Half way to Hawaii

by Torben Sonntag

  At Sports Authority, I buy the crossbow that I wasn’t allowed to test inside the store before my trip to Kahoolawe. Granted, with the crossbow I could kill someone, but it’s intended only for emergencies. At the hardware store, I know where to find the cable ties by now, so the detour does not cost a lot of time.

  Steve is somewhat surprised: "Now you want to kill someone? When we bought the paintball gun, you were against the crossbow."

  "Right," I reply, "I only just imagined what would happen after we shoot a guard with frozen paintballs and he isn’t unconscious, but just falls to the ground. Presumably, he’ll shoot at us, but with real ammunition. I would like to have a plan B then. Plus, I’ve become pretty handy with the cable ties over the past two weeks. Those are great to immobilize people.”

  "As long as you remember to take them with you," Steve casually alludes to the security guard at Kahoolawe that I failed to tie up.

  With the help of Google Maps and my iPhone, we know where on the many curves on the Hana Highway we have to park the car and walk further.

  The rainforest on Maui is relatively easy to traverse. You rarely encounter impenetrable bushes, and if you do, you can usually work around it. We don’t really need our machete, but of course we feel cooler with long knives in our hands. Every now and then, we cut through a branch, but it’s basically just for effect. After about two hours, we start being more careful. To our right, the rippling river we passed by now gives way to high cliffs that fall steeply into the sea. Andrews’ property is situated on a rocky outcrop. So we head for the coast and, therefore, the villa. We only whisper now and do our best not to snap any branches.

  Finally, we reach a clearing. Pretty much in the middle of this clearing, there are several pools that merge into each other through small waterfalls. A low hum suggests a water pump and betrays the artificial origin of the falls.

  At the opposite end of the clearing, we find Andrews' pompous villa.

  We wait and watch the garden. It’s 12:30 p.m.; Andrews probably won’t come back for another four or five hours. However, it would be in our best interest to be as far away as possible when his helicopter returns. Nevertheless, there’s enough time to check everything out without a rush.

  Half an hour later, we venture a little closer and sneak around the southern property line, closer to the house. As noted earlier, there is no road and no neighbors for miles around, and therefore no reason to fence the property. Maybe I’m right and there aren’t even locks on the doors.

  Only a moment later, this beautiful idea bursts when I spot an armed security guard strolling through the garden, visibly bored.

  He seems to have no interest in staying inside the house, not surprisingly in this weather. After a short tour through the garden, he sits down at a pool and hangs his legs in it. Probably without knowing it, he has positioned himself very inconveniently for us. With the villa at his back, he has the majority of the garden and the adjacent forest in sight. If he would be sitting on the other side of the pool, we might be able to sneak up from behind and strike him with the stun gun. But the way he’s positioned now, we have no chance. From this distance, it’s too risky to shoot at him, whether with the paintball gun or the crossbow.

  We can only bring ourselves into position and wait. Steve and I split up. Actually, Steve stays where he is, and I go to the western boundary and lie in wait. As soon as the guard moves and approaches one of us, we’ll attack. If I can’t shoot him, I’ll hide behind a thick tree and Steve will attack him from the side. A brilliant plan; provided the guard doesn’t fall asleep by the pool. Unfortunately, it looks a bit like that just might happen. Anyway, the guy doesn’t move for an eternity. Another problem is the frozen paintballs that won’t keep frozen forever, not even with dry ice in a cooler.

  Finally, the guard stands up and makes a round through the garden. He goes straight towards Steve. I hardly dare to breathe as I flex the crossbow and insert an arrow. It occurs to me that I probably only have one shot, because my antique shooter is not a quick loader.

  The guard approaches Steve and I suddenly hear a "flpp-flpp-flpp," the jerky escape of pressurized air. Steve is shooting at him. The guy staggers back surprised and stunned, but he doesn’t fall. The paintballs are too soft already and burst. After a few seconds, the guard's face is more colorful than Paris Hilton at Mardi Gras. But Steve does a good job: every shot strikes the guard’s head, even though he’s not exactly standing still. But also have to give the guard some credit: although he’s totally surprised and blinded, he stays on his feet and pulls out his gun. Now Steve’s in the thick of it. Fortunately, he realizes this in time and goes into hiding again. His shots stop and the guard returns fire. He shoots blindly into the bush, but with real ammunition.

  Time for me to intervene; I brace my arm and aim. After a moment's reflection, I decide to aim at his upper arm. That seems to be not only more humane than the carotid artery, but also easier to hit.

  I pull the trigger and the arrow launches with breathtaking speed. It races towards the security guard, but much too far to the right. Damn, if that asshole vendor had let me shoot in the store, I would have known the crossbow has a right twist to it!

  The arrow misses its target, but nevertheless hits the empty hand of the watchman. Surprised, he turns in the direction of the arrow and opens fire in my direction. I quickly drop behind a fallen tree, which is my cover.

