Blood Toll. Don Pendleton

altogether beautiful. He could appreciate beauty, he thought to himself. Executing his mission did not mean he could not recognize small wonders of that type. He was still thinking this when he targeted a fleeing woman, her long hair splaying out behind her as she fell to the sand a bloody, crumpled mess.

      Somewhere behind Hwong, Wu’s heavy machine gun opened up, the rhythmic thunder of the weapon as pitiless as the sound of the waves lapping at the now bloody beach.

      “Fan out,” Hwong ordered. “Sweep the beach. Fire at will.”

      A large man in a bathing suit, his physique heavy with muscles, attempted to rush them from the side, perhaps thinking to tackle one of the men, maybe even wrestle a weapon away and turn it on the operatives. Hwong thought perhaps that was what he would do, were the situation reversed. The would-be hero got no closer than ten feet before a burst from Tsai’s UMP dropped him in his tracks. The .45-caliber rounds had made quick work of the poor fool, but still Tsai paused to fire another burst at the prone figure. The man was thorough; Hwong would grant him that.

      The plan called for the team to sweep up the beach to a designated pickup point, where the driver of the Suburban would be waiting for them. It was not far; the purpose of the exercise was not to cover a great deal of ground, which would only expose them to possible counterattack. No, the purpose was to create as much death and fear as possible, violating this idyllic tourist spot and notifying the Americans that they were not safe, even in the “paradise” that was Hawaii.

      When the authorities reacted to this seemingly pointless act of terrorism, it would destabilize them all the more when the SST’s Honolulu operation continued to roll on. Dealing with the aftermath of a terrible public shooting, they would be unprepared for a malicious incursion on their own soil, a choke hold that the SST’s sleeper cells had been planning for the better part of a decade.

      IN HIS HOTEL ROOM, Mack Bolan sat on the edge of one of the twin beds. A quick shower and a few cups of coffee from the two-cup coffeemaker in his room eased his sore muscles and got him awake and functioning. Now he contemplated his latest care package from John “Cowboy” Kissinger, Stony Man Farm’s armorer and weaponsmith.

      The Stony Man courier delivered the package late the previous evening at Bolan’s request for additional firepower. Kissinger had provided extra ammo, as well as explosives, including incendiary and conventional grenades, not to mention several remote-detonated plastic-explosive units. There was even a tactical folding knife, made by German-based Boker, which Bolan clipped to one of his pockets.

      The centerpiece of Kissinger’s latest offering, however, was a modular FN SCAR-L, a light combat assault rifle chambered in 5.56 mm NATO rounds. Fed by Kissinger’s specially modified M-16 magazines, the weapon could fire 600 rounds per minute in full-auto. The fire group also had a semiautomatic mode, but no provision for burst fire. This version had a short barrel, an adjustable plastic stock, an Aimpoint optical sight and plastic forward grip, with a SureFire combat light and LaserMax laser sight mounted to its accessory rails.

      Kissinger had included separately an FN EGLM 40 mm grenade launcher with ammunition. He had also sent a tactical harness, allowing Bolan to sling the weapon freely under his right shoulder. It was short enough that he could conceal it, somewhat awkwardly, beneath his three-quarter-length windbreaker, though the barrel would be exposed. It would do for the Executioner’s purposes, however.

      Bolan placed the magazines and several grenades in his green canvas war bag. He would sling the bag over his shoulder after shrugging into the FN SCAR’s harness, covering the works with his windbreaker in an effort not to terrify any casual observers.

      Bolan’s secure satellite phone began to vibrate. He flipped it open and put it to his ear. “Striker,” he said.

      “Hey, Striker,” Barbara Price said. “How are you holding up?”

      “All right,” Bolan said.

      “No word on Kapalaua?” the Stony Man mission controller asked.

      “No,” Bolan said. “HPD is working on it, but he’s gone to ground. He took down two of their own, so they’re highly motivated, but it’s clear Kapalaua’s not working alone. Somebody’s running him.”

      “The Chinese, you mean.”

      “If that’s who we’re dealing with. I was hoping you could fill in the blanks with the materials I couriered to you.”

      “Bear has some information for you, in fact,” Price told him. “It’s fairly extensive. I’m transmitting a text file to your phone, but he’ll give you the highlights.”

      “Thanks, Barb.”

      “Watch your back, Striker,” Price said.

      The connection was transferred to Kurtzman.

      “Hey, big guy,” Kurtzman said. “You receiving the file?”

      “Coming through now,” Bolan acknowledged.

      “Here are the highlights. The numbers you found, which Jimmy Han must have uncovered after he penetrated Cheinjong, are a hexadecimal code. Specifically, the sample he transcribed corresponds to command and control codes. These are so new, I didn’t recognize them at first—it was Akira who spotted them.”

      Akira Tokaido was the youngest member of the Farm’s cyberteam, an expert hacker in his own right.

      “Command and control for what?”

      “The complete stats and abstract are in the white paper we’re transmitting to you,” Kurtzman said, “but the codes are for something the Chinese have been developing in secret for a few years now.”

      “There’s no doubt?”

      “None,” Kurtzman confirmed. “The housing you sent us matches up with what little intelligence we’ve got on the system. This is guarded at the highest levels of the Chinese government, but like with everything, there have been some leaks. We don’t know what the Chinese call it, but the CIA calls it EMPeRS, ‘the Emperor.’”