Pulse Point Read online

  “Hell, I’m an idiot.”

  Lopaka turned. “What?”

  “We can track the second truck, if it has the equipment installed,” Lyons said. “Let me speak to Oscar.” He took the cell from Lopaka. “Oscar, check with the rental company. If they have the tracking system on their vehicles, we can pin down where it is.”

  “I’ll get back to you,” Kalikani said.

  * * *

  SCHWARZ AND BLANCANALES showed up just behind a convoy of HPD cruisers and a pair of ambulances. The local cops had been briefed by Kalikani, so Able Team got no hassle from them. Kalikani had informed the cops that the men who Able Team had taken down were from the group who had hijacked and killed their fellow officers.

  Under protest Lopaka was made to climb into one of the ambulances and have her injury checked out.

  Lyons told Schwarz and Blancanales about Kalikani checking out the tracking system.

  “Good thinking. Could pan out,” Schwarz said. “Most rental companies fit the systems as safeguards to their vehicles these days.” He glanced at Blancanales. “Now you can see why he’s the boss.”

  Straight-faced, Blancanales shook his head. “No,” he said.

  “I hate a bad loser,” Lyons said.

  Kalikani called back minutes later. “You were right,” he said. “The truck has the tracking system installed.”

  “Do we know where it is?”

  “Private airstrip off Kamehameha Highway. About five miles from your present location.”

  “Satnav coordinates?”

  “Sending to your cell. You need any backup?” Kalikani laughed. “Silly question.”

  Lyons checked and saw the information download.

  “Time we weren’t here,” he said. “We need to move fast before that package gets airborne.”

  He headed for the 4x4, Schwarz and Blancanales following.

  As they piled into the vehicle, Blancanales taking the wheel, Lyons saw Lopaka exiting the ambulance. She started toward them, then saw they were in too much of a hurry. She stood by the ambulance and raised a hand as Blancanales swung the big vehicle around and out toward the road.

  Lyons tapped in the coordinates and the inbuilt satnav sourced the route. Blancanales took a tire-squealing right onto the road.

  While Blancanales drove, Lyons and Schwarz loaded and checked their weapons.

  “She was handy to have along,” Blancanales said.

  “Hey,” Schwarz said, “the Polster is smitten.”

  Blancanales ignored the gibe and slammed his foot down on the gas pedal.

  “Just remember that, when we reach a bend, you go around it,” Schwarz said.

  “Trust me, I’ve done this before,” his partner said.

  They hit the Kamehameha Highway minutes later. If there were speed limits, Blancanales ignored them as he steered the 4x4 past any vehicles he encountered, ignoring the occasional angry blasts from punched car horns.

  “This is good,” Schwarz said. “If we get killed in an auto smash, I can have one of those traditional Hawaiian funerals with all the flowers and a nice big canoe taking me out to sea.”

  “If we crash at this speed,” Lyons said, “there won’t be enough of you to float.”

  “In a quarter mile, you will have reached your destination,” the soothing voice of the satnav informed them. “Take the next right.”

  “Slow down, cowboy,” Schwarz said.

  “I prefer it when the satnav speaks,” Blancanales said.

  He took his foot off the gas and touched the brake. The heavy 4x4 dipped, and the tires left marks on the tarmac as Blancanales pulled on the wheel. He took the SUV in through the entrance to the airstrip, bouncing off the concrete and partway onto the grass, before he brought it under control.

  Ahead of them was the long, low building and the small control tower that serviced the airstrip. As Blancanales followed the short service road, Lyons pointed through the windshield to where a Gulfstream Executive twin-engine jet had just touched down at the far end of the single runway.

  “There’s our rental truck,” Blancanales said.

  “It has company,” Lyons said.

  Blancanales swung the 4x4 around the end of the admin building.

  “Hit the brakes,” Lyons yelled.

  He had seen the two cars parked close by the truck, and the figures standing beside them.

  Figures that turned in their direction.

