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Molokai Forest Reserve
Sunday, 9 May
1235 Local Time
When the barracks door opened, Charlie tensed and broke out in a cold sweat. She relaxed a tiny bit when two guards entered carrying boxes, a third man maintaining watch with his rifle held across his chest. In the seconds between the sound of the lock and the entrance of the three terrorists, Charlie had been convinced the gargantuan monster who took Lu Kim was returning for another victim. She clamped her thighs at the sudden need to pee.
The guards brought in two boxes the size of totes she used to store quilts and winter blankets, each requiring two hands to carry. They set the boxes on the floor by the first cot and barked orders for the captives to clear the central aisle. One man exited and returned with an empty five-gallon bucket. The previous night, some of the men had stood two cots upright and leaned them together to form a rickety wall around the waste bucket that afforded users a tiny amount of privacy. The bucket carrier kicked over the cots and exchanged his empty container for the one full of waste.
Seventeen people had made a tremendous number of contributions to it. The guard’s features twisted into a mask of disgust as he walked the waste bucket to the door, holding it by the handle away from his body. The contents sloshed over the rim, and some spattered the floor. The other guards laughed when gunk landed on the unlucky man’s boot and he hissed in displeasure.
The trio exited, and the door banged shut and was locked.
Ed Collins, a fellow Texan, was the first to reach the boxes. “Hey, y’all. Food. And water!”
People scrambled to claim meals and bottled water. There had been no breakfast that morning or dinner the night before and nothing to drink either. One tote contained field rations similar to the MREs the US military used except with Asian markings. The water was the type Charlie bought from a warehouse club, still shrink-wrapped. The tote contained forty-eight bottles, or about two and three-quarters bottles for each person.
“Oh, yum.” Betty Pyle’s lips twisted in a sour way when she got her meal open.
Charlie had to agree. Inside her MRE, she found a sealed packet of sticky rice mixed with pungent bits of an unnamed fish. Another packet contained desiccated fruit—pear, maybe—that was almost tasteless. She ate everything and drank a full bottle of water.
Someone had rebuilt the makeshift privy, and already, there was a line for the “toilet.” The sound of urination into the plastic bucket triggered the urge to go for Charlie as well, but she could hold it until the rush passed. She was amazed that people who had not had much to drink in the last eighteen hours could find so much fluid to dispose of
Migliozzi, the baker from New Jersey, belched and returned to the topic of conversation he had been drumming all day. “So who was it, ya think, who killed the guards?”
The loose confederation of leaders had hung together throughout the night, hashing and rehashing everything from how to escape to what the terrorists wanted with them. Would they demand ransom? Would the prisoners be executed on the internet, like those poor folks caught by the Taliban or ISIS? Would the ape-man who’d taken Lu Kim come back to claim more victims?
“Like Charlie said,” Betty responded to the baker’s question, “it was probably her husband, who was a Marine—is a Marine, because once you’re a Marine, you’re always a Marine. So is Ted, though I don’t see him taking out two armed men... not anymore, at least.”
“What is he thinking?” Melissa said. The pretty, slender blond from California was standing close by, in line for the potty.
Charlie and Abel had tried getting to know the California couple early in the cruise, since they were all around the same age. She soon gave it up. Every time either of the vegans made a political or social observation, Charlie felt Abel’s eyes roll so hard they clicked in their sockets. At one point, when Austin was carrying on about gun control with unsupportable assertions, dubious facts, and numerous clichés, she sensed her husband would spontaneously explode. His restraint was admirable, but Charlie was sure it wouldn’t last, so she had steered them to other social contacts—the Leatherneck Legends, for instance.
“I mean, for real?” Melissa continued. “He’s going to get us killed!”
“Pretty sure we’re slated to die anyway,” Dave Draper said. Charlie had learned that not only was Dave the king of car sales in Southern California, but he was also a currently sitting congressman in the US House of Representatives. The pudgy man had a no-bullshit approach she really liked. “I mean, where’s the ransom demand? If they wanted money, they would have already demanded something, right?”
“I believe I agree.” This from the lean Ed Collins, who turned out to be a no-kidding Texas oil baron from Houston, though he wore running shoes, athletic shorts, and a T-shirt with a Just Do It logo rather than boots and a Stetson. He was CEO of a well-supply company that outfitted oceangoing rigs with everything from drill pipe to light bulbs. “These folk ain’t acting like they’re in it for the money.”
Migliozzi threw in, “Maybe we’re supposed to be exchanged for some political prisoners, huh?” That was another idea he’d introduced a couple of times already.
“Who understands their cause?” Montelle wondered in his soft voice.
“It’s oppression, of course,” Melissa said. “Their land was annexed against their will. You, of all people, should understand how greedy white Europeans have built the United States on the backs of oppressed people.”
Montelle laughed softly. “Oh, honey, I own a villa in Italy and a nine-thousand-square-foot house in Beverly Hills. I ain’t in no way oppressed.”
“We should talk to them,” Melissa insisted. She ignored her turn at the bucket to stay and speak her mind. “Let them know we understand their cause and that we sympathize with how they’ve been treated. If we can establish common ground—”
“Fuck common ground.” Charlie had spoken with more force than she’d intended, but once committed, the heat rose in her voice and colored her language, and she let it loose. “And fuck them too. They kidnapped us, killed Tom, and raped Lu Kim. My husband, assuming he’s not dead, is a goddamn US Marine and a veteran of Afghanistan and twice beat the shit out of Mexican drug cartels. Killed a fuckton of them. The three men with him are US Marines, too, and they fought for each other in a faraway jungle to stay alive and to keep your lily-white ass safe from communism—which, by the way, has killed and enslaved more than all the white European settlers of the American continent ever have.” She sucked in a lungful of air as if pausing to reload. “I hope the four of them are out there right now. I hope Abel killed those guards and stole their guns. I hope that because I hope Abel and his fellow Marines take this camp and stomp the everlasting shit out of every goddamn, mother-fucking one of them.”
