Hawaiian Hellground Page 9

  The vehicle was clear now, off and running again, reaching the point where the first car had plunged off the road just as the latter’s final demise was announced by a thunderous explosion and a whoofing fireball.

  Bolan sent a couple more rounds from his own Thunder punching through the rear window of the fleeing car, just for punctuation. Then he thumbed on his transmitter and reported to his companions along the backtrack. “Okay, he’s kicked. Activate the track plan and we’ll see how far.”

  Lyons’ vehicle was already in sight. “Roger, and on track,” he replied.

  “Just past the junction and closing,” reported Anders.

  Yeah. The track was on. All the way to hell, maybe.

  14: With Sad Regrets

  Harold Brognola had been a minor official in the U.S. Justice Department’s organized crime division when Mack Bolan began his blitzing warfare against the American underworld. He had been on the scene in Los Angeles when Bolan smashed the California crime family of Julian DiGeorge, and a sort of tense cooperative effort had been quietly forged between the two gangbusters during that early campaign.

  The illicit relationship between the two had escalated in direct proportion to Bolan’s war effort. Brognola’s official status in the department had soared to a rather impressive level of command, also as an indirect result of the relationship. Ironically enough, Brognola himself had been given prime responsibility for bringing Mack Bolan to “justice.” Big deal. In Brognola’s mind, the only true justice for the guy would be a hero’s welcome in the national capital.

  Brognola had once quietly campaigned for official sanction of Bolan’s war. He had even succeeded in pulling a package together which included total amnesty and a secret Presidential mandate to continue the war—a license, in other words. All the guy had to do was to agree to accept governmental direction, with its necessary checks and balances—and the damned, doomed, proud bastard had turned it down flat.

  “Thanks,” he’d told Brognola in Miami, “but I’ll do it my way.”

  That decision had been the one to seal his doom. For awhile there, the heat from the federal government had been somewhat diminished, thanks to Brognola’s quiet intercessions. But then the war drums had begun to roll atop Capitol Hill and the pressures to apprehend Mack Bolan became intense. Naturally and understandably, many of the nation’s lawmakers saw the Bolan thing as an affront and a direct menace to the American system of justice.

  Brognola saw it differently. He had been fighting the frustrating and hamstrung battle against the creeping menace of organized crime for many years. A guy like Bolan was a godsend. He was powerful, incorruptible, totally dedicated to the war and absolutely committed to a system of ethics which provided its own checks and balances.

  Yet, Brognola himself had succumbed to those pressures, very briefly, and he’d personally gone gunning for the Executioner in Las Vegas—albeit with sad regret. Luckily he had failed, and Brognola had vowed at the time that it would not, dammit, happen again. He had an oath of office to think about, sure, but there was also a strong sense of rightness that dictated Hal Brognola’s official conscience. He would discharge the duties of his office, sure, but with all other values firmly intact—and he would give Mack Bolan as much operating room as possible. Hal Brognola was no damn computer punch-card. Neither was Mack Bolan.

  But the poor guy was doomed, and Brognola knew that for sure. The federal government was not ruled by any one man. The government was a machine, and that machine would sooner or later ingest Mack Bolan and his valiant war. If the feds didn’t stop him, then some local police department would—if his natural enemies did not get to him first.

  Bolan himself must know that, Brognola was thinking as he stepped out of the official vehicle with Lieutenant Patterson of HPD. They had come directly from the airport to the scene of the latest suspected Bolan strike.

  “This is it,” Patterson announced, with a gesture toward the smoking ruin of what had obviously once been a splendid country estate. “We found it just this way. Apparently they loaded up their dead and wounded and beat it. Wasn’t just a fire. The place was definitely hit. Bullets and shrapnel are imbedded everywhere. And look at that wall. Bomb squads say the gutted car at the gate there was carrying some heavy explosive inside the grill. Probably impact-triggered. He simply rolled the car down the hill and jumped out before the impact.”

  Brognola grunted and stepped through the hole in the wall.

  God, what a hit!

  “You’re right,” he said quietly.

  “Eh?”

