Pulse Point

by Don Pendleton

  With a sudden response Macklin scissored his legs and swept Lyons off his feet. As the Able Team leader crashed to the grass, Macklin hammered his right heel into Lyons’s stomach. Lyons had anticipated the move and held his muscles tight. Even so the blow hurt. The pain galvanized Lyons.

  He rolled away from Macklin, coming to his feet, and met Macklin’s rushing attack. They collided with a solid thump, hands seeking the best hold. Lyons felt the man’s arms circle his torso, closing tightly. Macklin braced his feet apart to stabilize himself, squeezing his arms hard over Lyons’s ribs.

  Lyons sucked in a breath and reached for Macklin’s head, pushing it back. The merc’s bloody face came into view, eyes staring into Lyons’s. Lyons pulled his own head back, then slammed it forward, butting Macklin with his forehead. Macklin’s nose was crushed, reduced to a pulpy mass that streamed blood. Lyons repeated the head butt. He heard Macklin roar in pain, eyes glazing over. More blood poured from his nose.

  The brief moment was enough for Lyons. He twisted his powerful body, breaking Macklin’s weakened hold. For a moment they stood apart, then Lyons punched hard, left and right. Macklin’s jaw crumpled under the brutal impact, and he fell to his knees. Lyons stepped around the man, leaned in and took hold of Macklin’s head in a two-handed grip. There was no hesitation as he wrenched Macklin’s head, hearing the soft crunch as the move severed the man’s neck from his spine. Macklin became a dead weight. He fell face forward onto the grass.

  Lopaka was out of the car, staring across at Lyons. For once she had nothing to say, as he walked back to the cruiser.

  “We’re done here,” Lyons said.

  The lady cop nodded. “I guess we are,” she said.

  * * *

  WHEN HE SAW Macklin go down, Xian Chi began to understand the concept of defeat.

  His own men were out of action, and the two Americans were cutting across to intercept him.

  He saw his plan unraveling. The NNEMP unit, still sitting in the parked panel truck, would fall into American hands now.

  All the scheming. The resistance and the effort. It was for nothing.

  He glanced at the disabled jet. The package would not be leaving on the plane, and neither would he.

  Chi thought back a few days, before the North Korean experimental strike. His life on Hawaii had been almost peaceful then. But the moment the Koreans had launched their trial, everything became tangled, and control was quickly lost.

  He could have blamed it all on Soon Il Tak, and the way he had acted. Yet Chi was not blameless. His own way of handling things had not been as subtle as it might have been.

  He stared around him. His team was down. So was Macklin’s.

  Chi put his cell to his ear as he pressed a speed-dial number. It was answered within seconds. It was Kai Yeung.

  “Just listen. It is over,” Chi said. “The Americans are here. We have lost the package. Our men are down, and I am going to be arrested. Save yourself, Yeung, and perhaps you can help me later.”

  Chi threw the cell onto the ground at his feet.

  The American team and the female police officer were in control, their weapons turned in his direction.

  In the distance, Chi heard the wail of sirens. More police on their way.

  He sighed in resignation, raising his hands and clasping them on top of his head. There was nothing else he could do. He would be arrested and placed in an American prison. At least, with luck, Kai Yeung could avoid capture.

  If he got back to Beijing, there was always a chance. Then Chi realized he was beyond help from home. When he thought about it, perhaps he would be safer here, than if he did go back to China. Returning to Beijing as a failure, he would not have been treated so well. His management of the affair in Hawaii had not been a success, and with all that had happened, his masters in China would be less than pleased.

  At Chi’s level of command, there were no excuses. His actions had wasted a great deal of money for no return. He had lost face, and such matters were taken extremely seriously in Beijing. Repercussions could reach a high level, leaving much to be explained by his government.

  Although China had not been the actual culprits, the connection with North Korea could be used by the Americans to assess blame. Political embarrassment was something Beijing could do to avoid. Chi knew that the Americans would leap at the chance to point the finger and make China squirm under the spotlight.

  Whatever else happened, Xian Chi would become the scapegoat. For his sins, if he returned to China, he would undoubtedly suffer. If the authorities had it in their minds, he could be quickly shot and forgotten about. Or, worse still, he might be confined in one of the remote prison camps where he would be alive but left in isolation.

  Better then that Kai Yeung simply looked after himself. The younger man was smart. He had a low profile that would allow him to move on, and with the generous amount of money in safe accounts, he could live comfortably. Chi wished him well.

  As he watched the armed Americans approaching, Chi knew he would be marginally better off in their custody. With his knowledge he might be able to bargain for his life. He carried information in his head that would be of much use to the Americans. If nothing else Xian Chi was a survivor. In his current position his continued existence depended on being able to convince the Americans he could offer them information they could benefit from.

  He watched as the female put away her gun and produced a pair of handcuffs. She held them out, and Chi lowered his arms and extended his wrists.

  “Turn around,” Lopaka said.

  Chi did as ordered. He felt the cold bracelets snap on his wrists. As they did, he experienced a moment of relief. His former responsibilities no longer existed. From this moment on, a new phase of his life began. A phase that might yet offer him salvation.