  Shortly thereafter, I hear a thud and the shots end. I carefully peek out from behind the tree, and see Steve with a thick branch in his hand. In front of him, the guard lies unconscious on the ground.

  "Fuck modern weapons - caveman tactics are still the best!" Steve shouts, "Classic whack-a-mole!"

  "Great, scream louder - if there’s anyone in the house, they now know we’re here," I reply.

  "They would have probably heard the shots before my screaming, don’t you think?"

  Hard to argue against that, so I walk out of my hiding spot and across the lawn towards the two, removing the cable ties from my pocket.

  With a polished routine, I bind the guard's hands and feet together, check the tightness of the restraints and nod satisfied.

  "One might think you’ve done this before," says Steve.

  "The opportunities have accumulated lately. Should we leave him here?"

  "No, tourist helicopters are constantly flying around in this area. It wouldn’t make a good impression if a motionless body were lying here in the grass. Someone might end up calling the cops."

  Together, we pull the fat pig of a security guard behind the nearest bush. In fact, he’s not only fat, but also muscular: buffalo hump, beer belly and upper arms as thick as my thighs. I can easily picture him in a leather jacket with a visor-less helmet on a Harley. At least we’re able to somewhat roll his rotund body; otherwise we would have little chance to move this fat bastard.

  The gentleman now well hidden and properly tied under the nearest bush, we go on towards the house. The patio door is open.

  "Should I go in and lock it from the inside?" I ask Steve.

  "Why would you?"

  "Well, I’m sure you’ve already come up with a great idea for breaking open a door. It would be a shame if you can’t try it now! "

  "I was thinking something along the line of how I took the guard out: take a run und kick!"

  "How subtle!"

  We enter a spacious living room that merges into a decent country kitchen. The walls are built of dark stone and a fireplace is embedded opposite the entrance door. The dark wood ceiling and rustic décor give the feeling of being in a ski lodge.

  "Maybe his chalet in the Alps is tropically decorated..." speculates Steve.

  "A fireplace in Hawaii is like an air conditioner in an igloo," I note.

  What an odd feeling: I always pictured burglary as sneaking with a flashlight through strange apartments at night. Now we’re in a rich villa with an unconscious guard out front, in broad daylight and looking for - well, what are we actually lo
oking for?

  "Let's hope Andrews has a home office, otherwise it’s all useless," says Steve.

  That’s it! We’re looking for an office. But what exactly are we looking for in this office?

  The living room includes a spacious parlor with a generous glass wall and view of the Pacific Ocean. There’s not only a pool table and several leather chairs here, but also a bar that has to be one the best stocked on Maui.

  I'm nervous; the house is huge and there may well be more guards. Steve apparently feels similar. While passing a vase, he accidently knocks it from its base and catches it just in time with trembling hands.

  "Maybe a drink to calm down?" I suggest.

  "Later. I want to get out of here as soon as possible!"

  The parlor is a dead end, so back into the living room. From there, a staircase leads upstairs. After my experience in Shanghai, I'm not too keen on upper levels. They have a major drawback: you can’t exit from them very easily! On the ground floor, there are several entrances and windows, providing many escape routes. But upstairs you sit like a mouse in front of a trap.

  There’s no way around it though; we didn’t break in to inspect the parlor.

  The upstairs hallway leads to only two doors. Through the first, you enter into a spacious bedroom with an en-suite bathroom. With the east-facing windows, you have the perfect morning sun here. The bathroom is really modern: a rain shower and a sunken tub for two complete with Jacuzzi leave little to be desired.

  The floor-to-ceiling windows offer a stunning view over the cliffs and the small pier, about 150 feet below us.

  A safe is located in the closet. We comb through the drawers and folded clothes, but the key is not so easily found. Too bad, people often keep the key close to the vault, but Andrews doesn’t make it that easy on us.

  As expected, the other large room is an office. With windows towards the west and north you are protected against the blazing midday sun, but can enjoy the sunset and have a fantastic ocean view. If this were my house, I would have designed it exactly the same way.

  At least we have a clear view into the garden and the entrance to the house. Should someone approach, we’ll see him early.

  Despite the sick feeling in my stomach and the urge to get away as quickly as possible, I can’t help but enjoy the incredible view for a moment.

  Steve has already dedicated his attention to the wall cabinets, opening drawers and inspecting various other compartments. I stand in front of the desk and read the labels on the files in the built-in shelf behind it. As I go along, nothing immediately strikes my eye. No wonder, it’s pretty unlikely that things like "weapons smuggling" or "drug sales 2012" are written on any of them.

  I photograph everything; you never know. Then I grab a couple of folders and quickly scan through them.

  The files are full of forms that document the proper disposal of explosives. The certificates are from a company called "S&C - Search and Clean-up of Ballistic Weapons." Each form includes the date, time, location, amount and type of explosive device destroyed. The certificates are each signed and stamped with S&C’s own logo. So the company apparently checks itself, otherwise the papers would probably be stamped with an official US Army emblem.

