”

“He has,” Price said. “Your liaison is Sergeant Diana Kirokawa. She’s been commended for closing a number of high-profile murder and violent-assault cases. Thirty-six years old, fourteen years with the department. Half-Japanese, Hawaiian born. I’m transmitting an image and her data file to your phone now.”

“Thanks, Barb,” Bolan said. “Contact HPD and see if you can have her meet me at the Holiday Inn Waikiki, soonest. I’m headed there now. Also, get a courier into position at that location. I have something I recovered at Cheinjong that I need to have analyzed ASAP.”

“Will do. Striker?”

“Yeah?”

“Be careful.”

“Always.” He closed the phone and pressed the accelerator, sending the Charger surging forward.

Jimmy Han had died for whatever was in that hotel room. He wouldn’t die for nothing.

Not if the Executioner had anything to say about it.

2

The lobby of the Holiday Inn bustled with tourists in bathing suits and bright floral prints. With his gear concealed and the blacksuit camouflaged under a light gray windbreaker, Mack Bolan could move without drawing too much attention. Bypassing the front desk, he found the nearest stairwell access, his combat boots ringing on the fire stairs as he ascended.

The fifth-floor hallway looked clear as Bolan stepped quietly to room 519. Jimmy Han’s card key prompted the electronic door lock to release with a faint click. Bolan checked the hallway again, drew his suppressed Beretta 93-R and let himself in. He checked each room. There was no one inside.

Bolan went back to the door and set the dead bolt. Then he holstered his weapon and began searching the room methodically. It took him half an hour to toss the room thoroughly. He was satisfied that there was nothing in the room that would not normally be present. The small hotel room safe was empty. No messages of any kind had been left behind on any surface that the soldier could detect, either. He’d even tried running the shower and sink with the bathroom door closed, the hot water turned on full blast, but there had been no final words written by Jimmy Han on the mirror, cryptic or otherwise.

The Executioner’s eyes fell on the Gideon Bible. He picked it up. Just before he died, Han had said, “James.”

Bolan thumbed through the Bible to James 5:19. On the page in which the verse appeared—appropriately enough, it concerned saving a wayward soul—he found a scrap of paper. Written in very fine point pen, almost too small to read, was a series of numbers completely covering the scrap of paper. The numbers meant nothing to him. He placed the paper on the end table underneath the lamp and took a photograph using the camera in his secure wireless phone. Then he transmitted the image to Kurtzman at Stony Man Farm, with a brief text message: “Found this. Decode?” Finally, he tucked the paper carefully inside an inner pocket of his blacksuit. He checked the Bible once more, just to be certain, then replaced it.

There was nothing more for him here. Bolan turned to leave but stopped just before the doorway. He’d heard something on the other side. Nothing was visible through the door’s peephole, however. Drawing the Beretta 93-R, he reached out and slowly, quietly turned the dead bolt.

The force of the door slamming into him knocked the gun from his hand. Bolan was thrown to the floor by the blow. The three-hundred-pound Hawaiian man in the doorway held a massive kukri knife in one ham-size fist. The banana-shaped, machete-size blade rose for a killing stroke.

From his back on the floor, Bolan ripped the Desert Eagle free from its Kydex holster, high and tight on his waistband beneath his windbreaker. Even as the gun cleared Bolan’s waistband, the big Hawaiian was throwing himself backward. The massive .44 Magnum pistol thundered, deafening in the enclosed space. The 240-grain jacketed hollowpoint bullet punched a ragged hole through the heavy hotel door as Bolan’s intruder yanked it shut in his wake.

Heavy footsteps receding down the corridor outside were unmistakable. Bolan scooped up the Beretta, whipped open the door and gave chase, thrusting the Desert Eagle back into its holster as he ran.

The big Hawaiian was faster than he looked. He barreled around the corner at the end of the hallway. Bolan took the corner wide, the 93-R held ready. His precautions did not go unrewarded. The big man was waiting for him, obviously thinking to clothesline the soldier as he came past.