  “Bolan’s been here. What you see here is practically a signature.”

  “Well, he’d scrawled his name on a few more places on this island before he got here.”

  “What’d you say this place is?” Brognola absently inquired.

  “Cultural exchange mission or some such. Obviously a front.”

  “Obvious before the fact?”

  “Frankly, I’d never heard of the place,” the lieutenant admitted. “But I can’t speak for the entire department.”

  “I suggest that you start,” Brognola said quietly.

  “Look—it’s only been—what?—eight or ten hours since the guy started this rampage. My tac force has reps from the entire department, but—”

  “Eight or ten hours is sometimes the entire span of a Bolan operation. If you mean to stop this guy, it has to be an all-hands effort. The guy hits and gits. He could already be gone.”

  They were stepping carefully through the mess in the west garden, pausing here and there to scrutinize some particularly interesting piece of evidence as the conversation continued. A horde of cops and firemen were on the scene, patiently sifting the ruins.

  Patterson said, “He’s still on the island, I’m confident of that. We have it sealed. And we do have an all-hands effort going. I mean, life does go on, you know—we still have a whole island to police just as though this guy had never blown in on us—but I can tell you that not a cop in this county is lying on his butt right now. We even have the reserves called up.”

  Brognola had halted to kneel beside a strange apparatus which was partially buried beneath a crumbled wall of the house. “Statewide alert?” he inquired.

  “As wide as it can get,” Patterson replied. “We have a unique police situation in Hawaii. There is no state police, you know—nothing that even corresponds to it. Honolulu County covers the entire island of Oahu. We got it all, and it’s a big area—six hundred square miles and about eighty percent of the total state population. Hawaii County, that’s the big island, has the only other strong police department in the state, but they get most of the land area with less than ten percent of the population. Maui and Kauai do what they can with what they have, but I’m afraid that’s not much. There is a good spirit of cooperation between the islands but—what’s that you’ve got there?”

  “I’m not sure,” Brognola mused. He was tugging a metallic framework from beneath the pile of rubble. “Looks like a uh …”

  “Of course our prime effort,” Patterson resumed, “is aimed at containing the guy on Oahu. Sooner or later we’re going to close the net on the guy. It’s just a matter of time.” He dropped to one knee and ran an exploratory finger along Brognola’s find. “I’ve seen some big kites,” he commented. “The Chinese here really make some fancy ones. But I’ve never seen—”

  Brognola grunted, “Here we go,” as he pulled a scorched scrap of nylon from the framework. “It’s no kite. Look at this bar that runs along here—shit!—know what that was? A damn glider, one of those one-man deals that …”

  The fed stood up suddenly and cast a thoughtful gaze toward the wrecked wall.

  Patterson fidgeted and said, “What, uh …?”

  “Hell, I don’t know,” Brognola replied thoughtfully. He stepped off toward the pond, then halted and craned his neck in an inspection of the surrounding terrain.

  “What is it?” Patterson called over.

  “This is no place
for sport soaring. But he might. The damn guy just might!”

  “Might what?”

  “Don’t ask yet, I’m trying to set this in my head. How much do you know about gliders and soaring?”

  “Not a damn thing,” the lieutenant admitted, walking out to join the other man. “But if you’re thinking—I showed you, he blasted in through the gate.”

  “Blasted, right,” Brognola agreed. “That doesn’t necessarily mean that he blasted in. Something you have to understand, Greg. This guy Bolan has a military mind. He’s a tactical genius. If this place was as well defended as I’m thinking it was—look, the guy’s no superman. I mean, he bleeds when he’s hit, just like anyone. He doesn’t simply storm in and depend on luck to see him through. He’s got a mind like …”

  “Then he had to have accomplices,” Patterson decided.

  “Maybe. Maybe not.”

  “Put it together,” Patterson argued. “Without an accomplice, there’s no way. You’re thinking a diversion at the entrance, a sneak attack over the rear from the air. That spells out to more than a one-man attack.”

  Brognola suddenly threw his hands into the air and said, “You’re right. It was a dumb thought to start with. He blasted in.”

