Retribution, p.1
Retribution, page 1
ALSO BY ROBERT MCCAW
Koa Kāne Hawaiian Mysteries
Death of a Messenger
Off the Grid
Fire and Vengeance
Treachery Times Two
Copyright © 2023 by Robert McCaw
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
While this novel draws on the spirit and history of Hawai‘i, it is a work of fiction. The characters, institutions, and events portrayed are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
ISBN 978-1-60809-556-8
Published in the United States of America by Oceanview Publishing
Sarasota, Florida
www.oceanviewpub.com
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
To my many friends in Hawai‘i, who have so generously shared their love of the geography, culture, and language of the Island and its people with me.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Special thanks must also go to Makela Bruno-Kidani, who has tirelessly reviewed my use of the Hawaiian language, correcting my many mistakes. Where the Hawaiian words and phrases are accurate, she deserves the credit. Any errors are entirely of my doing.
This book would not have been launched without the amazing support of my agent, Mel Parker of Mel Parker Books, LLC. His faith in my work and his tireless efforts made the publication of this story possible.
Many kudos as well to Fauzia Burke and Michelle Fitzgerald at FSB Associates who’ve introduced my books to so many readers.
I would also be remiss if I failed to acknowledge Pat and Bob Gussin, owners of Oceanview Publishing, who have devoted their phenomenal energies to supporting and publishing my work and that of many other aspiring mystery and thriller writers.
CHAPTER ONE
ABOARD THE FREIGHTER Bimi, a bearded figure with brown skin and brutal features stared westward toward Mecca in a brief prayer. The decrepit Philippine freighter plowed down the back of a wave only to rise in a sickening corkscrew motion as it struggled up the face of the next wall of roiling water. Strong northeast winds howled around the bridge and drove heavy seas, tossing them about beneath threatening skies. Lightning crackled, thunder sounded, and driving rain pelted him. The vessel shuddered as if on the verge of coming apart.
The man hated the sea and could only hope to leave the wretched ship before it met its match and sank. He had no fear of death, but he did not want to die—couldn’t die—before completing his mission. Having waited years to avenge the killing of his brother, he carried his brother’s rifle, and Allah had blessed him with the means to use it. The ship lurched again, and only his dread of divine retribution kept him from calling out profanity.
Near nightfall, the winds abated, and the seas calmed. Gulls trailed the vessel, signaling the proximity of the islands to the west. They were close to the point where he would leave the freighter. Alhamdulillah—Praise Be To Allah.
Long after midnight, standing at the rail under a pitch-black sky, he felt the freighter’s engines fade to an idle. The vessel slowed. He listened. A minute later, he heard a boat approaching in the distance. The sound grew louder, but its source remained obscured until, as if from nowhere, a dull black speedboat sidled alongside the Bimi. Even close up, the little craft remained nearly invisible in the darkness.
The Bimi’s crew, steering clear of him as they had throughout the voyage, hauled a rope ladder from a deck storage locker, secured one end to anchor points on the deck, and lowered it over the side. The crew then carried his two cases—one which held his meager personal possessions and the other, long and flat, his precious weapon—down the ladder to the boat.
The captain stepped onto the wing of the bridge and signaled. It was time. No one wished him well when he went over the side. The crew was happy to see him go, and the feeling was mutual. Too close to his objective to be thrown off by a misstep, he concentrated on the rough ropes and narrow footholds of the well-worn ladder as he lowered himself to sea level and stepped into the speedboat.
The man at the vessel’s helm held a gun on him until the bearded man recited the code word. Only then did the small craft pull away from the Bimi, turn west, and race across the ocean toward the Big Island of Hawai‘i.
CHAPTER TWO
HILO DETECTIVE MAKANUI Ka‘uhane stopped under the shade of a giant banyan tree to catch her breath after a ten-kilometer run. She ran a hand through her black hair. Day after tomorrow, she’d bike twenty miles up and down the Hawai‘i Belt Road. Then, after a day of rest, she’d take to the ocean for a mile-long swim in Hilo Bay. She was training for her twelfth Big Island World Championship Ironman. With another month of hard training, she expected to finish once again among the top ten women, maybe even among the top five.
It was still early—before 8:00 a.m.—when her cell rang. The number on the screen told her the call came from the Honolulu Police Department. Her old boss might want to recruit her back to the Honolulu force, but more likely it was bad news. Apprehension rippled through her. Answering, she heard the deep, imposing voice of her onetime commander, head of the HPD anti-terror squad. “Makanui?” he asked.
“Yeah, Brad. It’s been a long time, maybe three years, since we last spoke. You still trying to drag me back to your anti-terror fiefdom?”
“No. You know I’d love that, but that’s not why I’m calling. I’m afraid I’ve got bad news.”
“Somebody die?” she asked.
“No. It’s Angelo Reyes. He escaped from prison last week.”
