Pacific Creed Read online

  “Then tell Koa I’ve had a serious contact in Chinatown. Send him everything I’ve sent you to review. Tell him he’s active, and I need him.”

  “He activated himself. When I told him you had gone undercover in Chinatown he took the initiative and got on a plane. He’ll hit Honolulu International tomorrow at

  10:15 a.m. Pickup not required. He’ll arrive at the safehouse in a green Jeep.”

  “Copy that. Will rendezvous at safehouse. Tell him I’m going by Matt Cooper. Striker out.” Bolan emerged like Orpheus out of Chinatown’s darkest alleys. He shook his head at the physical carnage he’d left behind him and the questions it had raised. “Bundling…” Bolan mused.

  Chapter 2

  Honolulu Safehouse

  “Bundling sucks, Matt. You don’t want any part of it.” Luke Koa feigned a crouch. Bolan fell for it and jumped. The soldier hit his apogee as Koa grinned. Gravity pulled Bolan down and Koa made a jump shot. His three-pointer floated inches past Bolan’s fingertips and caught nothing but net. Hawaii was Koa’s turf, and the safehouse driveway and its basketball net were swiftly becoming his yard. “I thought you haoles were supposed to be the masters of the three-pointer.” Koa was smiling. “You’ve been eating mine all morning.”

  There was no getting around the fact that Koa was taking Bolan to town. “Haven’t seen you dunk yet.”

  “You keep your six-footer shit to yourself, and now it’s nine.” The Hawaiian soldier didn’t smile often. He was built like a middleweight who spent a lot of time under a bench press. Koa shot Bolan a grin. “But we can go to twenty-one if you want.”

  The Hawaiian surged forward and pulled a Harlem-Globetrotter-worthy up-and-under. His layup was gorgeous to behold. He sighed at Bolan with immense false sympathy. “Eleven.”

  Bolan retrieved the ball and passed it back. “What do you know about Lua?”

  Koa shot for fun and sank a basket from the curb cut that served as the top of the key. “You mean Kapu Ku’ialua?”

  Bolan caught the ball and passed it back. “Yeah.”

  Koa dribbled to the corner of the driveway. “What do you know about it, Matt?”

  “Lua means ‘bone breaking.’ It’s the traditional martial art of the Islands.”

  “Well,” Koa acknowledged, “that’s the Wikipedia version.”

  “So?”

  “So it’s kapu.” Koa sank another basket.

  The Hawaiian for Dummies definition of kapu was “taboo,” but if you looked deeper into the language and culture the word was an intricate blend of “sacred,” “consecrated,” “restricted” or perhaps even “marked off.” He shot the ball back. “There are three Lua schools within walking distance, Koa. I can sign up today.”

  “Where are you from again?”

  “East coast.”

  “Okay, haole. You go down to your local strip mall. You pay your three hundred dollars, buy your American-flag harem pants and get your black belt in Rex Kwon Do in twelve easy lessons. Do you learn anything?”

  “I take your point, but I think I met a Lua master last night and the only thing that saved me was the slapjack I’d palmed. I broke his hands while he was in midmonologue.”

  Koa shook his head sadly and sank his shot. “We were warriors once. Nothing’s what it used to be.”

  “Yeah, and now there’s a nativistic murder spree going on. Will you tell me about bundling?”

  “Well, they say that back in the day, a Koa—a Hawaiian warrior of the royal class—studied Lua. A true master could defeat an opponent, dislocate every joint in his body, and then reset them again. Though sometimes the victim died from shock.”

  “That’s bundling?”

  “No. According to legend, there’s another side to Lua. A Koa might defeat an opponent in single combat, dislocate all his joints and then fold him up like a cricket.”

  “Bundling him.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then he’d be roasted and eaten. At least, that’s the story.” Koa sank another basket. “Why do you ask?”

  “Last night a man told his three buddies to bundle me.”

  “That’s messed up. You sure they weren’t Amish or something?”

  Bolan laughed. “They were not plain.”

  “Sounds like we have a problem. What’s the plan? I infiltrate?”

  “We both infiltrate. You’re my ticket in.”

