Blood Toll. Don Pendleton

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      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.

      5

      Hwong Zhi and his elite squad sat quietly as the Chevy Suburban carried them to their destination. The early-morning sun was already bright and hot. From behind the tinted side windows, Hwong watched the passing scenery. There were so many Americans and tourists going about their lives, oblivious to what was about to happen. The next day, or perhaps the one following, they would wake up in a world no longer dominated by the United States.

      After so many years and so much preparation, it was hard to believe that the moment was finally here. He had long thought that when the moment did arrive, he would feel nervous or perhaps elated. He was forced to admit, however, that he felt nothing except the usual tension that came with executing a mission.

      There was little of logistical value in their target. The raid, the first in the series of attacks that would commence the SST’s Honolulu operation, was largely symbolic in nature. It was designed to shake up the local authorities and create the sort of public panic that Hwong knew would facilitate the rest of the plan.

      From a pocket of his ballistic-fabric load-bearing vest, Hwong removed a small transmitter device. This device was connected, through a wireless mesh network, to similar devices across the city, all carried by SST deep-cover sleepers. The devices were disguised as a variety of harmless everyday objects, most often pagers or cell phones. While of limited range on their own, each was a transceiver, capable of receiving and rebroadcasting encoded signals. Every one of these transceivers had limited range individually, but more than enough to reach the next nearest unit, which in turn retransmitted any signals sent on the encrypted frequencies. A chain was formed—a chain or web that blanketed the entire island and was impossible to pinpoint or even to jam easily. The devices were an outgrowth of the technology developed by the SST to jam and control local communications and data transfer.

      Hwong regarded the device for a moment. Then he pressed his thumb against one of the buttons on its face.

      Immediately, the devices carried by the elite squad began to vibrate, the buzzing faint but audible in the truck. As one, the six men under Hwong’s direct command turned to him, their faces impassive, their mood nevertheless expectant.

      “We attack now,” Hwong said.

      The doors of the Suburban swung open. Hwong and his team, wearing combat fatigues and boots, as well as load-bearing vests, fanned out from the vehicle, seeking targets of opportunity.

      When the first targets were in range, they opened fire.

      A family of four wearing bathing suits, the father carrying a plastic cooler on one shoulder, were the first to die.

      Ala Moana Beach Park, acres of sand and recreational facilities, lay before the SST operatives, crawling with citizens enjoying the warm, sunny day. To Hwong, even at this distance, the water seemed impossibly blue, the beach altogether beautiful. He could appreciate beauty, he thought to himself. Executing his mission did not mean he could not recognize small wonders of that type. He was still thinking this when he targeted a fleeing woman, her long hair splaying out behind her as she fell to the sand a bloody, crumpled mess.

      Somewhere behind Hwong, Wu’s heavy machine gun opened up, the rhythmic thunder of the weapon as pitiless as the sound of the waves lapping at the now bloody beach.

      “Fan out,” Hwong ordered. “Sweep the beach. Fire at will.”

      A large man in a bathing suit, his physique heavy with muscles, attempted to rush them from the side, perhaps thinking to tackle one of the men, maybe even wrestle a weapon away and turn it on the operatives. Hwong thought perhaps that was what he would do, were the situation reversed. The would-be hero got no closer than ten feet before a burst from Tsai’s UMP dropped him in his tracks. The .45-caliber rounds had made quick work of the poor fool, but still Tsai paused to fire another burst at the prone figure. The man was thorough; Hwong would grant him that.

      The plan called for the team to sweep up the beach to a designated pickup point, where the driver of the Suburban would be waiting for them. It was not far; the purpose of the exercise was not to cover a great deal of ground, which would only expose them to possible counterattack. No, the purpose was to create as much death and fear as possible, violating this idyllic СКАЧАТЬ