Pele's Fire. Don Pendleton
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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 in line behind it, nearly sideswiping a taxi in the process. Three more guns, at least, and their pursuers had a chance to flank them now.
“We have a second chase car,” Bolan told his driver. “If you’re not thinking of someplace we can take them, now’s the perfect time to start.”
2
With Aolani driving, Bolan had no opportunity to mark the streets they followed on their winding course. A few landmarks stuck in his mind, but he was focused on the chase cars that kept pace with Aolani’s Datsun, regardless of the rapid zigzag course she set.
“Where are we going?” Bolan called to Aolani from his place in the backseat.
“I’m not sure, yet,” she answered, her voice cracking from the strain.
“Come up with something,” he responded. “If the cops get in on this, we’re done.”
“I’m thinking, damn it!” Then, as if by sudden inspiration, “How about the Punchbowl?”
Bolan knew something about the Punchbowl Crater from his visits to Oahu in the past. It was the cone of an extinct volcano, used at various times for human sacrifice and tribal executions, as a rifle range for the Hawaii National Guard, as an artillery emplacement protecting Pearl Harbor and finally as a national memorial cemetery for U.S. servicemen killed in the Pacific Theater during World War II. It had been years since Bolan had visited the site himself, but he knew there were public access roads and acreage for hiking.
He supposed it would do.
“How far?” he asked Aolani.
“We’re halfway there. I take Ward Avenue to Iolani westbound, loop around to San Antonio, and there we are.”
“Do it,” Bolan said.
Polunu gave a little groan and settled lower in his seat.
Bolan ignored the turncoat revolutionary, instead concentrating on the mechanics of the firefight that was now unavoidable. He had one pistol and 120 rounds of ammunition against six armed men in two vehicles. He’d faced worse odds and lived, but every firefight was unique, distinct and separate from all those that went before it.
He didn’t think the chase cars carried any armor, but he wouldn’t know for sure until he tested them, and Bolan wasn’t ready for a running battle on a public street.
If they were armored, he was screwed.
And if they weren’t, he still faced odds of six to one, with no strategic information other than the fact that one of his assailants had an automatic weapon, probably a 9 mm.
In his worst-case scenario, the enemy would corner him and keep his head down with suppressing fire, while they encircled him and took him out. They wouldn’t find it easy, but it could be done.
He needed an edge.
Six men, 120 rounds. One magazine per man, if things got truly desperate. And if it came to that, if he was still alive and on his feet after the smoke cleared, he would be in need of resupply before the mission could proceed.
It was bad timing for an ambush, but the Executioner was used to that.
The only good time for an ambush came when he was ambushing his enemies.
And maybe, in the Punchbowl, he could do exactly that.
“Here’s Ward,” Aolani announced. “We’ve got about a half mile, maybe less, till we’re on Iolani Avenue.”
“Just get it done,” Bolan replied.
“Okay, okay!”
She wrung a bit more speed out of the Datsun, weaving in and out of evening traffic on Ward Avenue, northbound. Horns blared behind them after each maneuver, and continued bleating as the chase cars followed Aolani’s lead. The second group of hunters clipped a taxi but kept going,