  Koa looked Bolan up and down. “Good luck, Your Caucasianess.”

  “I’m getting some help with that.”

  “Should be interesting.”

  Bolan lifted his chin at a red Jeep coming down the street. “You’ll get to see it now.”

  CIA groomer Pegarella Hu barely cracked five feet. She literally jumped out of the Jeep with what looked like a massive fishing tackle box tucked under her arm. In South Pacific intelligence circles she was famous for her smile, her designer cupcakes and her ability to facilitate field operation role camouflage. Her cereal-box-worthy grin faded slightly as she looked at Bolan from head to toe. “You’re the one I’m supposed to Island up?”

  “Yup.”

  “This should be interesting.”

  Koa nodded. “Yeah, that’s what I said.”

  * * *

  “You ready for your big reveal?” Hu asked.

  “Can’t wait, Peg,” Bolan replied. His skin and scalp were alternately burning and tingling. The soldier stood, turned and looked at himself in the mirror.

  “Well, fuck me running with a pitchfork,” Koa said.

  Wearing only a pair of boxers, Bolan stared at himself. He had to admit it was an impressive sight. Hu had taken her CIA grooming skills and gone to town. She had depilated Bolan from his upper lip to his insteps. Hu had thickened, coarsened and extended Bolan’s naturally black hair into a shag. She had thinned his eyebrows and created a few other minor miracles with the help of cosmetics, but it was Bolan’s skin that was most impressive.

  The soldier had spent more time than was wise under desert, jungle and equatorial suns. He tanned, and when he did it turned him ruddy and coppery. Agent Hu had stained his skin with a Da Vinci–like grasp of color. She had artificially tanned him but now his skin had a subtle but unmistakable golden base. Bolan and Koa looked nothing alike—and Hu had made Bolan’s skin several shades darker—but she’d given Bolan the same complexion as Koa.

  Hu had also chemically tightened Bolan’s pores to give him the porcelain skin look. There wasn’t much to be done about his nose, cheekbones or chin, but Bolan looked like a product of the cultural crossroads the Hawaiian Islands had become. The haole was there in his bone structure for everyone to see, but by dint of Agent Hu’s artistry, if Bolan claimed to have a Hawaiian father or said he was half Portuguese and half Samoan, no Islander would dispute him at first glance. The lines and cicatrices of his numerous battle scars would only cement the deal. “You’re amazing.”

  Hu shot him a smile. “I know. Listen, a lot of the work won’t last much more than the week. With three-quarters of your pores closed you need to worry about overheating if you overexert.” She gazed at Bolan in open appreciation. “And your beard and chest hair will start reasserting themselves ASAP.”

  “What about the hairdo and the skin?”

  Hu laughed. “It’ll take a chemical peel or a month to undo what I did to your skin, and if you want your hair back to normal you’ll have to let it grow out or come and see me.”

  “What if I don’t want to come back? What if I asked you to stick around for a while?”

  Hu perked an eyebrow. “What exactly are you saying, sunshine?”

  “I like your style. I’m forming a posse. You want to be deputized?”

  “Love it,” Hu responded. “But I’m not a field agent.”


  “I know, but I’m thinking I need a girl on the ground who can blend in, run interference and run errands Koa and I can’t.”

  Hu wrinkled her nose delightfully. “I don’t know how I would clear that with my superiors.”

  “My people will clear it with your bosses. Can you shoot?”

  “I’ve got an AK hidden in the Jeep.” Hu spread her hands and feet wide in invitation. “And if you want to see where I keep my PPK? We’ll just need to have ourselves a game of Treasure Island.”

  Koa nodded. “I like her.”

  Bolan met his own cobalt-blue gaze in the mirror. “What about the eyes?”

  “I have three pairs of extended-wear browns for you, but since we’re already working you as a pleasing example of hybrid vigor, I’d stay with your oh-so-arctic blues. It’s downright striking, and you only have one chance to make a first impression. I say we throw off the opposition with your disturbing power.”

  Bolan nodded at his reflection. “Koa?”

  Koa let out a long breath as he took in Bolan’s transformation. “What Peg said. Given what the girl has done? You’ll have the power to seriously freak out some locals.”

