Salman’s sandaled foot plunged through the dirt and cotton covering the pit. The Hawaiian’s scream told Bolan the swordfish sword had done its work.
“Salman!” Rasul began tearing his way up the hill. “Salman!”
Salman keened like a rabbit being killed.
Bolan slid three feet down the hill. He raised the six and a half feet of koa wood like a splitting ax and Salman’s screaming ended as Bolan brought it down with a crunch through his skull. Bolan grabbed Salman’s spear before it could slide down the hill and scrambled back to the top. He now had a stave and a spear. Bolan sprinted across the clearing and back into the trees.
He wished he’d had time to take Salman’s water and food.
Chapter 12
Bolan staggered.
He was done. He would have thrown up again but he didn’t have the water in his body to do so. Agent Hu hadn’t lied. With three quarters of his pores closed, he was red-
lining into heat exhaustion. The daily downpour had briefly cooled him off but his internal temperature was climbing. It was about noon and he figured a thermometer would register ninety-five something. He was moving downhill, from the hills to foothills, but twice when Bolan had crested a rise he caught sight of Rasul on his trail, and he knew Rasul had seen him. Both times Rasul had been ever closer. Bolan staggered to a stop.
The forest had ceased and he found himself confronted by a ten-foot-tall hedge.
It was shaggy on the forest side but immaculately trimmed at the top. Bolan noted several golf balls lying in the forest duff. The Executioner sighed, hefted his spear so that his forearms guarded his face and hit the plant wall at a run. Branches and stems tore at the flesh of Bolan’s bare torso. Vegetation snapped and Bolan just barely kept his feet as he plunged through.
Four middle-aged Japanese men in checked golf pants, polo shirts and sun visors screamed in unison. Bolan considered the golf course spreading out ahead of him, the tee party in front of him and the enemy behind him. Bolan stood on one leg, bare-chested and bleeding, and roared as he brandished his spear.
“Huaaaaaah!”
The foursome screamed again and dropped their clubs. They bolted for their golf cart and tore away as their speedometer pegged out at twelve miles per hour. Bolan stepped away from the hole he had torn in the hedge. He stabbed his staff into the lawn for quick retrieval, hefted his spear and waited.
The hedgerow twitched and shuddered as someone pushed through it.
Bolan hurled his spear with all of his might and instantly yanked up his staff.
Rasul seemed to ooze out of the hedgerow. Blood poured down his jaw from Bolan’s spear cast. It had cut his cheek to the bone. Rasul smiled through his mutilation as he set foot on the golf course green. “Close, Makaha. Very close.”
Bolan took a step forward and sent his staff scything at shin level.
Rasul easily hopped over the awkward attempt. He tossed his immensely heavy spear lightly in his hand. “Now, Makaha. What do you intend to do?”
Bolan retreated.
Rasul raised his spear like a javelin. “You think you can make the clubhouse before I put this through your kidneys?”
Bolan slowly knelt and pulled a gold-colored driver from a fallen golf bag. It was a fifteen-hundred-dollar club. “Brave.” Rasul grunted. The Hawaiian raised his spear overhead in a wide two-handed hold. “But foolish.”
Bolan raised his new driver overhead like a samurai sword.
Rasul advanced with a sneer. “Pathetic.”
Bolan stepped forward to meet him and swung as if he intended to split Rasul’s skull. In Bolan’s experience the greatest flaw of most martial artists was that they nearly always practiced against members of their own art. Rasul snapped his spear in a horizontal high block as if Bolan had lashed at him with one of the many Koa wood weapons Rasul had defended against in decades of practice.
But the lightweight graphite shaft of the driver was designed for flexibility. It bent around the Koa wood spear haft rather than rebounding or breaking and the forged titanium face collided with the fontanel of Rasul’s skull.
Bone crunched.
Rasul dropped as though he’d been shot.
Bolan tossed the ruined driver away. He put his hands on his knees for real and took long, deep breaths. There were no sirens to be heard yet, but screaming and consternation were spreading from hole to hole. Bolan relieved Rasul of his phone, wolfed down his energy bar and drank greedily from what remained of his water bottle. He snapped off the tip of Rasul’s spear and grimaced as branches tore at him once more as he went back through the hedge.
