entered the makeshift squad room where his assault team of handpicked elite soldiers waited.
The team snapped to attention as Hwong entered the squad room, but he nodded to them quickly. “Resume your duties,” he said. “There are more important things afoot than protocol and respect for authority.” Even as he said it, he hoped his faith was not misplaced and none of his people was secretly reporting directly to Song. The general placed great stock in hierarchy and respect for authority. He would be none too pleased to hear Hwong making light of these.
The six officers present were, with the exception of Wu Ya, unremarkable in appearance. This was essential for covert operations; the men would need to blend in with their surroundings. Hwong’s height, so unusual among Asians, had always been something of a liability for this reason, though his features were bland enough that most took him for a half-Westerner of some sort.
Wu Ya, however, was an unnatural giant of a man for any race. He stood over six feet and weighed three hundred pounds. His heavily muscled frame was dominated by a face carved from granite. Heavy brows met over small, dark eyes that saw everything. Wu Ya was a killer, as were they all, but Hwong knew that Wu preferred to kill with his bare hands.
Wu had offered many times to spar with Hwong, but the field commander had yet to take his subordinate up on the offer. To Hwong, the prospect of dueling Wu with fists seemed a little too real, a little too close to fighting for his life. As part of the team, Wu’s great size was put to its logical use; the man was tasked with carrying and operating the squad’s HK 21 belt-fed machine gun.
Most of the other squad members were cleaning and checking their own HK weapons. These were HK UMP submachine guns, chosen by Hwong for their modern design and ammunition compatibility. All the weapons and their ammo were, again, untraceable, at least to the People’s Republic.
Hwong continued to take mental inventory of his squad. Standing over his kit, his UMP reassembled and his magazines fully loaded, Chen Yi pantomimed a slow knife kata. In his hands were his balisongs, the twin blades glinting in the overhead light from the fluorescents. As Hwong watched, Yi slashed one imaginary opponent, then two, then a third, pausing to work his deadly skill in a series of flashing opening and closing movements with the split-handled butterfly knives.
Tsai Ming, also a knife aficionado—though he carried a simple AK-47 bayonet—watched Chen Yi almost enviously. The two sparred on occasion with sheathed blades or rubber training knives. As Hwong understood it, Chen was usually the victor. Hwong encouraged the competition as long as it prompted his men to improve their skills. He wanted no rivalries among them, however, and had warned them of this more than once.
Tsai Ming was also the squad’s demolitions expert. He would oversee many of the preparations for the Honolulu plan, as a great deal of explosives work would be needed in rigging appropriate deterrents.
Li Huang racked the action of his UMP several times, his manner methodical and aloof. He was Hwong’s second in command in the field and had proved to be a worthy officer many times. He was, however, the most likely candidate to be Song’s spy among Hwong’s elite squad, as Li showed the most political ambition. This was expected and, in most ways, inevitable. It would do, however, to remind himself more often of that, Hwong thought.
Wiry Jin Tai, slighter and shorter than the others, was a skilled helicopter pilot. Of all his squad, Hwong knew Jin the least, though the man had served with him for two years. He was an able pilot and utterly quiet in all other respects.
The sixth and final man on Hwong’s elite team was Zho Wen, who was the only one who frequently worried Hwong. Zho enjoyed taking lives, enjoyed it with an almost sexual satisfaction. He was, however, very highly connected in Chinese military and political circles. To discipline Zho too harshly—or to dishonor him by removing him from the team—would be to incur wrath so great that it might end in Hwong’s execution regardless of any mission successes he achieved.
Several times, Hwong had been forced to clean up after Zho Wen. As a result, he was never given leave alone. Hwong usually sent him with Wu, with strict orders to stop the man from murdering prostitutes or street beggars. In the field, however, Zho performed well, channeling his murderous desires into fierce fighting ability. It would, Hwong often reflected, have to be enough. There would conceivably come a time when Hwong would have to arrange for Zho to be killed in action during an operation.
“The comrade general extends his encouragement and expresses his confidence in your abilities,” Hwong said smoothly. “We will shortly commence with full field operations in executing our long-planned operation. This is the fulfillment of years of planning and positioning, both our people and the assets they will need to carry out our nation’s ambitions. You will do your duties. You will show no fear. You will not fail.”
The men nodded as one.
“We will not fail, Commander,” Li said aloud.
“Good.” Hwong nodded. “Prepare yourselves. Soon, the world will change. It is we will who change it.”
4
Bolan guided the Dodge Charger into traffic, the engine rumbling throatily in eager response. Next to him, Sergeant Kirokawa flipped shut her phone and glanced his way. “The interrogation room will be ready when we reach the station,” she informed Bolan. “We’ll have Bando to ourselves. I wouldn’t get your hopes up, though. He’s not the most cooperative person I’ve ever met.”
“I got that impression.” Bolan nodded.
“How long do you think it will take for your courier to get that thing analyzed?”
“The device Kapalaua was carrying?” Bolan said. “There’s no way to be sure. It will be in my people’s hands within hours, conceivably. Figuring out what it is could take longer.” The Stony Man courier had met Bolan before the Executioner left the Holiday Inn. Bolan could only assume the man was even now being transported, possibly by Stony Man pilot Jack Grimaldi.
They merged onto the Lunalilo Freeway. Traffic was moving, though not particularly quickly, nor were the low posted limits helping matters. Bolan continued to follow the Malibu that carried Kapalaua. They had not gone far when he caught sight of the vans.
“Trouble,” he said simply. “Two vans, both black, moving up quickly.”
“Could be nothing,” the sergeant said.
“I don’t believe in coincidence.”
“Me neither.” Kirokawa drew her Glock 19 and flipped open her phone with her free hand and dialed a number. “Kirokawa,” she said into the phone. “Wake up. We’ve got two vans coming up fast, and you can bet they’re here for your prisoner. Take the next exit.”
“No,” Bolan said quickly. “That’ll take us into population. On the freeway we can contain them.”
“Scratch that,” Kirokawa said into her phone. “Stand by.” She looked to Bolan.
“We need to make some space,” he said. “We’ve got to keep the traffic out of the line of fire. Tell your men to get on the radio and call for backup. Then tell them to get left and put that car nose first into the guardrail.”
“What?”
“Do it!” Bolan ordered. “I’m going to follow. We’re going to slow down, get traffic moving over the right. Have your men put on their lights, ward everyone off.”
“Light