Not just bad, but terrible news. Makanui pictured Reyes. Short and wiry, his unruly facial hair only partially covered two nasty knife scars, and his cold black eyes telegraphed utter contempt for human life. She’d never forget those eyes. Reyes had been responsible for several terrorist bombings on O‘ahu, resulting in more than a dozen deaths. As a member of the HPD anti-terror unit, Makanui had tracked him for over a year before she and the HPD SWAT team raided his hideout and took him into custody. Unfortunately, during the raid, they’d also accidentally killed his girlfriend.
Reyes declined counsel and represented himself at trial, turning the proceedings into a circus. He showed no remorse, threatening to kill the prosecutor, the judge, and half-a-dozen politicians.
Above and beyond his contempt for the judicial system, he’d displayed particular vitriol toward Makanui, whom he blamed for the “murder” of his girlfriend. After the judge sentenced him to life in prison, he’d turned toward the courtroom audience, pointed a finger at Makanui, and screamed, “I will kill you.” In that moment, she’d seen barefaced evil, and it had left its mark on her psyche. She’d not the slightest doubt that he would make good on the threat if ever given a chance.
“How’d he escape?” she asked.
“The prison wardens are still trying to figure that out,” Brad responded.
“And they have no idea where he is?”
“You got it. We’ve got units on alert, and we’re checking his old associates and haunts. But as you know from your days tracking him down, he’s a slippery bastard.”
“Any reason to think he’s coming after me?” she asked.
“Only what he said in the courtroom at his sentencing.”
“Thanks for the heads-up,” she responded before they disconnected.
At police headquarters later that morning, Makanui headed down the hall to share the bad news with her boss, Chief Detective Koa Kāne. In his office, Koa listened intently as Makanui explained the situation.
“How likely is he to carry out his threat against you?” he asked.
“Hard to say. Reyes would have killed me in the courtroom if he could. Five years in prison might have dimmed his anger, but I wouldn’t count on it.”
“Does he know you’re here on the Big Island?”
“Don’t know for sure, but it wouldn’t be hard for him to find me.”
“Does he have friends or relatives here?”
“Not sure, but I’ll check.”
“Right.” Koa got up and moved to the window, looking out over a picturesque Hilo Bay. “We’ll put out an APB, alert the TSA and airport patrols. We’ll also assign a police officer to work with you,” Koa said.
“I’m fine with the APB and airport surveillance, but I don’t want a babysitter. It’ll cramp my style, and I won’t get any work done.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, I’m sure.”
“You have camera surveillance around your home?”
“Cameras, motion detectors, lights. The whole works.”
“Be careful. Damn careful.”
“I will.”
CHAPTER THREE
THE BEARDED MAN from the Bimi sat alone in the dilapidated barn that served as his temporary home and workshop. A Dragunov sniper rifle lay before him on a long wooden workbench. Once his brother’s weapon, it was now his most treasured possession. With a fevered glow in his eyes, he stroked the barrel of the Russian rifle with the delicacy one might use to caress a lover.
After several moments, he disassembled the Dragunov, cleaning and oiling each part before reassembling it. Then, reattaching the scope, he sighted the weapon at a paper target that hung on the wall at the far end of the barn. He braced the gun against his
She was an infidel. She had tricked and killed his brother, bringing devastation down upon him and his comrades. Because of her, he spent two years in a tiny cell isolated from everything he’d ever known. Alone, beaten, and starved, his hatred had festered until it exploded into a boiling thirst for revenge that nothing could quench.
He inhaled, let his breath out slowly, and gently squeezed the trigger until he heard the click of the firing pin in the Dragunov’s empty chamber. Soon, he thought, he would feel the kick of the weapon as it sent revenge hurdling toward the object of his wrath. He smiled, short on mirth and long on grim determination.
CHAPTER FOUR
THE ALLEY WAS dark, illuminated only where the headlights and spotlights from police cars converged, lighting the area around a body. Called to the scene by the first responding officer, Koa pulled up behind one of the patrol cars and got out. He took in the surroundings. An overflowing trash bin stood to one side of the alley door of a run-down bar. Busted crates and bales of crushed cardboard boxes rested haphazardly against the opposite wall, probably from the nearby grocer. Trash lay scattered across the asphalt, and shards of shattered glass glinted in the artificial light. A grim scene on a dark night. It wasn’t the first crime Koa had investigated in what Hilo police called “crime alley,” and it didn’t look much different than the last time he’d examined a body there.
Moving into the lighted area, he saw blood pooled beneath the body, which lay facedown with its head turned sideways. Approaching closer, he had an uncanny sense that he knew the victim. Kneeling, he pointed his Maglite at the man’s face. Johnnie Nihoa, a small-time local Hawaiian thief. Koa had no doubt the man was dead but still confirmed the obvious by checking for a pulse with his gloved finger.
