Pele's Fire - Don Pendleton Gold Eagle Executioner

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portion of Hawaii’s native Polynesian population wanted more emphasis on native culture and religion, more influence in the state government, physical secession from the U.S.A. or some combination of the former, as yet to be agreed upon.

      As usual, whenever issues of the sort aroused strong feelings, there were armed extremists who would hear no voices and no viewpoints other than their own. Bolan had seen the same phenomenon in Scotland, Northern Ireland, Asia, Africa, Latin America and even in parts of the United States.

      Get half a dozen zealots in a room, then hand them guns and watch the bloodletting begin. It never failed.

      Hard times had come to the Aloha State, but Bolan hoped that he could stop the action short of an all-out catastrophe.

      It didn’t trouble Bolan, going in without liaison to the FBI, Homeland Security or local law enforcement. All of them had jobs to do, but none were quite in Bolan’s line—or else, wouldn’t admit it, if they were.

      Bolan required no writs or warrants, analyzed no evidence in antiseptic labs, reviewed no testimony.

      And, in general, he took no prisoners.

      As for the allies he had yet to meet, Bolan devoutly hoped that they could do their part, pull their own weight. He’d have enough to think about, without adopting any nursemaid’s chores along the way.

      The fact that one of his Hawaiian contacts was a woman didn’t bother Bolan in the least. He’d fought beside some female warriors he respected, loved a couple of them and could think of one or two who might’ve kicked his ass.

      He was almost there, a few more blocks remaining until he saw his contacts in the flesh, instead of hidden-camera photos that had caught them unawares.

      Expect the worst, hope for the best.

      And maybe, this time, harsh reality would fall somewhere between the two.

      “WE OUGHTA TAKE HIM now,” Ehu Puanani said.

      “No,” his brother, Tommy, said. “They’re waiting for somebody, and I want to find out who it is.”

      “What fucking difference does it make?” Ehu demanded.

      “Stop and think a minute, will you, Ehu, just this once? Suppose they’re talking to the cops or FBI. You wanna know about it in advance, or just be taken by surprise when they bust down your door?”

      Ehu sat sulking, fiddling with his shotgun, but at least he kept it down below the dashboard, so that Tommy didn’t have to scold him a second time.

      From the stolen Audi’s backseat, Billy Maka Nani asked, “You think they’re really talking to the Feds? I mean, that’s gonna ruin everything, you know?”

      “Not necessarily,” Tommy Puanani said. “Depends on how much they already spilled, and whether they’ve got any evidence to back it up.”

      “Last time I looked, the Haole-Homeland gang wasn’t so worried about evidence. They lock you up without a charge and send you off to someplace where you get tortured, and then the courts say you’re an enemy combatant, so it doesn’t matter, anyway.”

      “We are,” Tommy Puanani said. “Enemy combatants is exactly what we are.”

      “Is that some kinda consolation when they fasten the electrodes on your balls?”

      “Forget that chickenshit,” Ehu said. “When the smoke clears, haole bastards will be kissing up to us and asking what we want, instead of telling us the way things gotta be.”

      “That’s right, bro,” Tommy told his younger brother. “Just remember that before you jump the gun and ruin everything.”

      “You wanna tell me what I ruined?” Ehu challenged him.

      “Nothing, so far.”

      “You’re goddamned right.”

      “I plan to keep it that way, too. So follow orders like a soldier, and stop bitching all the time.”

      Ehu gave him a fuck-you look, but kept his mouth shut for a change. Small favors.

      They had a second team on Polunu and the woman, parked across the street, behind a filling station, in a Chevy Blazer that they’d stolen from a strip mall. Changed the plates, gave it a hasty racing stripe, and they were good to go. In that car, John Kainoa had the wheel, with Ben Makani riding shotgun and Steve Pilialoha in the back. All armed and waiting for the signal to move in.

      But Tommy Puanani had no desire to rumble with the FBI. Who would? His homeboys couldn’t match the haoles’ budget, damned sure couldn’t match their arsenal—at least, not yet—and if it came to fighting with the Feebs, next thing he knew, they would be fighting with Marines and everybody else on Uncle Sam’s payroll.

      The plan they had in place was so much better, but to pull it off, they had to know if any part of it had been exposed.

      Granted, Mano Polunu was a minor player when he bailed, gone yellow in the stretch, but there was no way of deciding what he might know until they could pin him down and question him. Of course, the next best thing would be to silence him forever.

      But sometimes, next best wasn’t good enough.

      So, they would wait and see.

      If Polunu and the woman met some other asshole moderates with no official status, Tommy Puanani’s men could kill them, then and there. If it was cops or Feds, though, then the killing would require more delicate finesse.

      But every minute Polunu spent in custody or talking to the law, the more danger he posed to everything the movement stood for, everything it might accomplish in the next few days.

      With Polunu silenced, then the plan could move ahead on schedule. They could strike a blow that would be felt from Honolulu all the way to Washington, D.C.

      A shot heard round the world, damn right.

      The haoles loved that kind of shit, as long as they did all the shooting.

      Tommy Puanani’s ancestors had been kings before the haole sailors had “discovered” what they liked to call the Sandwich Islands, some 230 years ago. The native life had gone to hell since then, but it was not too late to salvage something from the ruins.

      Or, at least, to pay the haoles back in spades for all the damage they had done, Tommy vowed.

      BOLAN SLOWED on his approach to the Royal Mausoleum State Monument, scouting the grounds before he took the final action to commit himself.

      There were three cars in the parking lot, two sitting off together in a corner, and the third positioned closer to the entrance of the park. Bolan saw no one in the first two vehicles, although they could’ve been concealed. At least two people clearly occupied the third car, facing the street and watching traffic pass.

      His contacts? Or a trap?

      In either case, he had to check it out. If something had been leaked and this turned out to be an ambush, he would simply have to fight his way clear of the trap, then find another angle of approach into the mission.

      Bolan knew the second part would likely be more difficult. If someone on the other side knew he was in Hawaii, knew the why of his arrival, they’d be battened down with extra-tight security until they made their one big score.

      Whatever that was.

      Bolan needed his contacts to give his quest direction.

      He turned into the parking lot and let the cars behind him roll on to their sundry destinations: meeting lovers, going out for dinner, to a movie, maybe heading for a second job. The normal things that Bolan hadn’t done—or even had much time to think about—for years.

      Inside the parking lot, he drove the long way around to check the empty-looking cars. He slowed as he drove past them, staying far enough away that he could check for man-sized shadows lying underneath.

      The last

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