The entire hut fell silent. Charlie hadn’t realized that she had that much profanity in her. Getting all that out of her system felt like lancing a boil. She regretted none of it.
Melissa’s face, pinched and pale, looked as though she’d bitten a bug in two and swallowed half of it. The woman’s husband appeared at her elbow, as slender and almost as pretty as she. He looked as though he wanted to say something but didn’t know quite what.
Montelle laughed aloud, a bright, brittle sound. “Right on, sister!” he crowed. “Preach it!”
#
MOLOKAI FOREST RESERVE
Sunday, 9 May
1402 Local
By 2:00 p.m., all the strike teams had returned to base camp... except for team three with Makani and the Delphinius gang. The head count came to six Niho Niuhi, seventeen hostages, and thirty-four “advisers”—including the six-man squad chasing the asshole in the jungle, and the three men dispatched to the overlook to intercept anyone trying to enter or exit the remote areas of the forest via the main trail. That made twenty-five in total, including Manu Ho, the leader of the advisers.
Kimo erupted with several choice curses in Hawaiian. Makani and his men could be lost, captured, or dead. For security purposes, only Kimo and Ho knew the position and name of the extraction ship, Kekepi. If Makani was captured, he might give up the location of their Molokai camp under torture, which would make having hostages as human shields a prudent form of insurance.
There was a limit on how long they could wait for Makani and the others. Throwing off the timing was not crucial for a successful conclusion, but logistics being what they were, it would not be good if they missed their exit timing by a wide margin.
Before extraction, they had to destroy all nonportable equipment, burn their papers, scrag the computers, and video the execution of the hostages. At that point, they would march to the rocky eastern shore of the island for the rubber boat ride to the waiting Kekepi.
Kanoa and the creepy little Mr. L—who was a spook of some kind, and no doubt about it—had remained aboard the stolen yacht, from which they would launch the last operation before separating from their advisers and going to ground—assuming Mr. L didn’t double-cross them and throw the Niho Niuhi to the sharks after which they were named.
Kimo stomped to the command hut and slammed the door open. Kenny Po lifted himself up from his bunk in the back of the room, bleary-eyed and sloppy-haired. Hambone, in the bunk next to him, didn’t stir a muscle, but then, a rocket attack up his butt would fail to wake Hambone. The nerd, Alapai, sat in front of a laptop, a mouse under one palm.
“Hey, College Boy!” Kimo snapped his fingers as though suddenly recalling something. “I forgot to save you some poon, bruddah. Oh, well, never mind. I pretty much bored it out, so I doubt your little dick would touch the sides. Maybe next time.”
Alapai kept his gaze fixed on the screen, though he seemed more aware of Kimo than he was letting on.
“Gimme the sat-phone thing,” Kimo demanded. “The fancy spy one.”
With a tilt of his head, the skinny kid indicated the device lying at the end of the table. Kimo snatched it up and stabbed the buttons to establish a secure communication link with Kanoa. When the leader of the Niho Niuhi answered, Kimo wasted no time relaying the bad news.
“Some dumb fuck hit us this morning, killed two guys. Not our guys. The other guys.”
“What? Who?” Kanoa’s voice came through strong, although clicks and pops marred the transmission.
“I don’t know who,” Kimo admitted. “I sent a patrol out after him, but they haven’t come back yet.”
Kanoa cursed then went quiet for a long moment. “Okay, it doesn’t matter. Does it? Maybe we should advance the timetable. Hold on. No, I’ll call you back. I need to discuss this with Mr. L. Stand by the phone.”
Without warning, the line went dead. Kimo squeezed the plastic case until it crackled with stress. Discuss this with Mr. L. Fuck. Who was in charge of this operation, exactly?
The civilian guy running free was a nuisance. A fly. A mosquito. This end of the island was practically deserted, with only a few homes and a couple of tiny towns. If he reached somebody’s house and called the cops, they would respond with a patrol car. Next might come a detective, who would have to investigate. Maybe by late, late afternoon, they would send a four-wheeler up the trail or dispatch a helicopter to take a look. The first would be handled by the men at the overlook. As for the second, good luck trying to spot the camp from the air. Either way, it would take Five-O a minimum of twelve hours to mount an effective operation—probably longer. But what if...?
Kimo dropped the phone and paced the room. He ignored the glances from the domino players and pretended not to notice the tense silence. If the Molokai police called the US military, they might send in a combat team. Would they take the word of a lone hunter, or tourist, that a bunch of insurgents were hiding in the middle of the Molokai Forest? And if they did, how long would it take them to plan and execute a mission? Probably hours longer than Kimo expected to be around, given that the military liked to plan, then plan, then plan some more before committing troops. His short time in the corps had taught him that.
Kimo grunted under his breath. Realizing he was slapping one fist into an open palm over and over, he stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Haole motherfucker,” he muttered. Not for the first time, he wished he had a do-over for the missed shots when he had the guy under his gun. There were reasons, of course. Too sleepy, too tired. Caught by surprise, dick waving in the breeze. Hard to shoot straight in those conditions.
Before his bad-conduct discharge from the US Marine Corps, Kimo had qualified as sharpshooter. That he’d missed a shot when it counted chapped his ass. He wanted another shot. Just one. Better yet, he wanted a few minutes of hand-to-hand combat so he could snap the guy’s neck and piss on his corpse.
He jumped when the sat phone jangled.
Kimo reached to answer it before the second ring had started.