Pacific Creed. Don Pendleton
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Koa was Stony Man Farm’s current and only resident Hawaiian blacksuit. He had been a Military Police officer in West Germany before the Wall had fallen, and at the frantic end of the Cold War, as the U.S.S.R. fell, he’d specialized in what could best be described as “extracurricular scouting activities” for Uncle Sam on both sides of the border. Being Hawaiian, he couldn’t blend in with the native population, so Luke Koa had highly developed sneaking, peeking and, if it was called for, taking down skills. In essence he’d been a Special Forces border patrolman, and he had an unparalleled nose for trouble and things that did not belong.
When the current Hawaiian mission had come up, Koa had been an obvious choice as an asset. Bolan had brought up the mission parameters and Koa had volunteered. Kurtzman had kicked it up the chain.
Kurtzman liked and respected Koa. Everyone at the Farm did, but the man was by training a soldier, a policeman and a scout, not an undercover operative, and all signs indicated he would be operating against his own people. A very violent and dangerous splinter group, but they were still his own. Nonetheless Koa was an ace card they could not afford to hold back. He’d volunteered for the job, and the powers that be had agreed. “We have permission.”
“Then tell Koa I’ve had a serious contact in Chinatown. Send him everything I’ve sent you to review. Tell him he’s active, and I need him.”
“He activated himself. When I told him you had gone undercover in Chinatown he took the initiative and got on a plane. He’ll hit Honolulu International tomorrow at
10:15 a.m. Pickup not required. He’ll arrive at the safehouse in a green Jeep.”
“Copy that. Will rendezvous at safehouse. Tell him I’m going by Matt Cooper. Striker out.” Bolan emerged like Orpheus out of Chinatown’s darkest alleys. He shook his head at the physical carnage he’d left behind him and the questions it had raised. “Bundling…” Bolan mused.
Chapter 2
Honolulu Safehouse
“Bundling sucks, Matt. You don’t want any part of it.” Luke Koa feigned a crouch. Bolan fell for it and jumped. The soldier hit his apogee as Koa grinned. Gravity pulled Bolan down and Koa made a jump shot. His three-pointer floated inches past Bolan’s fingertips and caught nothing but net. Hawaii was Koa’s turf, and the safehouse driveway and its basketball net were swiftly becoming his yard. “I thought you haoles were supposed to be the masters of the three-pointer.” Koa was smiling. “You’ve been eating mine all morning.”
There was no getting around the fact that Koa was taking Bolan to town. “Haven’t seen you dunk yet.”
“You keep your six-footer shit to yourself, and now it’s nine.” The Hawaiian soldier didn’t smile often. He was built like a middleweight who spent a lot of time under a bench press. Koa shot Bolan a grin. “But we can go to twenty-one if you want.”
The Hawaiian surged forward and pulled a Harlem-Globetrotter-worthy up-and-under. His layup was gorgeous to behold. He sighed at Bolan with immense false sympathy. “Eleven.”
Bolan retrieved the ball and passed it back. “What do you know about Lua?”
Koa shot for fun and sank a basket from the curb cut that served as the top of the key. “You mean Kapu Ku’ialua?”
Bolan caught the ball and passed it back. “Yeah.”
Koa dribbled to the corner of the driveway. “What do you know about it, Matt?”
“Lua means ‘bone breaking.’ It’s the traditional martial art of the Islands.”
“Well,” Koa acknowledged, “that’s the Wikipedia version.”
“So?”
“So it’s kapu.” Koa sank another basket.
The Hawaiian for Dummies definition of kapu was “taboo,” but if you looked deeper into the language and culture the word was an intricate blend of “sacred,” “consecrated,” “restricted” or perhaps even “marked off.” He shot the ball back. “There are three Lua schools within walking distance, Koa. I can sign up today.”
“Where are you from again?”
“East coast.”
“Okay, haole. You go down to your local strip mall. You pay your three hundred dollars, buy your American-flag harem pants and get your black belt in Rex Kwon Do in twelve easy lessons. Do you learn anything?”
“I take your point, but I think I met a Lua master last night and the only thing that saved me was the slapjack I’d palmed. I broke his hands while he was in midmonologue.”
Koa shook his head sadly and sank his shot. “We were warriors once. Nothing’s what it used to be.”
“Yeah, and now there’s a nativistic murder spree going on. Will you tell me about bundling?”
“Well, they say that back in the day, a Koa—a Hawaiian warrior of the royal class—studied Lua. A true master could defeat an opponent, dislocate every joint in his body, and then reset them again. Though sometimes the victim died from shock.”
“That’s bundling?”
“No. According to legend, there’s another side to Lua. A Koa might defeat an opponent in single combat, dislocate all his joints and then fold him up like a cricket.”
“Bundling him.”
“Yeah.”
“Then what?”
“Then he’d be roasted and eaten. At least, that’s the story.” Koa sank another basket. “Why do you ask?”
“Last night a man told his three buddies to bundle me.”
“That’s messed up. You sure they weren’t Amish or something?”
Bolan laughed. “They were not plain.”
“Sounds like we have a problem. What’s the plan? I infiltrate?”
“We both infiltrate. You’re my ticket in.”
Koa looked Bolan up and down. “Good luck, Your Caucasianess.”
“I’m getting some help with that.”
“Should be interesting.”
Bolan lifted his chin at a red Jeep coming down the street. “You’ll get to see it now.”
CIA groomer Pegarella Hu barely cracked five feet. She literally jumped out of the Jeep with what looked like a massive fishing tackle box tucked under her arm. In South Pacific intelligence circles she was famous for her smile, her designer cupcakes and her ability to facilitate field operation role camouflage. Her cereal-box-worthy grin faded slightly as she looked at Bolan from head to toe. “You’re the one I’m supposed to Island up?”
“Yup.”
“This should be interesting.”
Koa nodded. “Yeah, that’s what I said.”
* * *
“You ready for your big reveal?” Hu asked.
“Can’t wait, Peg,” Bolan replied. His skin and scalp were alternately burning and tingling. The soldier stood, turned and looked at himself in the mirror.
“Well, fuck me running with a pitchfork,” Koa said.
Wearing only a pair of boxers, Bolan stared at himself. He had to admit it was an impressive sight. Hu had taken her CIA grooming skills and gone to town. She had depilated Bolan from his upper lip to his insteps. Hu had thickened, coarsened and extended Bolan’s naturally black hair into a shag. She had thinned his eyebrows and created a few other minor miracles with the help of cosmetics, but it was Bolan’s skin that was most impressive.
The soldier