One reason Bolan had made no attempt to conceal his tracks was that he knew if he lived he would have to retrace them. He stared up at the sun and vainly wished for the rest he just wasn’t going to get. He judged it was between two and two-thirty. He needed to retrace his steps and surprise Tino before it got dark. Bolan took the last slug of water from Rasul’s bottle and tossed it away. If he moved fast whatever food and water Salman had left was waiting for him. After that Ahmed and Osama were lying in a creek that ran cool and clear. Bolan broke into one more very weary run.
He wanted to hit Melika’s bar before closing time.
Melika’s Place
Bolan shoved Tino inside. The bar was packed, but no one was minding the door because no one in Happy Valley was stupid enough to come in unannounced tonight. Bolan had come upon Tino right around sunset. He was still sitting in the van, eating cold fried macaroni and cheese while involved in a very important Angry Birds battle on his phone. It had required rebreaking Tino’s nose, knocking him half unconscious, and putting a swordfish bill to his throat, but in the end the Samoan had agreed to drive Bolan back to civilization.
Bolan had given Tino an elbow shot to the right kidney to make him pliable as they approached the door and then flung him spread-eagled to the peanut-shell-strewed floor of Melika’s in dramatic fashion. The back booth was still dark but Bolan could make out a big man sitting there. Koa sat with Uncle Aikane and Nui. He shot Bolan a wink and the soldier knew their covers weren’t quite blown yet. Bolan stood in the doorway and let his rage manifest itself.
“The hell with you!”
He stepped on Tino’s spine as he made his way into the bar. Tino groaned as Bolan stepped off him and strode toward Uncle Aikane and Nui’s booth.
“Screw you all’s!”
Guns came out all around the bar. Bolan ignored them and tossed four swordfish bills, two of them caked with blood, onto the table in front of Uncle Aikane. Aikane stared long and hard at the assembled spearheads. “Listen, Makaha—”
Bolan let his rage boil over, but he stepped back and threw up his hands. “I wish I had a gun! I’d kill all of you! Let’s go out back! I’ll fight any of you! I’ll fight all of you!”
Aikane’s face was terrible; like a man who knew he had betrayed a child. “Nephew…”
Bolan stabbed forth a terrible, judging finger at the big Hawaiian. “You’re not my uncle!”
Guns twitched in the shocked silence.
Koa broke it. “Makaha.”
Bolan flung his arms skyward in outrage. “They hunt me? They gonna bundle me and barbecue me! Do it! Do it now! Any asshole who wants to try!”
Koa turned to Aikane. “Uncle, tell me my cousin has passed.”
Aikane nodded. “Beyond all expectations.”
“Cousin.” Koa’s eyes were soft but iron. “Stand down.”
“Screw you!”
“Stand down!” Koa roared.
Bolan clenched his fists, spun and slammed himself into a seat at the bar. Melika brought him a Koko Brown ale without being asked.
Koa stood. He shouted for everyone to hear but he faced the darkened booth in the back. “No one messes with my cousin!”
Th
e darkness met this with silence.
Bolan took a huge risk. He stood and walked toward the booth. Guns came out all around again. Bolan reached into his pockets and he heard several safeties come off. It was a terrible intel loss, but Bolan tossed Ahmed, Osama, Salman and Rasul’s cell phones on the table. He gave the shadow a terrible grimace. “I figured no one should find these.”
A massive mocha-colored hand reached out of the pool of darkness and pulled the phones in. A very deep voice spoke. “Makaha, how can this be made up to you?”
“I’m done. Just let me walk. Let me out.”
“You will not walk out of this bar alive.”
“Then let me in.” Bolan balled his fist and made another terrible face. “All the way.”
“You will not walk out of that alive, either.”
Bolan spoke without turning from the darkness. “Koa?”
“I’m still in.”
“After what they did to me?”
“I am, and I’m begging you, cuz. I need you on my six. For what has to be done.”
