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 car was a Datsun Maxima, an older vehicle, but in decent shape. A woman occupied the driver’s seat, staring at Bolan in his rental car, while a pudgy, nervous-looking man squirmed beside her. Bolan recognized them both from photos in their dossiers, although while the man looked worse in person, the woman’s snapshots hadn’t done her justice.
They could still be covered, shooters huddled in the backseat, out of sight, but Bolan took a chance. Drawing the 93-R from its holster, he pulled in beside the Datsun, so that his driver’s window faced the lady’s.
“Leia Aolani?” he inquired.
She nodded without smiling. “Matthew Cooper?”
“Make it Matt. Mano Polunu with you, there?”
The nervous shotgun rider flinched as Bolan spoke his name. He flicked anxious eyes in the woman’s direction, but she wasn’t looking to see it.
“That’s right,” she replied. “You were briefed on the mainland?”
“Bare bones,” Bolan said. “Should we talk here, or go for a ride?”
Her pink, full lips were opening to answer Bolan, when a squeal of tires behind him cut her short. Glancing at his rearview mirror, Bolan saw a black sedan tearing along North Judd Street, toward a secondary entrance to the parking lot. There were three occupants, two of them staring at the point where he and Aolani sat in their respective vehicles.
“It’s time to go,” Bolan said.
“Right. You follow me, and—”
“No,” he interrupted her. “We either take one car or split and try to hook up later, when it’s safe. Your call.”
“I can’t just leave my car,” she said, her eyes wide and staring at the black car that was in the lot now, turning their way.
Bolan thought about it for a microsecond, knowing she was right. His rental wouldn’t trace to anyone, and he could always grab another from a different agency.
“Okay,” he said, his door already opening. He pocketed the rental’s keys, holstered his piece and took his two bags with him as he stepped across to Aolani’s car. She was already moving as he settled in the backseat, gun in hand once more.
“Have you done lots of combat driving?” Bolan asked her.
“Combat driving?”
“Right. The kind where—Watch it!”
Aolani swerved to miss the charging black sedan. Her swing was wide enough, but as they passed in opposite directions, Bolan saw a weapon thrust out of the black car’s left-rear window.
Bolan ducked and saw its muzzle-flashes winking in the tropic dusk. At least three slugs tore through the Datsun’s fender, rattling around inside the trunk.
“That’s combat,” Bolan said.
“Okay, got it! Jesus!”
Aolani stamped on the accelerator, racing toward the nearest exit from the parking lot. Bolan was sorry there’d been shooting here, which might bring the police to seize his rented car, but if they took the fight away, at least there was a chance the cops would miss this crime scene.
Maybe.
But it wouldn’t matter if they died, and Bolan wasn’t sold on Aolani’s combat-driving skills. She knew the city, but she wasn’t used to fighting for her life at high speeds behind a steering wheel.
In fact, Bolan guessed, she likely wasn’t used to fighting for her life at all.
He couldn’t navigate and fight at the same time, so Bolan told Aolani, “I need someplace to deal with them. Sooner’s better than later. We don’t want the cops involved if we can help it.”
“Deal with them?” she asked him, looking wide-eyed in the Datsun’s rearview mirror. “What does that mean?”
“It means I’d like all three of us to walk away from this, if possible,” Bolan answered.
“Is that a gun you’re holding?”
“I sure hope so.”
Studying the chase car, Bolan saw another fall