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.”

“I got that impression.” Bolan nodded.

“How long do you think it will take for your courier to get that thing analyzed?”

“The device Kapalaua was carrying?” Bolan said. “There’s no way to be sure. It will be in my people’s hands within hours, conceivably. Figuring out what it is could take longer.” The Stony Man courier had met Bolan before the Executioner left the Holiday Inn. Bolan could only assume the man was even now being transported, possibly by Stony Man pilot Jack Grimaldi.

They merged onto the Lunalilo Freeway. Traffic was moving, though not particularly quickly, nor were the low posted limits helping matters. Bolan continued to follow the Malibu that carried Kapalaua. They had not gone far when he caught sight of the vans.

“Trouble,” he said simply. “Two vans, both black, moving up quickly.”

“Could be nothing,” the sergeant said.

“I don’t believe in coincidence.”

“Me neither.” Kirokawa drew her Glock 19 and flipped open her phone with her free hand and dialed a number. “Kirokawa,” she said into the phone. “Wake up. We’ve got two vans coming up fast, and you can bet they’re here for your prisoner. Take the next exit.”

“No,” Bolan said quickly. “That’ll take us into population. On the freeway we can contain them.”

“Scratch that,” Kirokawa said into her phone. “Stand by.” She looked to Bolan.

“We need to make some space,” he said. “We’ve got to keep the traffic out of the line of fire. Tell your men to get on the radio and call for backup. Then tell them to get left and put that car nose first into the guardrail.”

“What?”

“Do it!” Bolan ordered. “I’m going to follow. We’re going to slow down, get traffic moving over the right. Have your men put on their lights, ward everyone off.”

“Light ’em up,” Kirokawa said. “Siren, too. Eric,” Kirokawa said, addressing the driver of the Malibu, “we’ve got to make a stand and keep as many bystanders out of it as possible.” She described Bolan’s plan. “Can you do it?” She nodded to Bolan. “He’s ready.”

“Wait…” Bolan said. “Now!”

“Now, Eric!” Kirokawa ordered.

The Malibu, its siren wailing, its light bar strobing, executed a smooth turn across the left two lanes. Horns blared as drivers swerved to avoid the vehicle, pulling right to go around. Bolan put his blinkers on and brought the Charger roaring into formation, its tires squealing as he pulled the wheel hard over. He planted the Dodge’s nose behind the rear bumper of the Malibu, leaning on the horn all the while, making as much noise as he could to warn the other drivers. As planned, traffic started streaming around the blocked left lanes, moving right, out of what was about to become the killing ground.

“Time to move!” Bolan said. Then he was up and out, the Beretta 93-R in his left hand, the .44 Magnum Desert Eagle in his right.

Kirokawa braced herself behind the engine block of the Dodge. Officer Eric Davis and his uniformed HPD partner, whom Kirokawa had introduced back at the hotel as Charles, took up similar stations behind the front of their cruiser.

“You goin’ die!” Kapalaua shouted from the back seat of the Malibu, his voice muffled.

Bolan waited just long enough to confirm that his assessment of the threat was correct. The two black panel vans slowed, one of them cutting off a furiously honking motorist in an Audi. They rolled to a stop not far from Bolan’s makeshift roadblock. The Executioner counted a total of eight men as the side doors slid open. All were native Hawaiians who carried an assortment of weapons, including pistols, shotguns and a couple of AK-style rifles.

“Give us Bando!” demanded a tall man brandishing a sawed-off shotgun. “Give him to us and nobody dies!” Without another word he fired his weapon.

Bolan snapped up the Desert Eagle and triggered a round, the .44 Magnum bullet burning a path through the NHL gunner’s head, dropping him in a boneless heap to the pavement.

