Читать книгу Pele's Fire - Don Pendleton - Страница 8

Honolulu, Hawaii

“Here they come,” Tommy Puanani said. “Everyone get ready.”

“Man,” his brother, Ehu, muttered from the backseat of their stolen Ford sedan, “we all been ready for the past six hours.”

“Never mind that,” Tommy snapped. “Just do your job.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

It took iron will to keep from spinning in the driver’s seat and reaching for his younger brother, maybe slapping Ehu’s face. But what would be the point?

Across the street and half a block downrange, six young men wearing dress, blue U.S. Navy uniforms emerged from Club Femme Nu, a strip club known for hands-on dancers.

“There’s Benny, right on time,” John Kainoa said, from the shotgun seat.

So far, so good, Tommy Puanani thought. The cab with Benny Makani at the wheel appeared as if from nowhere, zigzagging through traffic on Kapiolani Boulevard to double-park in front of Club Femme Nu. The taxi was a boxy model, like a poor man’s SUV, that would accommodate six passengers if none of them was claustrophobic.

One young member of the six-pack spied the cab and waved to Makani.

“Gotcha,” Tommy said, as the six men jammed themselves into the seats of the taxi.

Benny Makani keyed the microphone of his dash-mounted radio and said, “Cab 41, with six fares leaving 1673 Kapiolani Boulevard, headed for 909 Halekauwila Street.” His four friends in the stolen Ford received the message via a walkie-talkie, resting on the console next to Tommy Puanani’s hip.

“Exotic Nights,” Kekipi Ululani said, naming the destination based on its address. It was another well-known strip club where some of the dancers provided “special services.”

“Whatever,” Tommy said as he fired up the Ford and nosed into the flow of traffic, following Makani’s cab.

“So, where’s he taking them, again?” John Kainoa asked.

“Nowhere special,” Tommy answered, staying focused on the taillights of the cab a block in front of him. “We tag along, see where he stops, and jump ’em.”

“These Navy SEALs know all that kung-fu shit,” Kekipi Ululani said.

“I told you once already,” Tommy said, “they’re just plain Navy. Get it? Not everybody in the goddamned Navy is a SEAL. Besides, that’s why we’ve got the guns.”

And guns they had, for damned sure. Each of them was carrying a pistol underneath his floral shirt, for starters. Tommy Puanani had a mini-Uzi with a foot-long sound suppressor attached. His brother and Kekipi Ululani both had shotguns, 12-gauge pumps with sawed-off stocks and barrels. John Kainoa was their rifleman, packing a Chinese knockoff of the classic Russian AK-47 with a folding stock and 30-round banana magazine.

“Okay,” Ululani said, sounding somewhat mollified.

“Just be damn careful with them, yeah? No shooting till I say so, or it’s your head on the chopping block.”

Which, in this case, was not just a figure of speech.

They trailed the taxi along Kapiolani Boulevard, eastbound, until it turned into Waialae Avenue, then southeast from there until Makani found the spot he was seeking, underneath the elevated Lunalilo Freeway.

Tommy wondered if the haole sailors recognized their peril, even now. He guessed they were too drunk and horny to concern themselves with street signs or directions. In any case, it was too late to second-guess their driver as the Ford pulled in behind the taxi with its high beams on.

“Remember what I told you,” Tommy cautioned his companions. “No one fires a shot until I do.”

The sailors were unloading as Tommy stepped out of the Ford. They were confused and getting angry now, but Makani had them covered with an automatic pistol, barking at them to undress. The sailors began to argue, but the sight of four more men with firearms changed their minds, and they reluctantly complied.

It was an awkward business, stripping, when they’d had so much to drink. Their stumbling progress made Tommy Puanani nervous, but he hid it for the others’ sake. When the six uniforms were piled up on the asphalt, Makani gathered them and ran them over to the Ford.

“How ’bout you let us keep our Skivvies?” asked one of the now-sober sailors.

“No problem,” Tommy said, and squeezed the mini-Uzi’s trigger, raking them from left to right and back again, his thirty rounds expended in three seconds.

His companions fired, as well, the heavy shotgun blasts, the automatic rifle stuttering and Makani’s pistol.

Five seconds, maybe six, and it was over. Six young sailors were as old as they would ever be.

“All right,” Tommy said. “Put them in the cab. We’ll follow Benny out to Makapu’u and torch it there.” And as an afterthought he added, “Good work, my brothers. We are on our way.”