Don Pendleton - Blood Toll

Realizing what was happening, Bolan passed the device over his arms and legs. As the unit moved over the left-hand thigh pocket of his blacksuit, it began squealing with feedback and the beeping became a single, continuous tone. Bolan pushed the button on its face again and the device was silent.

From his pocket, he produced the card key he’d used to enter Jimmy Han’s room. Experimenting with the signaling device, Bolan satisfied himself that the unit was a tracker somehow linked to the card key.

“What have you got there?” Sergeant Diana Kirokawa’s lilting voice came from behind him. Kirokawa was a petite five feet, four inches, her half Caucasian, half Japanese features delicate but firm. Her large brown eyes were alert and wary. Lustrous shoulder-length black hair framed her face. She wore a conservatively tailored women’s suit that, while professional and sophisticated, didn’t hide her figure. Her badge was visible on a chain around her neck, and the cut of her suit jacket did not quite conceal the Glock 19 holstered on her hip.

“Our friend there,” Bolan said, “was carrying some interesting hardware.”

“Bando?” Kirokawa chuckled. “He always is.”

“You know him?”

“He’s a regular at HPD,” she said. “David ‘Bando’ Kapalaua, God’s gift to women, tough guys and Hawaiian nationalists. Turns up every eighteen months or so. He’s been busted for assault, disturbing the peace. Mostly bar brawls, though sometimes it’s NHL rabble-rousing. Last time around he threatened a guy with some kind of sawed-off sword or machete or something.”

“NHL?” Bolan asked. “Hockey?”

“No.” Kirokawa shook her head. “New Hawaiian League. One of a handful of native separatist groups operating in the state. They believe Hawaii was illegally occupied and annexed by the United States. Bando here has been at the center of a few rallies and protests that didn’t exactly stay peaceful. The NHL has the usual gripes about racial prejudice directed at Hawaiians, of course, but they’re also working to reestablish a sovereign Hawaiian government, separate and distinct from the United States. You see, Cooper, I’m just a ‘Hawaii resident,’ even though I was born here. Only natives like Bando are, to his thinking, actually Hawaiians. The New Hawaiian League would like to make that clear and back it up with force.”

“How violent are they?”

“Bando’s a thug,” Kirokawa said, “but he’s never been much more. The New Hawaiian League makes him special, in his mind, but I don’t know how much even he really believes in it.”

“Then he’s into something new, something bigger than him. Somebody’s pulling his strings. The gun’s not the hardware I was referring to.” Bolan held up the tracking device. “This is some kind of electronic monitor. It’s linked to a card key to a room here at the hotel. I think your boy tracked me here using it. I’m willing to bet something like this isn’t usual equipment for the Hawaiian nationalist on the go.”

“No, definitely not.” Kirokawa nodded.

“My people have a courier on the way,” Bolan told her. “When he or she gets here, I’m going to send this device for analysis.”

“It’s your show,” the sergeant agreed. “I’ll have Bando taken in. I assume you’ll want to question him.”

“Absolutely,” Bolan said. “I’ll meet my courier and then meet you at the stationhouse. I have a car.”

“I’ll have mine driven back, then,” Kirokawa said. “Just let me make arrangements. You’re not about to get rid of me. Things are just getting interesting.”

General Song Hui, late of the People’s Liberation Army, stationed himself at the edge of the mats in the training hall. Hwong Zhi noted his presence but remained focused on his workout, striking with renewed intensity the multilimbed mook jong, the wooden dummy shared by multiple kung fu styles. Stripped to the waist, the cords of his muscles in stark relief in the spotty track lighting of the training room, Hwong Zhi was an imposing figure, tall even among Westerners.

Song was of medium build and possessed singularly unremarkable features. Yet there was a palpable aura of menace about Song, an intensity that radiated from his dark eyes. Comrade Song, as the general now insisted he be called, was one of the few men whom Hwong Zhi truly feared. Hwong, as Comrade Song’s field commander, was a blooded warrior of years’ experience, but something about the much smaller man made Hwong nervous.

The general’s presence in the training room signaled an abrupt end to the inner peace and physical release Hwong normally felt during a workout. The interruption could mean only bad news.

“We have a problem,” Song said without preamble.

Hwong walked to the edge of the mat area, pulling the tape wraps from his hands as he did so. “Yes, Comrade General?”

“Kapalaua and his people have failed. I have just received a report from the field. He is in custody as we speak.”

“It was always a possibility,” Hwong admitted.

“It was wrong to use Kapalaua and his Hawaiians.” Song’s face creased with a frown. “You should have sent a tactical team, and you should have interrogated the prisoner more thoroughly.”

“Had I continued to torture the prisoner,” Hwong countered, “he would have died, taking his secrets with him. When we finally caught him taking photos within the Cheinjong facility, the only thing in his possession apart from the camera was that hotel key. Cheinjong was already compromised. Why not use it to bait the trap?”

“As you say,” Song admitted. “But in assigning an amateur to pursue the lead, we have lost it.”

“I know Kapalaua’s people,” Hwong assured him. “They will not let their would-be king languish in custody. If necessary, I will help them along, but I doubt I will need to do so. I have contacted them already through the usual channels. Our spy is well-placed within HPD and is relaying the information to the NHL even now.”

“The sensor you gave him could tip off the Americans.”

“Unlikely,” Hwong said. “It is a sterile device. Even if they suspect, they will have no proof.”

“I do not like it.”

“Kapalaua’s involvement will continue to confuse the Americans concerning our involvement and our ultimate goals,” Hwong insisted, “even as Kapalaua himself sows discord and creates chaos.”

“You are still maintaining your timetable?” Song’s expression remained stern, but his tone was less harsh.

“Insofar as it is possible.” Hwong nodded. “I must be flexible, of course, and if Kapalaua cannot be freed in time it may be necessary to fill the void in leadership with personnel of our own. That can be done, however. They trust me and have become accustomed to dealing with several of my best operatives.”

“I remain skeptical concerning this aspect of the plan,” Song repeated.

“It will work,” Hwong insisted. “I’ve been funding Kapalaua and his New Hawaiian League for months, assuring them the People’s Liberation Army will back them covertly in throwing off the shackles of American oppression. I have provided the New Hawaiian League with the necessary weapons and explosives. At the critical moment, the American people will believe their government is dealing with domestic separatist terrorism. That will allow us to continue with the operation, making our demands behind the scenes.”

“It had better work,” Song said. “We can afford no mistakes.”

“I am aware of that, Comrade General,” Hwong said.

“Are you, Hwong Zhi?” Song stared through the larger man. “We are the SST—the Sword of Sun Tzu, the most ambitious covert military operation undertaken in the industrial age. If we are to teach the Americans a lesson about their arrogance, they cannot know what we are doing until it is too late. Isolated terror events are not enough. The disruption of Honolulu must be so total and the threat so real that the Americans dare not retaliate. Only when we have America’s neck in the garrote can we dictate terms to its government in secret.”