  And who instantly produced guns lifting in Able Team’s direction.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  ABLE TEAM

  As Blancanales hit the brakes hard, bringing the SUV to a stop, Able Team grabbed at their weapons and exited the vehicle. They used it as cover, hearing the thud of slugs ripping into the bodywork and windows.

  “They keep us pinned down long enough,” Schwarz said, “they might get that package on board.”

  “If that jet gets in range,” Lyons said, “take out the tires.”

  “He makes it sound so easy,” Blancanales muttered.

  “Be easier to put an engine out of commission.”

  “Tires. Engine. I don’t care as long as that plane doesn’t get to lift off again.”

  “I think one of the reception crowd is heading this way,” Blancanales said.

  He eased around the bulk of the 4x4 and made out the ducking-and-weaving outline of a man in a dark suit approaching, firing as he moved. Blancanales pushed the muzzle of his Uzi around the wheel in front of him and dropped the guy with a steady burst. The man folded and slid on his face across the concrete. The autopistol he carried bounced from his hand, and the guy lay bleeding on the ground.

  Seeing one of their men go down galvanized the other armed men, and they fanned out from the parked cars.

  The airstrip echoed the sustained round of gunfire.

  Slugs thudded against the 4x4.

  “Don’t let them go wide,” Lyons yelled.

  He had seen the way the opposition was starting to form a ragged line, moving away from the 4x4 to allow them wider access.

  Schwarz, down on one knee, saw a darkly clad figure edging into view on his side of cover. He gave the guy a few more seconds before tracking him and hitting him with a short burst from his Uzi. As the guy slid to his knees, Schwarz took a moment to line him up and put a second burst through his skull, flipping the target onto his back.

  His action drew a vicious round of shots that blew one of the headlights and raked the front fender over his head....

  * * *

  IT TOOK ROSARIO Blancanales only a few seconds to become aware of his own vulnerable position on the opposite side of the vehicle from Schwarz. He understood only too well that, once the enemy moved wider, they would be able to see him clearly and then target him.

  Not a bright idea to sit and make yourself available, he decided.

  He checked out the opposition and chose his targets, cradling the Uzi close as he aimed and fired, taking down one guy, hitting a second in the shoulder.

  Blancanales saw his hits go down, angled his SMG and stroked the trigger again. He knew he had missed the moment he had fired. Saw his burst shatter the window on one of the parked cars.

  He didn’t hear the shot that found him but simply felt the hard blow to his hip and the abrupt pain that engulfed him. Blancanales rolled back along the side of the SUV, fighting off the hurt. There was no time to lie down and feel sorry for himself. The enemy shooters weren’t about to allow him that luxury, so Blancanales braced himself against the bulk of the car and held his position.

  The shooter rushed into view, his weapon seeking a target. Blancanales had a view of a slim black-haired Chinese gunner. His face held a bland expression as he rounded the front of the SUV.

  The muzz
le of the Uzi tilted, and Blancanales squeezed the trigger and held it there. The 9 mm SMG crackled with fire and the Chinese hardman halted in midstride as the slugs tore into his chest. He gave a stunned moan, stumbled back and slammed to the ground. His spine arched as he fought the pain, blood spreading across his torso and bubbling from his lips.

  * * *

  CARL LYONS HAD turned and moved to the rear of the SUV, his attention fixed on the jet rolling along the strip. The exchange had to be prevented, and while his partners concentrated on the shooters, Lyons targeted the aircraft.

  His initial move took the group by surprise, though only for a short time. When they saw him angling across the concrete, it was obvious what he was doing, and they moved to intercept.

  * * *

  MACKLIN AND BORGNINE had delivered the panel truck to the airstrip, meeting Xian Chi and his Chinese escort. A pair of Macklin’s team accompanied them in a backup vehicle.

  The sudden appearance of the three Americans had been unexpected and, as far as Macklin was concerned, a pain in the butt. He had been hoping for a smooth, problem-free exchange, just passing the package to Chi and receiving the final payment for services rendered. Now it looked as if he and Borgnine were going to have to put in some extra work.

