Blood Toll. Don Pendleton

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      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.”

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