Bolan shoved every ounce of will out of his eyes at the shape in the darkness. “Tell me I die going forward instead of with a spear in my back.”
“Makaha?” The voice was surprisingly lighthearted. “You’re going all the way.”
Honolulu safehouse
Melika had powerful thumbs.
Bolan groaned as she ground the knots out of his extremely weary shoulders. “You killed all four of them?”
“Yeah.”
“Makaha, they—”
“They were going to bundle me and cook me like a pig.”
“Eew!” Melika shuddered. “I’m still having a hard time with that. What the hell are they into?”
“Have you gotten a look at the guy holding down your corner booth?”
“No, no one does unless they’re summoned. And everyone who sits at the table goes off on some mission and never comes back. That’s mostly hearsay because just about every time I try to tend my bar I get sent away and Tino takes over… I don’t like Tino.”
Bolan winced as Melika’s elbow bored into his flesh. “I don’t think anybody does, and I tried.”
He gritted his teeth as Melika poured on a little more kukui nut oil and went meat tenderizer on his right buttock. The soldier realized she was going over just about every muscle in his body. Bolan smiled in the dark as Melika practiced her ancestral arts down through his calves and toes. He spoke very quietly. “You want out?”
“I just want you to stop whatever they’re doing and stop it quick. I have a terrible feeling. Finish this. I’ll do whatever I can.”
“Thank you.”
“Roll over.” Bolan rolled. Melika began to work the plates of Bolan’s chest.
When she’d finished, Bolan sighed contentedly and closed his eyes.
* * *
The soldier smelled Kona coffee brewing. Melika made a noise as he left the tiny twin bed. Sunlight spilled through the curtains. Bolan pulled on a pair of shorts and walked out to find Koa reading the paper with his shotgun close to hand. A coffee urn sat on the bungalow’s hotplate.
“Any relevant local news?” Bolan asked.
“There was a particularly brutal murder at the golf course yesterday afternoon. Five-O is completely stumped.”
“Awful.”
Koa nodded. “So now you’re tapping Melika?”
“She decided she’d rather torture me.” Bolan rolled his shoulders. The Hawaiian warrior massage had done him a world of good.
“Yeah, I can smell the kukui oil on you. Rumor is Melika still knows the old ways. You’re a lucky man.” Koa’s face turned gravely serious. “So. They hunted you? With spears?”
“Yeah.”
“I didn’t believe it, until Uncle Nui showed me the imu pit. They were heating the stones. I’m pretty sure I was going to have to eat some of you over rice.”
Bolan poured himself a cup of joe and topped off his teammate. “So what’s on the agenda for today?”
“Don’t know. I’m thinking it may be the big Jihadist/Syncretism meet and greet. I’d bet we’re going to get invited to a luau.”
“How do you figure that?”
“Because they prepared an imu pit.”
“I thought I wasn’t for dinner tonight.”
“Yeah.” Koa smiled knowingly. “But it’s an awful lot of work to dig the pit and then heat the stones. I’ll bet they threw in a pig.”
Bolan considered his own narrow escape. “Or something.”
A huge fist pounded on the door. “Koa! Makaha! Come on!” Tino bellowed. “We gonna have grind today like you haven’t had in years!”
Chapter 13
It was just about the best pig Bolan had ever eaten. The secret cannibal sacrament had turned into a genuine party since Mack was off the menu. At least a hundred people filled Uncle Aikane’s palatial backyard. A group of men sat playing guitars and ukuleles while people sang along to traditional Hawaiian songs intermixed with pop and country-and-western favorites. Some people were dancing. Children and dogs ran underfoot. Folding tables groaned beneath the weight of rice, long rice, lumpia, chicken wings and several dozen more luau favorites born of Hawaii’s melting pot. The pig held the place of pride. A traditional Hawaiian benediction of thanks had accompanied its unearthing. People formed a long line as women shredded the meat off the bones and forked it over rice. Ribs and other choice pieces were given out to guests of prominence. Bolan gave his platter of ribs a silent “Better you than me, brother” thanksgiving and tucked in.