  “Son of a bitch,” Macklin said. “Stop that mother.”

  Both men slid their handguns from holsters and moved to intercept the big blond man cutting across their path toward the strip.

  The backup pair crossed to reinforce Borgnine.

  Borgnine powered in the guy’s direction, bringing his pistol up and firing. His slug chipped concrete yards from the fast-moving figure. The guy didn’t even miss a step.

  “Hard bastard, huh,” Borgnine said.

  He hauled himself to a stop and pulled his Glock back on line.

  A sudden noise intruded, breaking his concentration.

  The high scream of a vehicle motor and the screech of tires on the concrete.

  Borgnine turned his head as the noise increased. He caught a glimpse of an HPD cruiser, lights flashing as it bore down on him.

  Borgnine tried to jerk aside.

  Too slow.

  The front of the cruiser slammed into him. The impact lifted Borgnine clear off his feet. He spun into the air and slammed down across the hood of the cruiser, his head hitting the windshield before he was tossed aside. His body slammed facedown on the concrete, twisted and broken. He moved a couple times, before he became still.

  Macklin’s backup team launched a volley of fast shots at Lyons. The cruiser lurched forward, taking it between the shooters and the blond Able Team leader. Slugs slapped against the cruiser’s side panels. Glass in one of the rear doors imploded.

  Lyons didn’t need to be told who was behind the wheel. He had already spotted the swinging dark hair and the black-clad female outline.

  Jenny Lopaka.

  The lady cop had made an unexpected but welcome appearance.

  Lyons made good use of the distraction, ducking behind the HPD vehicle, making one of the fastest speed-loader changes he had ever done, then leveled his Colt Python at the moving shooters.

  He triggered a couple shots, followed by the hard sound of Lopaka’s shotgun as the HPD cop emerged from the cruiser, leaning over the roof. She laid down a burst of fire that threw 12-gauge blasts at the pair. Close-fired shots caught one guy in the upper chest, throwing him back in a bloody mist of red. Lyons’s .357 Colt boomed, the muzzle flaring as the slug burst from the barrel. Never one to do anything halfway, Lyons fired twice more, his shots ripping bloody holes in the surviving shooter as he was turned around under the impact. The man dropped hard and lay still.

  “That was a crazy stunt,” Lyons growled, as Lopaka lowered her shotgun, one hand pressed to her strapped-up side.

  “You’re welcome. It worked, though,” she said. “Now let’s go stop that bastard Macklin.”

  Lyons needed no further offers. He joined her in the cruiser, slamming the passenger door as she jammed her foot down on the pedal.

  * * *

  MACKLIN HAD CUT and run, seeing the way things were going. His team had been put down, and Chi was in no position to help. The Chinese man had his own problems.

  Macklin made it to the panel truck, swinging in behind the wheel, and fired up the engine. He had his gaze on the jet, rolling along the strip in his direction. At the moment he was thinking about one thing.

  His escape.

  Macklin had learned long ago that, when a mission went bad, there was no point standing around moaning about it and ending up dead yourself. Once you were dead, that was it. You were a piece of meat, ready to rot away until there were only the bones left. Macklin saw no profit in that.

  If he got out alive, he could regroup, collect the money he had stashed away in various accounts. There were always plenty of other men ready to earn their money by signing up with a pay-as-you-earn outfit. The world was awash with conflicts needing experienced hands.

  He would miss his dead guys. Especially Borgnine. They had outfitted for a number of years. But today had been Borgnine’s time to cash in. It was the way of the business. A merc took on a contract, received his money and did the job. Dying was an accepted risk. No one wanted it to happen. When it did, there was nothing to gain by weeping over the dead.

  Tires howled as Macklin hit the airstrip. He slammed his foot on the gas. He swung in behind the rolling Gulfstream and rode the blast from the engines. He needed to get alongside in an attempt to get on board.