  The lieutenant was giving the fed an odd look. “Well, wait,” he said slowly. “Let’s think about it. If he has accomplices, we should—”

  “Naw, naw,” the fed interrupted. “It was just a wild hunch, a shiver thought. Bolan works alone, period. The glider is a coincidence. No saying how long it’s been here. Probably belonged to whoever lived here—a soaring enthusiast, probably. Let’s take another look at that wall.”

  The HPD man was still giving Brognola the fish-eye gaze, but he went on to the wall without pursuing the subject further. The guy was plenty sharp, though—that much was obvious. And he knew that Hal Brognola was lying through his federal teeth. Mack Bolan, in all probability, had not been alone on this hit.

  And the very possible identity of those accomplices immediately presented to the federal mind had set the hairs twanging in Brognola’s nose.

  This one was going to be a son of a bitch, for sure.

  A moment later he suggested to the cop from HPD: “We’d better get back to town and set the defense. I’ll want to activate some military units, too. I can do that. Bolan is still army property and he’s classified as a deserter.”

  “I’d rather not get into that,” Patterson protested.

  “You’re into it already. The guy is gunning for a foreign national, and a damned sensitive one, at that. I brought orders straight from the White House. Believe it, Greg, you’re into it already.”

  And so, albeit with sad regret, was Hal Brognola.

  Yeah. The poor, proud bastard was doomed. Brognola had his orders, from the highest. The Executioner was to die in Hawaii.

  15: Running Hot

  The three chase cars had alternated the close track on the Chung vehicle, with first one and then the other surging forward to maintain visual contact until the target car entered the interchange with H1, the interstate route through Honolulu, also known as Lunalilo Freeway. Bolan was riding point at that juncture, and he quickly signaled the others to close immediately.

  “It’s a bumper banger here on Lunalilo,” he reported. “We’re through the interchange and running south in heavy traffic. Better close it in and maintain hot visual.”

  Lyons and Anders acknowledged the instructions and both were jockeying about in Bolan’s wake by the time he reached the even denser traffic at the Pali Highway junction.

  Lyons suggested, “If he’s headed for Prince Kuhio Beach, he’ll probably run the Lunalilo to somewhere down around the Waialae or Kapiolani exits. Maybe I should go on around and let him overtake me just north of Waialae.”

  Bolan replied, “Okay, go—no, hold it!”

  The car ahead with the shattered rear window was creeping far right and signaling an exit at the Ward Avenue offramp.

  Lyons commented, “So he’s playing it cute.”

  “That’s taking it the hard way,” Anders chimed in. “He’s probably angling toward Kalakaua and a drag along Waikiki. I sure wouldn’t try that in a bullet-ridden car.”

  “We’re running it too hot,” Bolan decided. “Carl—take him from here. I’ll go on to the next exit and circle back. Tom—keep Carl in sight.”

  Lyons and Anders edged into the exit and Bolan shot on past in the through lane, then immediately started his blinker and made preparations for exiting at the next opportunity.

  A moment later, Lyons reported, “Running south on Beretania.”

  Bolan replied, “Good. I’ll be coming down on the auditorium exit. Keep me cued.”

  “Right. Academy of Arts coming up.” Then: “Turning west on Pensacola.”

  Anders suggested, “Try for a pickup at Kalakaua and Kapiolani, Mack. I’m still betting on a Waikiki drag.”

  “I don’t like it,” Bolan groused. “Beretania to Kalakaua would’ve been the best shot at the beach. You guys double-team it and ride him hot.”

  Lyons said, “Turning onto Kapiolani now. I just got a shiver that says Ala Moana.” A moment later: “Yep, yep. That’s where we’re headed. We’re on Piikoi, running toward the park.”

  “Yacht harbor!” Bolan shot back.

  “Could be. What do you say, Tommy?”

  “We could still end up on Kalakaua,” the comic replied. “But, yeah, I’d have to vote for the boats. Looks like Kuhio Beach is a strike-out.”

  “Okay,” Bolan told them, “I’m closing along Atkinson Drive. Give me your mark as you pass that point.”