  He met the gaze of the blond-haired American.

  “I wish to make a deal,” Xian Chi said, thinking about his future.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  OSCAR KALIKANI

  The niggling thoughts in Oscar Kalikani’s mind persisted. Like a teasing itch just out of reach, they refused to go away.

  He sat at his desk, recent events playing over and over in his mind. Replaying in his thoughts, there but just out of reach. He wanted answers to things that had happened. Which shouldn’t have happened. Too many matters to be simply ignored, or simply accepted without question.

  The attacks launched against the three agents from the mainland. All so neatly directed at them when barely anyone knew of their presence. Then the attempt on his own life, only averted because he had brought in Jenny Lopaka to cover his back.

  Someone knew in advance.

  Had to have known.

  And the logical next step for Kalikani forced him to confirm the possibility there was a leak within the department. Someone had to be passing out information that was enabling those responsible to be ahead of the game.

  Kalikani found his suspicions distasteful, but he had to take the consideration on board. He wished it was otherwise. Unfortunately he saw no viable alternative.

  The leaks came from within the department. His own department.

  One of the cops he worked with was passing operational information, giving details to—what did he call them—the enemy?

  How else would the schedule regarding the police convoy moving the package get to the people who had staged the attack? The attack that resulted in six dead cops and the loss of the package. Timing and route had been kept inside the department. Nowhere else, and no civilians had been given that information.

  The bitter truth came back to Kalikani like a slap in the face.

  The son of a bitch worked alongside him in the department. It had to be someone close....

  Too damn close.

  It took an effort for Kalikan
i to remain still. His initial urge had been to lunge from his seat and...and do what? He had to stay calm, show no outward sign that he suspected a problem. So Kalikani stayed seated, his body taut with the contained anger he felt. Tensing his muscles had only agitated his wounds, set them to aching with a vengeance. He felt a sheen of sweat break out across his face.

  Don’t give yourself away, Oscar. Keep it under control. Whoever might be the one could be watching you. Checking to see if you had any suspicions. Let it out and the guilty one will back away. You need to stay relaxed—on the outside. Use your eyes. Your ears. Watch and listen. That way he might make a mistake and that would be when you take him....

  There was too much at stake to screw this up. Kalikani realized he had to alert Lopaka and Matthews’s team. He couldn’t risk them walking into another setup. He also knew he daren’t use any department phones in case there was a tap on them. Whoever was behind the leaks would have covered that avenue. Kalikani knew he had to make contact from an outside source away from the department.

  He took his S&W from his desk drawer and slipped it into the belt holster on his hip. He turned off his police-issue cell. Then dropped his personal cell into his pocket and slid his chair away from his desk.

  “You okay to go out, Oscar? You don’t look too good.”

  Kalikani turned and saw Tasker watching him. Kalikani raised his good hand. “Pain’s kicking in again,” he said. “I need to take a walk. Swallow some more painkillers.”

  “You should take some time off,” one of the other cops said. “Like the doc said.”

  “Too much happening,” Kalikani said. “I just need some time out. I’ll be back to take the strain off you guys soon enough.”

  The good-natured banter followed him out of the office.

  Kalikani made his way outside. He paused on the sidewalk, checking his position and recalled there was a pay phone halfway along the block. He tugged his shirt over his holstered pistol and walked in the direction of the phone, hoping it hadn’t been vandalized. Back in the day, before cell phones sprouted like mushrooms in a dark cellar, there were pay phones everywhere. Not anymore. The phone companies, adding up the cost of keeping pay phones working, had reduced the numbers.

  He saw the phone just ahead and made for it. It was in working order, and he felt in his pocket for coins. He dialed the number of the cell Matthews had given him by checking it on his cell’s caller display. He listened as the number rang out, then recognized the blond ex-cop’s brusque voice.

  “Kalikani. I’m calling from an outside line. Call me paranoid but I think there’s a bad cop in my department. I’ve been sitting at my desk for the last couple hours working this over. It’s the only way this could be happening. Insider information is being passed to the opposition from the inside. We haven’t broadcast our details outside the office. Leaves one conclusion. Bad cop betraying his buddies.” Kalikani paused, then said, “And getting them killed.”

  “Lopaka told us what you suspected. What are you going to do?”

  “Try to find him.”

  “Then what?”

  Kalikani’s laugh was harsh. “Ideally I’d like to shoot him. Then set him on fire and watch him burn. But I can’t do that, because I’m a cop myself.”

  “Shooting and burning is too good for a cop who turns on his own. If that was how you wanted to deal with it, I’ll light the match myself.”

  “You get your result?”

  “Done and dusted. The package is safe, and the bad guys handled. One prisoner on the way to your department.”

  “Good to hear,” Kalikani said.

  “Stay safe,” Lyons said and ended the call.

  Kalikani took out the plastic vial holding his painkillers and swallowed a couple dry. Then he retraced his steps to the station house and made his way back to the office.

  The main office was quiet. Only a couple cops were at their desks, hunched indifferently over piles of paperwork.