The soldier was nearly strangled as Tino’s massive meat hook swatted him between the shoulder blades. “Better pork on your plate than you on mine! Right, brah?”
A part of Bolan found it interesting that just twenty-four hours ago Tino had driven him to a rendezvous with impalement, torture and slow roasting, and now the Samoan was joking about it. Bolan grinned back. “You wouldn’t like it. I got too much haole in me.”
Tino leered in an all too familiar fashion. “Oh, haoles are soft and sweet, Makaha!” He punched Bolan in the shoulder as if they were childhood pals. “You’d be too tough because your blood runs true, bruddah!”
Bolan raised his beer. “Ohana, cuz.”
Tino stopped short of blushing and clanked bottles happily. “Ohana, cuz!” The Samoan suddenly remembered his business. “Hey, man, polish off your grind and head up to the house. Uncle Aikane wants to see you.”
Bolan kept his regret off his face as he handed Tino his loaded plate. “Don’t let it get cold, brah.”
“Ooh! Yeah!”
Bolan wiped his hands and walked up to the house. The slobbering sounds behind him told the soldier he had already been forgotten. Bolan caught sight of Koa coming toward the house from the opposite side of the yard and knew the Hawaiian had received a similar summons. The two warriors fell into formation. “Man,” Koa sighed. “I was just settling in to some serious eating.”
“Tino’s polishing off my plate.”
“And that’s a damned shame.”
“You’re telling me.”
Bolan and Koa stopped at the lanai steps. They were confronted by half a dozen of Uncle Aikane’s security. They came in assorted sizes ranging from larger than the average bear to gigantic, and all bore a family resemblance to the Hawaiian crime lord/newly minted separatist/terrorist. A particularly titanic specimen in a 3XL aloha shirt and sarong who was clearly packing heat gave Koa and Bolan the fish-eye.
“You boys packin’?”
“That you, Bolo?” Koa asked.
Bolo smiled in recognition. “Know you, Koa.” The fish-eye returned. “Don’t know Makaha, except that he killed a couple of people I know.”
Bolan glanced at the army of trees girding Unc
le Aikane’s estate. “We can take two spears and walk into the forest if you want, Bolo.”
“No!” Bolo burst into laughter. “Oh, hell no! You two come right on in.”
Bolan and Koa were ushered downstairs into a plushly appointed man-cave. Uncle Aikane, Uncle Nui and the Lua master sat at a round, green-felted card table playing some kind of arcane Hawaiian Hold’em. Bolan noted they were all drinking small glasses of what looked like weakly mixed Ovaltine. The odd smell, with hints of black pepper, informed Bolan the men were drinking kava. Ferret-face stood behind the wet bar leaning on his crutches and scowling as usual.
Uncle Aikane looked up from his cards. “Koa, Makaha! You’ve met your uncle Lau Lau?”
The Lua master waved his cast.
Bolan and Koa nodded. “Uncle.”
“Sit down, take your ease.”
Ferret-face poured two glasses of kava for the guests. He gave Bolan a very long look that Bolan didn’t care for. The killer clearly hadn’t realized it was Bolan who’d put him in crutches, but it was also clear that he was doing a lot of math in his head. Bolan hid in plain sight and sat at the bar. Koa took his glass and sat on the couch facing the giant screen TV set to the golf channel. Bolan sipped his kava. It was strong, and Bolan’s lips tingled and started going numb. The soldier vainly wished for one of Belle’s concoctions, or better yet a beer. He was aware of the effects of kava. It relaxed people both mentally and physically and made them talkative. A few glasses of kava wouldn’t be a bad opening salvo for a friendly interrogation.
Bolan slurped his kava down and shoved the glass across the bar. “What’s your name again?”
Ferret-face poured another and spoke through clenched teeth. “Ezekiel.”
“Thanks, Zeke.” Bolan took up his glass and toasted the assembled Hawaiian crime elders. The big men gravely toasted back and drank. Bolan polished off his glass and slammed it down. Uncle Aikane shook his head in regret. “Makaha, there is no apology I can make that—”
“So don’t bother,” Bolan said.
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