Bolan snapped the razor edge-up against Jalaluddin’s wrist. He found the groove beneath the heel of the Hawaiian’s hand as though he was deboning a chicken and carved. Bolan opened Jalaluddin’s wrist from radius to ulna.
The soldier barely managed to cross his arms in an
X-block as the Hawaiian’s knee hurtled toward his head like a battering ram. Bolan’s arm bones ached like tetanus with the effort of stopping the blow and he lost the razor. Blood showered over the soldier as the big Hawaiian raised his hands and sent a second knee strike and then a third through Bolan’s crumbling defenses. The third knee clipped Bolan’s chin and sent him toppling backward. He managed to pull a decent back roll and stood shakily with his back against the koa. Bolan reached up. His hand closed around the knife he had thrown and he pulled it free from the bark. Jalaluddin came forward, bleeding a river out of his arms, but his feet were shifting like a capoeira expert.
Bolan flung his Buck knife a second time at Jalaluddin’s face. The Hawaiian brought up his mangled appendages in defense and the knife stuck in his already mutilated left palm like stigmata. Jalaluddin stared in disbelief. He tried to pull the knife out but his right hand was nonfunctional. The flashing, all-knowing eyes now registered doubt. Bolan took that moment of his crisis to take three big steps backward. He bent and picked up his broken 600. The scope was gone and the rest of the rifle’s shattered stock fell away as he hefted it. Bolan held an eighteen-and-a-half-inch Remington cold-forged barrel with an action, bolt and a bit of shattered trigger assembly hanging off the end. He took a deep breath and projected far more strength than he had left as he tapped the action into his palm. “Last chance, Musa. Surrender or this gets rough.”
Jalaluddin’s pupils narrowed to pinholes of insanity. His left hand twitched and jerked from severed tendons and nerves misfiring. His right hand hung by threads and the only reason he hadn’t bled to death yet was that the veins had collapsed. Nonetheless he was bleeding rivers.
“Last chance for romance,” Bolan advised. He gauged the insanity of the bleeding-out Hawaiian and, based on his own condition, decided it was now or never. “I won’t bundle you or barbecue you, but I will tenderize you for transport. Hit the dirt and I won’t ask you to raise your hands.”
Jalaluddin screamed. He charged forward, dirt flying from beneath his feet and blood ribboning out of his arms. The big Hawaiian leaped into the air and butterfly kicked at Bolan’s head. Bolan dodged. Jalaluddin twisted in midair and sent a reverse kick with his back leg. It was just about the most athletic martial arts move Bolan had ever had directed at him. He didn’t meet the attack or try to block it. It wasn’t very dignified, but he sat down beneath the flurry of feet and rolled to one side. Jalaluddin literally landed sideways on the koa and kicked off. His right foot scythed for Bolan’s head. If he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes, Bolan would have sworn it was a Hollywood special effect and Jalaluddin was fighting suspended by wires.
Unfortunately for Jalaluddin, he wasn’t.
Gravity still constrained the huge Hawaiian, and jumping, spinning and kicking off a tree left him with almost no momentum or force behind his last blow. It also left him with no ability to alter his course. Bolan stood. Jalaluddin landed and as he did Bolan snapped the barreled action of the Remington into the Hawaiian’s nearly severed right hand. The big man screamed. Bolan drew back and swung the steel like a forehand shot in tennis. Jalaluddin took the bolt assembly to the face. Teeth flew. The cheekbone gave and the bolt assembly burst apart. Bolan summoned what remained of his flagging strength and laid on. He ducked behind Jalaluddin and slammed the action into the man’s left knee. Jalaluddin buckled. Bolan spun and kneecapped the cannibal-prophet-killer’s right leg and dropped him. The man flopped to the ground screaming and screaming. Bolan broke one elbow and then the other as the big Hawaiian flailed his arms in defense. “Kill you!” Jalaluddin howled. “Kill you!”
Bolan took the barreled action in both hands and began letting it rise and fall as if it was a pickax and he was trying to dig a hole through Jalaluddin until he saw China. He laid it on until the Hawaiian was reduced to bubbling and twitching.
Bolan fell back against the koa and sat.
Jalaluddin bubbled and twitched, but he kept on breathing as Bolan had intended.
Bolan laid the blood-crusted rifle barrel across his knees. He took halting, hacking breaths as he struggled to fill his lungs. Slowly the soldier’s breathing returned to normal. He lifted the rifle barrel as he caught sound in the trees. Marwin staggered out of the shrubbery with an M-16 with the bayonet fixed. He had sweated through his uniform and his shirtfront was covered with his breakfast from where he had puked during his uphill, manatee-run through the Hawaiian hillsides. Marwin tottered forward gasping and wiped his chin. “Makaha!”
Bolan nodded. It was just about the last physical action he was capable of. “Marwin.”
Marwin looked around as he bent over and laid his rifle across his knees. “Did I miss it?”
“Yeah.”
Marwin looked as though he might start crying or throw up again. “I’m sorry, bro. I’m so sorry. I just couldn’t keep up.”
“Don’t worry about it, buddy. Could have used you, but be glad you missed it. It wasn’t pretty.”
“You okay?” Marwin straightened. “You don’t look so good.”