Horns sounded and brakes screamed. Bolan dived low, missing the hail of gunfire that came in response to his play. He rolled, targeting the feet of the NHL gunners as they scrambled for cover behind the vans. When he was sure of the shot, he sent a 3-round burst from the 93-R ricocheting off the asphalt beneath the closer of the two vehicles.

Bolan’s target shrieked and fell, his foot a bloody mess. The Executioner shifted his weight slightly, lying on his stomach, and punched a .44 Magnum round through the writhing man’s skull.

Two down, six to go.

BANDO KAPALAUA WASTED no time when the gunshots started. He wormed his way down low, maneuvering his large body onto the floor of the vehicle behind the front seats. Then he clenched his fists, locked his wrists and began to pull for all he was worth.

Bolan had tightly strapped the Hawaiian’s wrists. That was nothing to Bando, though. He could snap handcuff chains if he wanted to, and sometimes did it at parties or in bars when somebody was stupid enough to bet him. Screwing up his face, his cheeks growing red with effort, Bando wrenched his meaty hands. The first strap popped easily. Twisting his wrists, the massive Hawaiian snapped the second one, then the third.

Just like that, he was free.

Well, not free, exactly, but he was loose, and soon he would have his freedom back. It was just like the haole police—Bando savored the insult, a catch-all term for these no-breath whites and foreigners ignorant of Hawaiian ways—to put so much faith in locked doors and stupid toy plastic straps.

A bullet struck the driver’s window and several rattled the frame of the Malibu, but Bando ignored them. His people would know that he was in the back seat and would do their best to avoid shooting him.

Bando had no illusions about his own intelligence. Though he was primarily muscle, not brains, Bando was not stupid. It took no genius to figure out how his New Hawaiian League compatriots had found him. Clearly that Chinese, Hwong, had called them and provided his location.

Bando squirmed into position on his back, his zori flat against the Plexiglas partition. Then he pistoned his mighty legs, as if pressing out a squat, pushing with all his might. The Plexiglas panel started to strain in its housing. Bando then recoiled, snapping out again with his sandaled feet.

The partition gave way.

Bando immediately scrambled after it, shoving himself painfully and awkwardly through the opening. Upside down, his legs still sprawled over the passenger seat, he reached the glove box. It was locked, but the lock was a light one. Bando simply grabbed the lip of the glove box with his thick fingers and ripped it out of its housing in the dash.

The plastic evidence bag containing his revolver, his reloads and his other personal effects was inside, where he’d seen it stashed before they’d driven him away. He ripped it open, pocketing the knife and his wallet before snapping open the cylinder of the three-inch Model 29 and loading it with the .44 Magnum rounds in the speedloader.

“Hey!” someone shouted outside the vehicle. It was the smaller white cop, the one he’d heard called Davis. Without hesitation, Bando pushed the stubby barrel of his weapon against the passenger’s window and pulled the trigger.

The blast blew pebbles of safety glass across the cop’s chest, but the bullet hole in his neck meant he’d never know or care. Davis dropped and Bando crouched low, ready to crawl out the passenger’s door and make his escape.

That was when he realized the plastic bag was missing something important.

The tracking device was gone. Possibly the big, dark-haired haole cop had it. Possibly he had given it to someone else, too. If that was true, someone might be poking at it soon, maybe figuring out where it came from. Bando didn’t know if that was possible; he knew nothing about electronics. Hwong had given him the device, told him how to operate it and explained how best to put it to use in carrying out the Chinese agent’s plan. The loss of the device would not be taken lightly.