  “We’re on Ala Moana,” Lyons reported a moment later. “Running south.”

  “Roger.”

  “Atkinson coming up. Stand by. Mark—still running south. Ala Wai dead ahead.”

  Bolan replied, “Okay, I caught your passage. I’m about ten seconds off your tail. Fall back and give Tom the heat.”

  “Moving up,” Anders immediately reported.

  From Lyons: “Have him in sight?”

  “Got him. Drop off.”

  Bolan said, “Play him close, Tom. I’m coming around now. Okay, Ala Moana. What’s your position, Carl?”

  “Approaching the inlet bridge.”

  “Roger. Tom?”

  “Kaiser Hospital and here we go. It’s the yachts, all right.”

  “Lay back but keep them in sight.”

  “Roger.”

  “Close it up, Carl.”

  “Right, closing.”

  From Anders: “They’re going straight in. It’s a score. Target is now in the parking area. I’m hauling up.”

  “Carl, follow them in!”

  “End of track, Mack. Where do we go from here? Or have you started walking on water, also?”

  “Just keep them in sight, dammit, and get a good eyeball on their boat.”

  “I have them in sight,” Lyons reported with a sigh.

  A female voice cut into the three-way radio conversation with a bright comment: “What’s all the panic down there?”

  Bolan pulled his vehicle into the slot beside Anders, stepped out with a tired grin, and thumbed on his transmitter. “What’s your position, Toby?”

  “Look up. Straight up. See the pretty silver wings?”

  Bolan chuckled. “Yep, and they’re a sight for heavy eyes, m’lady. Welcome to the chase.”

  “Some chase,” she replied. “New subject. Something funny may be happening with Smiley. Her beacon is beeping. Isn’t it a bit soon for that?”

  Bolan quickly reached into the vehicle for his monitor and turned it on. He was receiving a strong pulse. “It is,” he told the lady upstairs. “Can you track a boat from up there?”

  “I can track a peanut shell if you boys will just point it out as it leaves the harbor. What about Smiley?”

  “You’re right, it’s too soon. I’ll check it out. Toby, it will be a few minutes before these people can get underway. Take a quick run right now, s
traight out to sea, and give me a leg fix on that beacon.”

  “On my way,” she reported, as the little single-engine plane banked off seaward.

  Anders, standing beside Bolan, asked, “What’s wrong with Smiley?”

  “Maybe nothing,” Bolan told him. “All I need is a quick fix to verify the course to her beacon. Then I can drive right to it, on my monitor alone. I’ll be leaving Chung to you guys for now. Let Carl watch him onto the boat. Meanwhile, you beat it up to the office and get one for yourselves.”

  “Hell, these are all privately owned boats, I think,” Anders said. “I mean, I don’t know if you can rent one.”

  “Rent, borrow, or commandeer—get one,” Bolan replied. “A fast one, with inter-island capability.”

  “What about you? How will you …?”

  “I’ll have to work it by ear. If we lose contact, check back with your hotel every hour until we contact. Don’t close on Chung. Give him rope and let him go where he will. Just make damn sure you know where that is.”

  “Sure,” Anders said. “Hey. Be careful.”

  “You too,” Bolan replied.

  The voice of Carl Lyons came through the radio. “Okay, he’s boarding. Chung only. Something odd here. A man is missing.”

  “I don’t read that,” Bolan said.

  “Me either. There was a guy in front with the driver. He got out somewhere before here.”

  Bolan said, “Dammit!” to Anders. To Lyons, via the radio, he asked, “You’re sure that’s Chung you’re looking at?”

  “It’s him,” came the positive reply. “Stepping aboard the Pele Phoenix, right now. It’s a big one.”

  Bolan replied, “Stay right there. Tom’s getting a boat. Did you hear the gig with Toby?”

  “I heard. Good luck.”

  “Right, and back at you. Watch it.”

  Anders mused, “The Pele Phoenix, eh? There’s a fire goddess for you—with wings, yet, rising from ashes. How symbolic can you get?”