Pacific Creed. Don Pendleton
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when he did it turned him ruddy and coppery. Agent Hu had stained his skin with a Da Vinci–like grasp of color. She had artificially tanned him but now his skin had a subtle but unmistakable golden base. Bolan and Koa looked nothing alike—and Hu had made Bolan’s skin several shades darker—but she’d given Bolan the same complexion as Koa.
Hu had also chemically tightened Bolan’s pores to give him the porcelain skin look. There wasn’t much to be done about his nose, cheekbones or chin, but Bolan looked like a product of the cultural crossroads the Hawaiian Islands had become. The haole was there in his bone structure for everyone to see, but by dint of Agent Hu’s artistry, if Bolan claimed to have a Hawaiian father or said he was half Portuguese and half Samoan, no Islander would dispute him at first glance. The lines and cicatrices of his numerous battle scars would only cement the deal. “You’re amazing.”
Hu shot him a smile. “I know. Listen, a lot of the work won’t last much more than the week. With three-quarters of your pores closed you need to worry about overheating if you overexert.” She gazed at Bolan in open appreciation. “And your beard and chest hair will start reasserting themselves ASAP.”
“What about the hairdo and the skin?”
Hu laughed. “It’ll take a chemical peel or a month to undo what I did to your skin, and if you want your hair back to normal you’ll have to let it grow out or come and see me.”
“What if I don’t want to come back? What if I asked you to stick around for a while?”
Hu perked an eyebrow. “What exactly are you saying, sunshine?”
“I like your style. I’m forming a posse. You want to be deputized?”
“Love it,” Hu responded. “But I’m not a field agent.”
“I know, but I’m thinking I need a girl on the ground who can blend in, run interference and run errands Koa and I can’t.”
Hu wrinkled her nose delightfully. “I don’t know how I would clear that with my superiors.”
“My people will clear it with your bosses. Can you shoot?”
“I’ve got an AK hidden in the Jeep.” Hu spread her hands and feet wide in invitation. “And if you want to see where I keep my PPK? We’ll just need to have ourselves a game of Treasure Island.”
Koa nodded. “I like her.”
Bolan met his own cobalt-blue gaze in the mirror. “What about the eyes?”
“I have three pairs of extended-wear browns for you, but since we’re already working you as a pleasing example of hybrid vigor, I’d stay with your oh-so-arctic blues. It’s downright striking, and you only have one chance to make a first impression. I say we throw off the opposition with your disturbing power.”
Bolan nodded at his reflection. “Koa?”
Koa let out a long breath as he took in Bolan’s transformation. “What Peg said. Given what the girl has done? You’ll have the power to seriously freak out some locals.”
Koa took a notebook out of his back pocket that looked as if it had seen heavy use in the past forty-eight hours. “Here’re some notes I made for you. It’s too late to teach you any slang much less the language—you’ll just screw it up. The good news is when my parents moved to the mainland some of our family was already there. I had a half cousin I barely knew. He dropped out of high school, moved to the east coast with some girl and just disappeared. You’re him.”
“What’s my name?”
“Makaha,” Koa said.
Bolan admired the randomness of it. “So we’re cousins?”
“That’s right. That gives me all rights to introduce you around and defend your ignorant, mainland-corrupted ways.”
“Nice.”
“I thought so.”
“So what’s the plan?”
“You’re looking for murder, mayhem and a native uprising?” Koa asked.
“That’s the current theory.”
“Then we go to my old stomping grounds. The most violent place in the Islands.”
“Where’s that?”
Koa nodded knowingly. “Happy Valley.”
Happy Valley, Maui
“You want to turn back?” Koa lifted his chin at the sliding-glass doors of the Takamiya Market as he drove. “This is where we U-turn.”
Bolan had spent the island-hopper flight and the drive studying Koa’s rather extensive notes on Hawaiian crime, culture and Bolan’s alias. He lowered the minor tome and gazed out the window of the ancient Toyota Land Cruiser the CIA had provided. Outwardly, the 1970s vintage 4 x 4 looked as if it was held together by rust and primer. Underneath the chassis, the engine and the suspension were tip-top. Bolan ran his eyes over the seemingly sleepy island borough. Happy Valley didn’t look like a ghetto, much less a slum. The heartachingly blue skies, lush hillsides and palm trees did a lot to dispel that, but there was obviously trouble in paradise.
The ironically named Happy Valley was a hotbed of drug dealing, prostitution and gang-related crime. At the end of the day, criminals who wanted to make a mark on the island had to come here and pay respect to the locals or try to carve it out of them. The local vibe was very strong, and the code of silence was even stronger. “This is where you did your damage?” Bolan asked.
“Back in the day, Matt.” Koa nodded.
“Then keep your eyes on the road.”
“Hell with that,” Koa countered. He took a right off the main drive. “I want a beer.”
“It’s not even noon!” Hu said.
“You want to meet the local royalty?” Koa asked. “Now is the time.”
“Is this like having cannelloni on a Tuesday with the dons in Jersey?”
“Yeah, except these dons don’t need help to break every bone in your body. Oh, and do me a favor, Matt.”
“What’s that?”
“Don’t piss off the Samoans.”
Hu sighed. “That’s good advice.”
“Don’t piss off the Samoans,” Bolan repeated. “Got it.”
“Good, make that your mantra. I don’t want to die today.” Koa pulled up next to a wall that was blank save for a door and bracket where a sign had been torn off. Bolan noted three bullet strikes in the stucco. “Where are we?”
“Melika’s. It’s named after the woman who used to own it. I made a call, and her daughter owns it now.”
“What’s her name?”
“Melika.”
Bolan’s phone rang. It looked like an old, battered, first-generation ’droid, but it was actually state-of-the-art Farm technology. Bolan answered. “Bear.”
“You’ve stopped.”
“Yeah, Koa wants a beer.”
A picture appeared on Bolan’s phone. It was a satellite image of Happy Valley.
“You want to see something interesting?” Kurtzman inquired.
“Always.”
The satellite image zoomed in. Bolan made out the Land Cruiser. A superimposed green dot blinked on Melika’s. “Really.”
“The tracker you placed on your assailant in Chinatown is in that bar.”
“Well, that’s convenient. If I don’t contact you in half an hour, get worried.”
“I’m