Bando knew a moment of fear, considering Hwong’s reaction. The Chinese had been very specific. Bando was to use the homing device to follow the haole spy and take back to Hwong whatever the spy uncovered. Most importantly, Bando was not to be caught, nor was he to breathe a word of his mission. The connection to Hwong was to be kept secret at all costs. Failure—and worse, discovery of the Chinese—meant more than simply a loss of the precious weapons and money Hwong was funneling to the New Hawaiian League. It meant that Bando’s family—his mother and a younger sister living in Molokai—would be killed. Their deaths, Hwong had promised, would not be swift, nor would they leave this world, as Hwong had put it, “inviolate.” To make his point, Hwong had introduced Bando to the little Chinese with the crazy look, whom Hwong had called Zho Wen. Bando would not soon forget the light of insanity that played behind that man’s eyes. Bando feared no man, he told himself, but this Zho Wen was something less than human. He would pay any price to keep such a creature from his sister and his mother.

Shaking these troubling thoughts from his mind, Bando stayed low as he climbed out of the police car. On the ground, not far from the corpse of his partner, was the other cop. He was down, clutching a wound in his belly, his face pale and covered with sweat. Bando could tell he had native blood. The Hawaiian cop looked up at Bando, his eyes unfocused with pain.

“Sorry,” Bando said. He lined up the front sight of his chopped-down Model 29. When the front blade was squarely over the center of the cop’s face, he pulled the trigger.

MACK BOLAN WENT ABOUT his work efficiently, taking targets of opportunity, the Desert Eagle and the Beretta extensions of his hands. The NHL gunners were nothing special; he had faced fighters better than these countless times. Their numbers, however, gave them a temporary advantage. It took time to defeat odds so slanted against him.

The soldier ducked back as a blast of buckshot from a sawed-off shotgun clawed the air above his head. He triggered a return volley from the Beretta, the Parabellum rounds stuttering across the second NHL vehicle.

Diana Kirokawa called out to Bolan. She’d had to work her way around to the rear of the Charger to get a better angle on the NHL gunners. Now, as Bolan looked from his own position near the lead van, he saw that the two HPD officers were down and Bando was no longer in the cruiser. As Bolan watched, the big man ran into the flow of panicked drivers in the far right lane, narrowly missing being run down. Bolan held his fire; he would not be able to take the shot, not without risking hitting someone in a passing vehicle.

Bando jumped the concrete barrier on the other side and quickly disappeared.

One of the remaining NHL gunners leaned out too far from his position behind the second van. Kirokawa punched several holes through him with her Glock 19. Two of his comrades were already down, their blood spreading in pools across the pavement. But the NHL action had already provided Bando Kapalaua the diversion and time he needed to escape.

“Go! Go!” one of the gunmen shouted. The remaining NHL gunners began piling into the second van, which was already moving. Bolan left cover and emptied both of his guns into the rear of the fleeing vehicle, pocking the rear panel doors with holes and spidering the rear windows. Burning rubber, the big cargo van sped off, clipping a civilian vehicle trying to skirt the carnage.

Bolan ran to Kirokawa. He dropped the magazines in his pistols, reloading from the spares on his blacksuit under his windbreaker.

“Bando’s escaping,” Bolan informed her. “We’ve got to go.”

“We aren’t going anywhere.” Kirokawa shook her head. She nodded first to the remaining, bullet-scarred van, then to the police cruiser and the Charger. At least two tires on each vehicle were flat, shot through.

Bolan’s face darkened. There was nothing to be gained in cursing their luck. He moved cautiously around the side of the Malibu, taking in the scene.

Kirokawa followed, gasping when she saw what was left of Officers Davis and Charles. “I’ll call for an ambulance,” she said, pulling out her phone, her Glock still held in her right hand.

“Don’t bother,” Bolan said, kneeling beside the corpses. He checked first Charles, then Davis, just to be sure. “They’re gone.”

Kirokawa holstered her Glock. “Damn it all to hell!”

Bolan nodded slowly. Davis’s eyes were open in death. The Executioner, using his fingers, gently closed the man’s eyes. Before Bolan was finished in Hawaii, Bando Kapalaua would answer for his crimes and for these murders. This time, though, he would not answer to a revolving-door system of legal technicalities and soft-hearted judges.

This time, Bando Kapalaua would answer to the Executioner.

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