  The jet was his ride out of the mess around him. The aircraft was almost at walking pace now. It would need to turn about before making a takeoff run. So he still had a chance.

  Or he might have had one, if the HPD cruiser hadn’t come screaming into view, the rear end sliding as it bounced onto the airstrip. The Crown Vic had power under the hood and thrust the car past him.

  Macklin could barely believe what he saw next, as the cruiser drew level with the coasting jet. The blond guy Macklin had seen earlier leaned out the passenger window, a shotgun in his hands. He angled the muzzle down and pumped a pair of 12-gauge shots into the jet’s front wheel. The tire was shredded, rubber fragments filling the air. The nose of the Gulfstream dropped as the wheel deflated, the metal rim scoring the concrete. The aircraft veered to one side, jigging awkwardly. It rolled on for twenty feet before coming to a dead stop.

  The HPD cruiser pulled away from the aircraft, slewing sideways.

  “Son of a bitch,” Macklin yelled, pounding a fist on the rim of the steering wheel.

  He braked hard, stared out the windshield, pure frustration holding him immobile. Just as quickly he regained his composure.

  Okay. No plane.

  He wasn’t going to get far in the panel truck. The damn thing had no speed. It was a lumbering box on wheels.

  Even as the thoughts coursed through his mind, Macklin was feeding a fresh magazine into his handgun. He had a couple more in his pocket, so whatever happened, he was not going down without a fight. He realized his recent decision to simply get the hell away would most likely fly out the window if he didn’t move quickly. He was going to have to fight for his freedom. Not the way he would have chosen, but what the hell, he would give it a try.

  He shoved open the door and eased out of the cab, weapon at his side, ready if needed.

  He found some humor in that.

  If needed.

  There would be no other option open to him. Macklin decided, if he moved fast, there might be a chance.

  Hell, there had to be a chance.

  A chance that meant the difference between staying alive or ending up on the pavement.

  He glanced across the strip. On the far side of the runway, the open ground gave way to a mass of vegetation. Trees and lush shrubbery. If he could make it th
at far, he might find his way out.

  For a few seconds Macklin imagined he just might. Self-preservation was a strong impulse. The desire for a man to survive. To stay alive. It drove William Macklin to push himself to the limit, to ignore the possibility he might not escape the inevitable. He was physically fit. Had always kept himself in shape, because, in his line of work, it was a foolish man who allowed himself to weaken. And right at that moment he was running for the most important prize ever.

  His life.

  He had cleared the concrete strip, legs pounding as he raced across the grass. Body coordinated, muscles working well, he hadn’t even begun to sweat.

  He might make it.

  That was until he heard the beat of the police cruiser’s engine coming up behind him. He didn’t waste a second looking back. There was no need. The damn car was closing the gap, and there was no way he could outrun it.

  * * *

  “YOU WANT ME to run him down?” Lopaka asked.

  “Hell, no,” Lyons said. “This one is mine.”

  “Sounds personal.”

  “He and his crew murdered six cops when they hijacked that package. He’s not getting away with that.”

  Lyons slid his Python across the seat.

  Lopaka eased the cruiser level with the running man.

  She saw Lyons slip his door off the catch and slam his foot into the panel as the cruiser matched Macklin’s pace. The door swung wide and caught the man, knocking him off his feet. As Lopaka stepped on the brake, Lyons was out of the car and bending over Macklin.

  Lyons saw Macklin had lost his grip on his handgun. Lyons picked it up and threw it wide. He caught hold of Macklin by the back of his shirt and hauled the man upright, swung the man around and slammed his bunched right fist into Macklin’s face. The blow was loud and hard. Macklin’s lips were mashed back against his teeth. Blood spurted, thick and warm, running down his chin. Before Macklin had time to fully register, Lyons hit him again. And again. The third blow knocked Macklin off his feet, and he slammed down on the ground, gasping and spitting blood.

  Lyons moved in, his face flushed with the rage that was driving him.