  "How do you destroy explosives?" I ask Steve.

  "I would just blow them up, but I guess nowadays, they must recycle them somehow."

  "Hmm," I say confidently, put back the files and dedicate myself to the other side of the shelf.

  "Don’t touch anything!" echoes throughout the room. Startled, I look up. Struck by lightning: the fat-ass guard is standing at the door with a gun in his hand.

  "How the hell ..." stammers Steve.

  A glance at his wrists suggests his pain threshold is higher than the resilience of the cable ties. The ties have cut deeply into his skin, yet he has clearly torn through them.

  The porker is black and blue in the face. The paintballs were no longer frozen, but obviously still very hard. He’s angry and in pain, but has himself under control. Now just don’t do anything stupid!

  Wisely, we left our weapons outside. Although I still have a stun gun, I would have to get very close to the guy to be able to use it.

  Basically, our only chance is that he makes a mistake and we can surprise him. I’m pondering our current options when I hear a loud noise in the garden. A helicopter is approaching. Any hope goes down the drain.

  Alone, we might have had a chance, albeit a pretty small one. At the right moment, a small distraction and Steve might have been able to conk the guard on the head. But now it's over.

  The helicopter touches down and the engine shuts off. Only the rotor blades cut through the air in idle, making a hissing noise.

  Just one person gets out: Mark Andrews. He flew the helicopter himself and came alone. A glimmer of hope rises: two against two. Perhaps all is not lost.

  As Andrews approaches, he pulls a weapon out of his pocket.

  "You always meet twice in a lifetime," he greets Steve and, in my direction, adds, "but the two of us have not yet had the pleasure. I guess you’re the noble knight who saved his friend from the clutches of evil."

  "Exactly," I say, "my white stallion is waiting in the woods. I also rode him to Kahoolawe to free Steve."

  "Joker," comments Andrews. "Go to the chopper. Quick!"

  Andrews and the porker are experienced: they never let us out of their sight and always position themselves so they keep a good view over us. No chance to attack them. There’s no other choice but to get into the helicopter.

  Steve and I sit in the back, the other two up front. The helicopter takes off briskly. Andrews hasn’t lost his sporting style of flying that I witnessed earlier on Kahoolawe. Flying low, we pass over the rainforest, and just as we fly over the cliffs, Andrews drops into a radical dive and pulls out just above the water’s surface. He flies helicopters like Bob flies planes.

  The pros actually made a minor mistake. They didn’t search us. Unfortunately, this is of no great advantage since we’re unarmed. I still have my stun gun, but I don’t want to use it in the close confines of the aircraft. Apart from that, I only have a digital camera and phone in my pocket.

  I could try to strangle Andrews from behind with the camera strap. When Steve simultaneously kicks porker out of the window, we would then only need to bring the helicopter under control and land. Odds of success are slim to none, but I can’t think of anything better.

  As we pass Hookipa, Andrews pulls the helicopter up. We’re probably not allowed to fly low over the nearby airport. I presume we’ll soon turn left and fly along the slopes of Haleakala towards Kahoolawe, just like this morning when the helicopter startled us at breakfast. But Andrews doesn’t turn, and we fly straight ahead.

  Above the airport, it becomes clear: the journey is not taking us to Kahoolawe. Andrews concentrates on flying and porker checks on us less and less frequently. I take the chance to look for my phone. Fortunately it’s in my cargo pocket, so I might be able to get it out without bending my arms or moving my body too much. We’ve got nothing to lose, so I try to pull it out. Porker looks back at the very moment when my hand is in my pants, but merely grunts something unintelligible and turns his head forward again. After what feels like an eternity, I have the phone in my hand and can reasonably conceal it behind my leg.

  Take a deep breath! What next? Making calls is not possible. Of course I could send a text message, but since I don’t know where we are heading to, it won’t help much.

  With trembling fingers, I add all the contacts from the phone book as recipients. That sounds like overkill, but really those are only the numbers for Bob, Christine and the Swiss.

  I type "Help!" and think about what else I should write. Suddenly, something hard strikes me on the head. Porker caught me in the act and hit me on the head with his gun. With his free hand, he indicates for me to hand him the phone.

  Since the helicopter has no doors, I press "send" and throw the phone out. I don’t know how lo
ng it takes to send a message, but I hope it happens before the phone smashes to the ground.

  My disobedience gets punished with a further blow to the head. However, I am happy to have saved a last remnant of self-determination.

  Even if the message gets delivered to its recipients, it won’t be of much help. Nobody knows where we are. Meanwhile, Maui disappears beneath us and we fly out to the open sea. Maybe Andrews will just throw us out of the helicopter? The sun will be going down soon; it would be a perfect flight for tourists.

  Steve just sits there, his face and body both emotionless. I presume he’s currently saying his last goodbyes.

  But something is wrong here, why aren’t we flying to Kahoolawe? It’s unlikely Andrews is flying over half of the island, just to throw us into the sea. He could have done that just a few miles in front of his property.