Blood Toll. Don Pendleton

or care. Davis dropped and Bando crouched low, ready to crawl out the passenger’s door and make his escape.

      That was when he realized the plastic bag was missing something important.

      The tracking device was gone. Possibly the big, dark-haired haole cop had it. Possibly he had given it to someone else, too. If that was true, someone might be poking at it soon, maybe figuring out where it came from. Bando didn’t know if that was possible; he knew nothing about electronics. Hwong had given him the device, told him how to operate it and explained how best to put it to use in carrying out the Chinese agent’s plan. The loss of the device would not be taken lightly.

      Bando knew a moment of fear, considering Hwong’s reaction. The Chinese had been very specific. Bando was to use the homing device to follow the haole spy and take back to Hwong whatever the spy uncovered. Most importantly, Bando was not to be caught, nor was he to breathe a word of his mission. The connection to Hwong was to be kept secret at all costs. Failure—and worse, discovery of the Chinese—meant more than simply a loss of the precious weapons and money Hwong was funneling to the New Hawaiian League. It meant that Bando’s family—his mother and a younger sister living in Molokai—would be killed. Their deaths, Hwong had promised, would not be swift, nor would they leave this world, as Hwong had put it, “inviolate.” To make his point, Hwong had introduced Bando to the little Chinese with the crazy look, whom Hwong had called Zho Wen. Bando would not soon forget the light of insanity that played behind that man’s eyes. Bando feared no man, he told himself, but this Zho Wen was something less than human. He would pay any price to keep such a creature from his sister and his mother.

      Shaking these troubling thoughts from his mind, Bando stayed low as he climbed out of the police car. On the ground, not far from the corpse of his partner, was the other cop. He was down, clutching a wound in his belly, his face pale and covered with sweat. Bando could tell he had native blood. The Hawaiian cop looked up at Bando, his eyes unfocused with pain.

      “Sorry,” Bando said. He lined up the front sight of his chopped-down Model 29. When the front blade was squarely over the center of the cop’s face, he pulled the trigger.

      MACK BOLAN WENT ABOUT his work efficiently, taking targets of opportunity, the Desert Eagle and the Beretta extensions of his hands. The NHL gunners were nothing special; he had faced fighters better than these countless times. Their numbers, however, gave them a temporary advantage. It took time to defeat odds so slanted against him.

      The soldier ducked back as a blast of buckshot from a sawed-off shotgun clawed the air above his head. He triggered a return volley from the Beretta, the Parabellum rounds stuttering across the second NHL vehicle.

      Diana Kirokawa called out to Bolan. She’d had to work her way around to the rear of the Charger to get a better angle on the NHL gunners. Now, as Bolan looked from his own position near the lead van, he saw that the two HPD officers were down and Bando was no longer in the cruiser. As Bolan watched, the big man ran into the flow of panicked drivers in the far right lane, narrowly missing being run down. Bolan held his fire; he would not be able to take the shot, not without risking hitting someone in a passing vehicle.

      Bando jumped the concrete barrier on the other side and quickly disappeared.

      One of the remaining NHL gunners leaned out too far from his position behind the second van. Kirokawa punched several holes through him with her Glock 19. Two of his comrades were already down, their blood spreading in pools across the pavement. But the NHL action had already provided Bando Kapalaua the diversion and time he needed to escape.

      “Go! Go!” one of the gunmen shouted. The remaining NHL gunners began piling into the second van, which was already moving. Bolan left cover and emptied both of his guns into the rear of the fleeing vehicle, pocking the rear panel doors with holes and spidering the rear windows. Burning rubber, the big cargo van sped off, clipping a civilian vehicle trying to skirt the carnage.

      Bolan ran to Kirokawa. He dropped the magazines in his pistols, reloading from the spares on his blacksuit under his windbreaker.

      “Bando’s escaping,” Bolan informed her. “We’ve got to go.”

      “We aren’t going anywhere.” Kirokawa shook her head. She nodded first to the remaining, bullet-scarred van, then to the police cruiser and the Charger. At least two tires on each vehicle were flat, shot through.

      Bolan’s face darkened. There was nothing to be gained in cursing their luck. He moved cautiously around the side of the Malibu, taking in the scene.

      Kirokawa followed, gasping when she saw what was left of Officers Davis and Charles. “I’ll call for an ambulance,” she said, pulling out her phone, her Glock still held in her right hand.

      “Don’t bother,” Bolan said, kneeling beside the corpses. He checked first Charles, then Davis, just to be sure. “They’re gone.”

      Kirokawa holstered her Glock. “Damn it all to hell!”

      Bolan nodded slowly. Davis’s eyes were open in death. The Executioner, using his fingers, gently closed the man’s eyes. Before Bolan was finished in Hawaii, Bando Kapalaua would answer for his crimes and for these murders. This time, though, he would not answer to a revolving-door system of legal technicalities and soft-hearted judges.

      This time, Bando Kapalaua would answer to the Executioner.