Pacific Creed. Don PendletonЧитать онлайн книгу.
very big was going on in Hawaii, and something related was happening in the Pacific. She tapped a very thin file on her tablet. “This is the most troubling. The hints of a massive strike against the invaders. We’ve never heard that before.” Price brought up a sore point. “And so far all we have is a hula master who likes to beat up G.I.s.”
“That’s a Lua master,” Kurtzman corrected. “And we have a tracking device in his hand. Mack is working his way up the food chain.”
“I prefer it when Mack swoops in by surprise, mops the floor with the bad guys and then buys me dinner in D.C.”
Kurtzman smiled. “Yeah, that works for me, too.”
“He’s operating on U.S. soil and he’s almost never been this thin on assets.”
“We have full war loads in strategic locations.”
“But unless he breaks cover right now all he has is his phone and his fists.”
“And Koa.”
Price nodded. She liked the Hawaiian and she’d been infinitely relieved that he had volunteered to be on Mack’s six. “So they’re acquiring equipment locally?”
“We went ’round and ’round on that. Fact is Mack may not get a chance. As you mentioned, this cover is about as deep as it gets and as thin as it’s ever been. Until Mack proves himself, he and Koa might be ambushed or hit with a drive-by.”
“Tell me they’re armed.”
“Armed and waiting,” Kurtzman confirmed. “And now the ball is in the bad guys’ court.”
Wailuku Town: “Pakuz”
“I told you not to piss off the Samoans,” Koa muttered.
Bolan sat in the tiny den and cleaned his CIA-provided pistol. The old GI .45 came from Hawaiian National Guard storage. The soldier suspected it had been WWII issue. It showed a great deal of holster wear but as a National Guard weapon not a lot of use. The bore was clean and with a little oiling the action was slick. “I didn’t piss off the Samoans. I punched Tino in the face. Then I bought him a beer. Now he loves me. He’s calling me cuz. What’s not to like?”
“That did go better than expected,” Koa admitted. The Hawaiian had a similar pistol and was scrupulously checking the quality of the magazines they’d been issued.
“So what’s the Lua guy’s name? I didn’t catch it.”
“Me, either, and he scares the shit out of me. I think you got real lucky the other night, and even luckier he didn’t recognize you.” Koa grunted in amusement. “Though I think he liked it when you broke Tino’s nose.”
“I think the entire Island of Oahu liked it when I broke Tino’s nose.”
“There is that.”
Agent Hu gave Bolan a knowing look. “Melika sure liked it.”
Bolan began wrapping beige rubber bands around the .45’s grip. If he was going to pose as a low-level Hawaiian hoodlum who was willing to turn terrorist, a carry rig was out of the question. His options were front-of-the-waist or small-of-the-back, and he needed some friction to hold the big steel piece in place. He nodded at Koa. “Everything went better than expected, cuz, admit it.”
Koa’s brow bunched as though he was getting a headache. “Don’t call me that.”
“It’s our cover. Get used to it.”
“I don’t want to get used to it.”
“You want the grease gun or the kidney-buster?”
Koa nodded at the old Ithaca 12-gauge riot gun. “I’ll take the shotgun. I qualified expert on those. Not that model, but how much different can it be?” Koa warily eyed the ancient piece of ordnance on the coffee table next to the 12 gauge. “Those? Man, back when I was in this man’s army, the only people who were issued those were tankers or truckers, because they never expected to use them.”
Bolan put down his pistol and took up the antique
M-3 submachine gun, which did bear a striking resemblance to a mechanic’s grease gun. It was also inaccurate, unwieldy and notoriously unreliable under field conditions. It wouldn’t have been in Bolan’s top five hundred choices for armament, but if you had to defend a Hawaiian bungalow on the wrong side of town, the men who kicked down the door were in for a very nasty surprise.
“Pakuz,” as the locals called it, was a suburb of Wailuku Town. It had a straight shot to Main Street but the foreclosed bungalow the CIA had acquired abutted the foothills. It was just slightly off the beaten track and left several escape routes open. Pakuz was right next to and half the size of Happy Valley and, like the aforementioned and ironically named area, was a hotbed of crime and violence. If Hawaii really was spawning terrorist cells then any economically depressed areas could be hothouses where the revolution’s foot soldiers would be nurtured and grown.
“What did you do with the revolvers?” Bolan asked.
Bolan had requested some backup weapons in case they got arrested or had to hand over their weapons. The CIA had come up with four 4-inch Smith & Wesson Military and Police .38s of dubious vintage.
Koa slid shells into the Ithaca. “Put one in a waterproof bag in the toilet tank. Buried two in the backyard next to the banana tree.” He nodded at Hu. “The fourth one I gave to her.”
“Pegarella Hu, CIA agent, groomer…” Hu grinned. “Gun moll.”
Someone banged on the door as if he was about to knock it off its hinges. “Koa!” Tino roared. “Makaha!”
Bolan rose and tucked his pistol into the back of his waistband. Koa took up his shotgun and stepped to one side to give himself a lane of fire down the tiny hallway. Bolan opened the door and found himself staring down the two men he had delivered beat-downs to in the past twenty-four hours. Both Tino and the man-mountain whose name Bolan didn’t know stood in front of him on the landing. A third man—a thin-as-a-whip Polynesian—stood scowling by the driver’s door of a red VW van. Tino grinned past the bandaged bridge of his nose. “Aloha!”
“Aloha, Tino,” Bolan said. “You wanna come in? We got beer and chicken.”
“No, brah.” Tino shook his head. “Bring your grind. You and Koa are coming with us. You got people you need to meet. People who want to meet you.”
The Lua master nodded. It had been dark on the streets of Chinatown, and Bolan had been blond, with a totally different voice, demeanor and complexion and wearing a uniform. If this was the big fat kill, the Hawaiian and the Samoan were hiding it with the skill of trained intelligence agents. “Hey, Koa!” Bolan called. “Tino says we gotta go!”
“I wanna come with!” Hu called out.
The thin man by the van spoke for the first time. “The bitch stays.”
Hu stopped short of hissing like a cat. Bolan muttered a low “Hey, Tino?”
“Yeah?”
“Who’s Prince Charming?”
Tino made an amused noise and answered softly. “Best you don’t ask a lot of questions, Makaha. Not yet, anyway.”
“Got it.”
Koa came to the door sans shotgun and holding a six-pack and a bucket of chicken. He called back over his shoulder to Hu, “Don’t know when we’ll be back!”
The temperature in the bungalow dropped precipitously. “Whatever…”
* * *
The van bucked and bumped through the darkened back roads. Bolan hadn’t known there was such a thing as angry Hawaiian rap music, but Tino blared it loud enough to wake the dead. They had driven out of Happy Valley and entered state forestland. Bolan knew they were no longer traveling on state-maintained roads. Leaves and branches