  Koa took a notebook out of his back pocket that looked as if it had seen heavy use in the past forty-eight hours. “Here’re some notes I made for you. It’s too late to teach you any slang much less the language—you’ll just screw it up. The good news is when my parents moved to the mainland some of our family was already there. I had a half cousin I barely knew. He dropped out of high school, moved to the east coast with some girl and just disappeared. You’re him.”

  “What’s my name?”

  “Makaha,” Koa said.

  Bolan admired the randomness of it. “So we’re cousins?”

  “That’s right. That gives me all rights to introduce you around and defend your ignorant, mainland-corrupted ways.”

  “Nice.”

  “I thought so.”

  “So what’s the plan?”

  “You’re looking for murder, mayhem and a native uprising?” Koa asked.

  “That’s the current theory.”

  “Then we go to my old stomping grounds. The most violent place in the Islands.”

  “Where’s that?”

  Koa nodded knowingly. “Happy Valley.”

  Happy Valley, Maui

  “You want to turn back?” Koa lifted his chin at the sliding-glass doors of the Takamiya Market as he drove. “This is where we U-turn.”

  Bolan had spent the island-hopper flight and the drive studying Koa’s rather extensive notes on Hawaiian crime, culture and Bolan’s alias. He lowered the minor tome and gazed out the window of the ancient Toyota Land Cruiser the CIA had provided. Outwardly, the 1970s vintage 4 x 4 looked as if it was held together by rust and primer. Underneath the chassis, the engine and the suspension were tip-top. Bolan ran his eyes over the seemingly sleepy island borough. Happy Valley didn’t look like a ghetto, much less a slum. The heartachingly blue skies, lush hillsides and palm trees did a lot to dispel that, but there was obviously trouble in paradise.

  The ironically named Happy Valley was a hotbed of drug dealing, prostitution and gang-related crime. At the end of the day, criminals who wanted to make a mark on the island had to come here and pay respect to the locals or try to carve it out of them. The local vibe was very strong, and the code of silence was even stronger. “This is where you did your damage?” Bolan asked.

  “Back in the day, Matt.” Koa nodded.

  “Then keep your eyes on the road.”

  “Hell with that,” Koa countered. He took a right off the main drive. “I want a beer.”

  “It’s not even noon!” Hu said.

  “You want to meet the local royalty?” Koa asked. “Now is the time.”

  “Is this like having cannelloni on a Tuesday with the dons in Jersey?”

  “Yeah, except these dons don’t need help to break every bone in your body. Oh, and do me a favor, Matt.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Don’t piss off the Samoans.”

  Hu sighed. “That’s good advice.”

  “Don’t piss off the Samoans,” Bolan repeated. “Got it.”

  “Good, make that your mantra. I don’t want to die today.” Koa pulled up next to a wall that was blank save for a door and bracket where a sign had been torn off. Bolan noted three bullet strikes in the stucco. “Where are we?”

  “Melika’s. It’s named after the woman who used to own it. I made a call, and her daughter owns it now.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Melika.”

  Bolan’s phone rang. It looked like an old, battered, first-generation ’droid, but it was actually state-of-the-art Farm technology. Bolan answered. “Bear.”

  “You’ve stopped.”

  “Yeah, Koa wants a beer.”

  A picture appeared on Bolan’s phone. It was a satellite image of Happy Valley.

  “You want to see something interesting?” Kurtzman inquired.

  “Always.”

  The satellite image zoomed in. Bolan made out the Land Cruiser. A superimposed green dot blinked on Melika’s. “Really.”

  “The tracker you placed on your assailant in Chinatown is in that bar.”

  “Well, that’s convenient. If I don’t contact you in half an hour, get worried.”

  “I’m worried now.”

  Bolan clicked off and nodded at Koa. “Let’s do it.”

  Koa took point and they entered Melika’s.

  After the brilliant sunshine the bar’s interior felt like a photographic darkroom. Hawaiian slack key guitar lilted over the sound system. A trio of withered old men sat at the bar drinking their social security checks. A giant Samoan man with an Afro held down bouncer and security duties. He gave Bolan and Koa a hard stare. He leered at Hu. The woman behind the bar was tall, Polynesian, and had a smile that lit up the dingy surroundings. Bolan sat at the counter. “You must be Melika.”

