Pele's Fire - Don Pendleton

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out, we sit back here and shoot the shit out of the gas tank. Light ’em up.”

      “Sounds risky.”

      “Breathing’s risky. Would you rather just sit here and jerk off till the cops show up?”

      “No, hell, let’s do it.” Pilialoha paused then, frowning, and asked, “Who’s rigging the gas pedal?”

      “You’re the mechanical genius.”

      “Fuck me!”

      I just did, brudda, Tommy thought, but settled for, “Go on. I’ll cover you.”

      “That’s great.”

      While Pilialoha began duck-walking over gravel, holding his shotgun like a tightrope walker’s balancing rod, Tommy pulled the nearly empty magazine from his Uzi and replaced it with a fresh one. Stuffed the almost-empty clip into his pocket, just in case he needed one more burst to finish what they’d started here, before they split.

      There’d been no shooting from the Datsun since Ehu and Billy went down, but what did that mean? Tommy, enraged, had fired off half a magazine after his brother fell, but had no reason to believe that he’d hit anyone. A lucky shot, perhaps, one in a million, but he didn’t really think so.

      Now, he had to ask himself: who had the gun? Polunu or the haole stranger? Tommy couldn’t picture Aolani as a threat, in terms of shooting anyone, but Polunu—while a traitor—had been trained to handle weapons.

      And the haole? Who in hell was he?

      Check his ID after he’s dead, the small voice answered.

      “Right.”

      The dome lights in the second chase car flared as Pilialoha opened the driver’s door. Tommy flinched from John Kainoa’s shredded face, the blood that dribbled from his chin and streaked the inside of the punctured windshield. He imagined Steve reaching for the gas pedal, between John’s sagging legs.

      And still no shooting from the Datsun.

      Had their enemy run out of bullets? Was he waiting to find out what they’d try next?

      Benny Makani hadn’t fired a shot since running off into the night, so Tommy guessed he hadn’t flanked their targets yet. What would they do if he just kept on running? Lost his nerve and didn’t even try to take out their opponents?

      “Kill him,” Tommy muttered to himself. “I’ll kill him nice and slow.”

      The second chase car’s engine revved, its harsh sound startling Tommy back to the here and now. He turned and lurched off toward its trunk, prepared to do his part and set it rolling toward the enemy.

      They’ve had it now, he thought, unconscious of the fact that he was talking to himself again.

      “You’ve fucking had it now.”

      THE FLANKER WHO’D been sent to Bolan’s right was on his own. Bolan had no idea what made them send two men in one direction, while another went alone, nor did he care. It was enough to know he hadn’t missed a shooter in the darkness.

      The guy was cautious, Bolan gave him that, but caution slowed him. A well-trained soldier would’ve taken half the time to cover forty yards, and likely would’ve been in place before Bolan was ready to receive him.

      Not this guy.

      A revolutionary he might be, at least in theory, but a soldier trained for war?

      Not even close.

      Shuffling footsteps on gravel marked his progress before Bolan saw him. The stalker carried a Kalashnikov but never had a chance to use it. The Executioner nailed him with a single shot, snapping the gunman’s head back.

      Easy.

      When he was satisfied that no backup was coming from the shadows, Bolan closed the gap, relieved his lifeless adversary of his AK-47 and a spare clip that protruded from his pocket. Two heartbeats to check the captured rifle, and he doubled back to join his companions under fire.

      And just in time.

      As he arrived, one of the chase cars was accelerating toward Aolani’s crippled Datsun. It wasn’t going more than 20 mph by his estimate, but it would still cause damage on impact.

      And it would provide cover for the last two shooters, coming up behind it while the high beams blazed their trail.

      Bolan ignored the car, its lifeless driver, concentrating on the men behind it. They had revved the gas somehow, and maybe given the vehicle a shove to start, both of them clutching weapons now and sheltering behind the vehicle as it advanced. From Bolan’s angle, though, one of the hunters was exposed completely, and his companion was visible from the waist up.

      It was enough.

      He stitched the nearer of the gunmen with a rising burst, six rounds or so of 7.62 mm death leaving the AK’s muzzle at a speed of 2,300 feet per second. Downrange, his moving target crumpled as if he were made of paper, crushed within a giant’s fist. The dead man fell, firing a shotgun blast into his own foot as he dropped.

      The hunting party’s sole survivor swung toward Bolan, ripping off a long burst from a lightweight submachine gun. Bolan could’ve ducked but didn’t bother, instead answering with a short burst from his Kalashnikov that nearly emptied the long curved magazine.

      His target took most of it, jerking through a clumsy little dance that ended with a belly flop on gravel, while the car that he’d been following rolled on and nosed against the Datsun’s driver’s door. It wasn’t much of a collision, but it finally extinguished those annoying high beams.

      Bolan advanced to find Aolani and her companion huddled on the far side of the Datsun, still staying put and keeping low. Not bad, he thought, all things considered.

      She had done all right on what he took to be her first time under fire.

      “It’s over,” Bolan said. “We need to leave now.”

      “Leave?” she challenged him. “In case you haven’t noticed, they just shot the hell out of my car.”

      “We’ll borrow one of theirs,” Bolan replied. “That one,” he added, pointing to the vehicle that stood alone now, headlights burning tunnels through the night.

      “And leave mine here?”

      “I’ll torch it. Take out anything you need that’s still inside.”

      As Bolan spoke, he tore a strip of fabric from a lifeless gunman’s shirttail and removed the Datsun’s gas cap to insert the wick.

      “Burn it or not, the cops will trace it,” Aolani said.

      “No sweat. You’re out of town right now. How could you know some punks would steal your car and use it for a rumble with a rival gang?”

      “Jesus. Okay, hang on a minute, will you? Let me get my purse and—”

      She was scrambling, fumbling in the glove compartment, underneath the front seat, grabbing this and that before he lit the wick. They piled into the second chase car, and he had it rolling toward the Punchbowl’s exit when the Datsun blew behind them.

      “This is really not what I had in mind,” Aolani informed him.

      “Hey, you know the saying—life’s what happens while you’re making other plans.”

      And death could happen, too.

      Oh, yes.

      They hadn’t seen the last of death, by any means.

      3

      Bolan drove back to the Royal Mausoleum State Monument, avoiding major streets with Aolani’s guidance. Their commandeered car was unmarked by gunfire, but Bolan didn’t want to take the chance that someone had reported it along their previous route of flight. If that turned out to be the case, and once

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