Blood Toll

“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.