  “That’s me. What can I get you before you get your asses killed?”

  “Primos. The lady will have an appletini.”

  Melika shrugged. “Coming right up.”

  Bolan locked his eyes with the Hawaiian crime patriarchs holding court at the booth in the far corner. One was built like an aging Olympic shot-putter. The other man filled half the booth like a retired sumo wrestler. Shot-put wore a red-and-blue aloha shirt and his iron-gray hair was cut in a shag. Sumo was a monstrosity in a men’s XXXL pink-and-black bowling shirt and had his hair pulled back into a short ponytail. Bolan kept his face stony as alarm bells rang up and down his spine.

  Also seated in the booth was Man-mountain with his hand in a cast and a dressing behind his left ear.

  The Samoan moved around the bar and loomed over Bolan. He gave Koa a disgusted look. “You seem a little lost, kolohe.” The Samoan leaned in and mad-dogged Bolan. “And I don’t know who this lolo haole is, but I don’t give a shit.”

  Bolan’s cram sessions told him that he’d just been called an idiot white man and Koa had been called a troublemaker. The stone face of the morbidly obese man in the booth cracked as he squinted at Koa in recognition. “Luke?”

  Koa nodded. “Uncle Aikane.”

  Melika clapped her hands. “Luke!”

  The dangerous men in the booth suddenly smiled.

  Bolan knew “uncle” or “aunt” was a term of respect in Hawaiian for any elder or better. “Aikane” was the Hawaiian word for friend, and it was a much stronger word than the English version. “Uncle Friendly” the crime lord had just recognized Koa. Bolan was starting to get the impression that Koa had earned himself a reputation way back when.

  The Samoan bouncer’s eyes widened disbelievingly. “Koa?”

  Koa stared
at the Samoan without an ounce of warmth. “Remember you, Tino. From back in the day, and that’s my cousin you’re talking to.”

  Tino’s eyes flared. “Hey, brah, I—”

  Bolan spun up from his bar stool and hurled a right-hand lead with every ounce of strength he had. The Samoan’s nose was already flat as a squid and took up nearly half his face. Bolan felt the cartilage crunch beneath his knuckles and saw the tear ducts squirt. Tino pawed for the bar and failed to find purchase. He fell backward and landed hard on the ancient linoleum.

  Bolan sat on his bar stool and regarded the Primo beer Melika had set in front of him with grave consideration. “Guess I need a new mantra…”

  Uncle Aikane held up a huge hand in friendship and as a sign for the violence to end. “Who is your cousin, Luke?”

  In Hawaiian, “cousin” could mean any number of relationships both inside and out of kinship. The other side of the coin was that the Islands were small, and a great deal of mixing had been going on. There was a joke that when local singles met they had to compare family trees to make sure they weren’t breaking any laws of man or nature.

  Koa stared at Uncle Aikane with great seriousness. “Makaha is my half cousin, Uncle.”

  Wheels turned behind Uncle Aikane’s eyes. The massive killer suddenly smiled happily. “Little Luana! Married that sailor boy! Years ago! Moved to the mainland!” He nodded at Bolan. “You Luana’s boy?”

  Bolan nodded. “Yes, Uncle.”

  The leaner, older man clapped his hands. “You are Makaha!”

  “Yes, Uncle.”

  “Makaha!” Uncle Aikane laughed. “Your uncle Nui only pretends he knows you!”

  “I remember Makaha well!” Nui protested. “He was even whiter in his crib!”

  “How is your mother, Makaha?” Aikane asked.

  “Many years in the grave, Uncle.”

  “Mmm.” Uncle Aikane, Nui and the Lua master all nodded gravely. “Your father?”

  Bolan put a terrible look on his face. “I don’t remember him.”

  U.S. soldiers and sailors marrying local girls, having children and then disappearing was not exactly an unknown story in the Hawaiian Islands. The elders received this information with equal gravity. Dignity required the subject not be pursued. Aikane returned his attention to Koa.