“I’ve been better,” Bolan admitted. “How’s De Jong?”
Marwin stopped short of whimpering. “My man’s dead…”
“I’m sorry.” Bolan was starting to believe Marwin had serious man-crush issues with his boss. “He really came through. The Philippines lost a warrior today.”
Marwin snuffled. “You know? He really liked you, and Koa. He loved rolling with Rind. He died like a gangsta. I know he’s glad. He’s up there, upstairs, and proud.” Marwin wept openly. “I’m Filipino.” He slammed his fist against his chest. “Original Gangsta, for life. Jagon De Jong? He will live in the hearts of all OGs, in our Islands, in these Islands, for life.”
Bolan coughed and felt it around his floating ribs. “I’ll always remember him.”
Marwin blinked and gave Bolan a lip-quivering smile. “That’s very kind of you.”
“You don’t got any water, do you?”
“No, sorry, bro.”
“That’s all right. Thanks for coming on my six. It means a lot.”
Marwin stared disbelievingly at the bubbling side of beef that had once been Musa Jalaluddin. “You took him? Hand-to-hand?”
No snappy comeback came to Bolan. The soldier just concentrated on breathing. “He just had to be stopped.”
Marwin looked at Bolan with man-crush eyes. “Dude, can I roll with you?”
“Dude, you and me been rolling for days.”
Marwin blushed.
“Do me a favor?”
Marwin nodded eagerly. “Anything!”
“Take care of Belle. I’ll deal with her creditors, but don’t let her get into any more messed-up shit meantime.”
“You know?” Marwin wiped his nose with his giant wrist. “That was pretty much my job already, until you showed up.”
Bolan and Marwin looked upward as military helicopters thundered overhead.
“You want me to get you some water or something?”
“Do you know CPR?”
Marwin started crying again. “You’re not going to die, are you?”
“No, but you could sit with me for a while until Rind gets here.” It took all of Bolan’s remaining strength to turn his head and look at Jalaluddin. “And don’t let that bastard croak. I want to have words with him.”
Chapter 20
Tripler Army Medical Center
Bolan and Koa sat in wheelchairs and took in the sun. Bolan didn’t feel as though he needed one; he had no specific life-threatening injuries.
The general prognosis was combat fatigue and having been beaten to a pulp. He wasn’t going to argue as Melika rubbed his shoulders. Hu was rubbing Koa’s. The Hawaiian was going to be off active duty for the Farm security detail for a while. Tripler was the headquarters of the Pacific Regional Medical Command and it was one of the most gorgeous hospitals on earth. Hawaii was a good place to be injured or wounded. Bolan glanced up as Rind and Belle entered the solarium. Belle’s arm was in a sling.
Bolan lifted his chin at her injury. “How’s the arm?”
Belle made a face. “It’s going to take time.”
“Kick the drugs, get back in shape, and someday I may call upon you again.”
Belle smirked. “You’re cute.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know.”
“Where’s Marwin?”
Belle’s face fell. “He took Jagon home. To his family. To see him buried. I couldn’t go. It’s…complicated.”
Bolan let that lie. “Is he okay?”
“Oh, the De Jong family loves him. He’ll be fine.” Belle’s lips quirked. “He was practically in love with Jagon.”
“I caught that vibe.”
“He has a serious crush on you.”
Bolan shrugged.
“So do I.”
Melika’s fingers dug a little harder into Bolan’s shoulders.
Belle gave Bolan her best smirk. “A three-hundred-pound Filipino leg-breaker and a transgendered gun moll both have crushes on you. How does that make you feel?”
Bolan considered. “Awesome?”
Koa shook his head. “You know? No shit. You really are my hero.”
Agent Rind grinned and joined Koa in the head-shaking department. “Dude, you are awesome, but do you know the trouble I’m in right now with the Bureau?”
“I can guess, and I’m sorry, but whatever happens? You can keep the machine pistols.”
“Epic!”
“Plus I’ll have my people talk to yours.”
Koa raised his hand. “Can I ask a question?”
“Shoot.”
“What now?”
Bolan stared out into the lush hillsides surrounding Tripler. Hawaii was one of the most beautiful places on earth, a genuine Island paradise, and someone had taken a gigantic stab at destabilizing it. The President of the United States had avoided drinking a radioactive cocktail, and Pearl Harbor had dodged becoming a twenty-first-century version of On the Beach.
But Bolan had to give the enemy their due. Their attack had been nearly flawless. Only his and Koa’s interference as outsider wildcards had turned the tide.
They had met some good people, and some good bad people who had helped. Far too much luck had been involved. The Fukushima water had been contained. Multinational investigations were looking into all levels of the breach, but Bolan had a terrible feeling there was more out there. Musa Jalaluddin was done. The syncretism ohana movement in Happy Valley had been crushed. The fact remained that there was a new player in the centuries-old power struggle in the Pacific. Or it was an old player with a new plan, and Bolan had no idea who it was. Making Jalaluddin talk would be problematic.
“We need to get healthy, Koa. Back in fighting shape. This isn’t over.”
* * * * *
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ISBN-13: 9781460333518
First edition June 2014
Special thanks and acknowledgment to Charles Rogers for his contribution to this work.
PACIFIC CREED
Copyright © 2014 by Worldwide Library
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