  Kalikani slumped in his seat behind his desk. He could smell freshly brewed coffee from the refreshment station across the room.

  “That coffee fresh? If it is, I could use a cup.”

  The cop, Larch, laughed. “Only because I feel sorry for you,” he said.

  He crossed to the coffeepot and filled a mug for Kalikani, then took it over.

  “Thanks, Phil.”

  Kalikani swallowed some of the coffee. As he scanned the communal office, he cast his eyes across Tasker’s sectioned space. There was no one behind the glass panels.

  “Tasker out?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” Larch said. “Funny thing, he took a call before you got back and busted out of here like his house was on fire. Not like Tasker to scoot like that. These days he’s stuck to that office chair like he has Super Glue on his butt.”

  Kalikani swallowed more coffee. “He say where he was going?”

  “Uh-uh. That was weird, too. Usually never goes out without telling where he’s going. You know that.” Larch shrugged. “Hell, things have been weird around here the last few days. Ever since that thing out at the Coast Guard station.”

  “Tell me about it,” Kalikani said.

  He hung his head over his coffee mug, eyes focusing on Captain Rudy Tasker’s office.

  Kalikani became aware of what he was thinking.

  Rudy Tasker?

  The head of the department?

  Kalikani slipped the vial of painkillers from his pocket and placed it on the desk. Maybe he was taking too many. They were muddling his brain.

  Not Tasker.

  Long serving.

  A man the department trusted.

  The father to the team.

  Oscar, you are delusional, brother.

  Rudy Tasker couldn’t be the one.

  He sat back, staring at the wall. Only a short time ago he had convinced himself there was a traitor in the department. If he was thinking that way, then he had to suspect the whole team.

  Including Tasker.

  But why Tasker?

  Hell, because Tasker was no different from any of the others, when it came down to it. He had the same strengths and weaknesses as they all did.

  And Tasker had access to more information than anyone else within the team.

  Bigger men, men with far more power and responsibility than Tasker, had succumbed to temptation.

  Kalikani couldn’t rid himself of the image of the attack at the market.

  Or the setup at the Wiseman apartment complex.

  Tasker had sent him there to meet Mojo, when there was no Mojo to meet.

  Kalikani sat upright, angry with himself. He was practically accusing Tasker of being the one based on nothing more than vague suspicion.

  Okay, the guy had left the office in a rush. Walking out without a moment’s notice. That didn’t prove anything.

  Get a grip, he told himself. Think it through before you lose it altogether.

  Kalikani’s reason slowly gathered itself. He needed to work this through calmly. If he still felt Tasker was involved, the only way to deal with it was by sense and reason. Take it step by step.

  Be a cop.

  Watch and listen.

  Observe.

  A partial answer eased its way into his consciousness. Kalikani tried to dismiss it, but the thought remained and refused to disappear.

  He couldn’t wipe the doubt in his mind. It had been Tasker who had sent him to the meet with Mojo. The captain had practically insisted Kalikani go alone.

  A meet that had proved to be a deliberate setup. Men had been waiting for him. Ready to cripple him. To persuade him to drop his nosing around.

  The question was, had Tasker’s call to go meet Mojo simply been a passing along of genuine information?

  Or had Rudy Ta
sker been making sure Kalikani ended up in the right place, so that a pair of hired thugs could beat him to death?

  Kalikani hated what he was thinking. But the thought was lodged in his brain now. It would stay there, until he resolved it, one way or another.

  Now Tasker had received a call and had exited his office in a rush. Had that call been to let him know the game was over? Warning him to get out, before his deal was exposed?

  Kalikani reached for the phone on his desk. He had realized there was at least a way he could pin down the authenticity of Tasker’s call from Mojo. For the next few minutes he made calls, spoke to whoever picked up, then moved to the next.

  He was on his sixth call, when he received the answer he was looking for.

  “Yeah, he’s here. Been sittin’ on that stool for the last couple hours.”

  “Bring him to the phone, Andy, that’s all.”

  The bartender mumbled, then laid the receiver down and yelled.

  “Hey, Mojo, move your skinny ass and get over here. Call for you.”

  In the background Kalikani could hear someone making noise. That would be Mojo. The guy was always noisy. Always questioning. Why was his favorite word. The bartender, Andy, yelled back at him. Finally Mojo made his way to the phone and picked it up.

  “What?” he snapped.

  “That the way your mother taught you to speak over the phone, Mojo?” Kalikani asked.

  “Who the hell is this and why you callin’ for me?”

  Mojo’s words were slow, slightly slurred. Kalikani could hear his uneven breathing and was surprised the alcohol fumes didn’t come down the wires.

  “This is Kalikani. Think slow, Mojo. I just want to ask you something.”

  “Hey, brother, I’m supposed to call you when I got the word. Why you callin’ me?”

  “So you don’t have anything for me?”

  “Didn’t I just say how it be? What you doin’ playin’ with my head?”

  “You haven’t called the station? Didn’t leave a message you wanted to meet me over at Wiseman’s?”

  There was a long pause as Mojo digested the questions. It was plain he had been drinking heavily, and his functions had slowed down.