Koa had a history with Nihoa, having arrested the man more than once and seen him all too often in the jailhouse drunk tank. Koa had twice taken the young man aside, urging him to get his life together. Yet, both times, he’d sensed he was too late. Drugs, bad friends, and the indignities of life without family on the lowest rung of Hawaiian society had already shaped Nihoa’s fate. Given the body before him on the dirty payment, he’d never forget Nihoa’s last words to him: “No worry, māka‘i. I no scared die.”
Now, still in his twenties, Nihoa lay dead in a dirty back alley without anyone to mourn his passing. No one except Koa, who saw the young man as a metaphor for all the lost Hawaiian youth ill-served by their parents, schools, community, state, and country. Sure, they’d made bad choices, but the odds had been stacked sky-high against them from the moment of birth. In Nihoa’s case, a drug-addled, unmarried mother along with extreme poverty made for a tough start in life.
Death was an unwelcome companion on Koa’s lifelong journey. As a youngster, his father died in a horrible sugar mill accident. He found his closest childhood friend hanging from a forest tree, unable to bear the despair of being molested. At eighteen, Koa had gotten into a fight and accidentally killed his father’s nemesis, escaping jail only by covering up the death as a suicide. Riddled by remorse and shame, he volunteered for the Army where in the Special Forces, he saw more death. Maybe worst of all, Jerry, his closest Army buddy, died in his arms from a sniper bullet meant for Koa during their deployment to the disastrous U.S. intervention in Somalia.
Long ago, he’d realized that death had propelled him in many ways, not the least of which was his career in the police force and his rise from a junior detective to the detective bureau chief. Death powered his guilt but also heightened his empathy. His culpability in the death of his father’s tormenter informed his whole investigative approach, and his close encounters with death made him a more compassionate and perceptive officer. Having fooled the system, he was determined to avoid being outsmarted the way he’d deceived the cops who’d investigated his crime. When viewing a crime scene, he tried to think like the perpetrator. Paranoia made him look for things others didn’t see and enhanced his awareness of what might be missing.
The Nihoa types he encountered on the job motivated Koa to teach canoeing to disadvantaged youth, participate in anti-drug programs, talk civics in high school classrooms, and reach out to Hawaiian kids in the lockup. Yet, all too often, his efforts failed to overcome the tragedies of their lives. Too many ended up in jail or dead from drugs or suicide. A few, like Nihoa, died a violent death, but nobody deserved that end. Koa would not let Nihoa pass unmourned, nor would he let his killer or killers escape responsibility.
As was his habit at a crime scene, Koa let his eyes scan the corpse, absorbing every detail, no matter how gruesome. He called it listening to the dead, trying to envision their last moments. It sometimes yielded important clues and always empowered Koa’s empathy for the victims.
Kneeling next to Nihoa’s body, Koa noted sores and bug bites covering the deceased’s legs above his heavily worn sandals and below his basketball shorts. Needle tracks on his arms evidenced his drug use. A blood-splattered Sex Pistols tee shirt suggested Nihoa had been into punk music. A gold neck chain, almost certainly imitation, stretched across the back of his neck below a crest of unruly black hair.
While Koa examined the body, Georgina Pau joined him, trailed by her crime scene techs. Grandmotherly in appearance with more energy than most teenagers, she prided herself on being the best CSI technician in the state. She and Koa had worked countless felony cases together and shared enormous mutual respect. They exchanged greetings.
“Young,” Georgina remarked as she knelt to view the body more closely. “Way too young to die like this.”
“Yeah,” Koa acknowledged.
“You ID him?”
“Johnnie Nihoa. A local kid with a long rap sheet.”
Despite the blood, Koa couldn’t tell what had killed Nihoa. He waited while Ronnie Woo, the police photographer, recorded the scene. When he finished, Koa and Georgina slowly turned the body, revealing multiple bloody stab wounds. Koa counted the injuries. The left arm, abdomen, chest, two vicious cuts to the neck, and a bone-deep slash from the left ear to the corner of the deceased’s mouth.
“Nasty knife wounds,” Georgina said. “Looks like our perp went wild.”
“Looks that way,” Koa responded. This was no ordinary drunken, back-alley knife fight. This killing had been personal and brutal, filled with hatred and rage. Nihoa, Koa thought, had died at the hands of an emotionally enraged killer.
Koa would wait for definitive word from the autopsy, but a quick look at Nihoa’s hands revealed no injuries or broken nails. No defensive wounds. Nihoa, it appeared, had not put up a fight. Maybe he’d been drunk or high, which would square with what Koa knew about the young man’s habits. Koa looked again at Nihoa’s hands. Surprisingly, they were dirty but not covered with blood. Nihoa hadn’t reached for his neck or his belly to staunch the flow of blood. In Koa’s experience, nearly everyone fought back or tried to protect themselves. Nihoa, he speculated, must have been near comatose. He made a note to have the coroner run a tox screen.
Although blood had soaked the left pocket of Nihoa’s shorts, Koa could see something protruding. He carefully fished out a small scrap of paper. There was writing on it, but he couldn’t make it out, and he slipped it into an evidence bag.
A search of the victim’s other pants pocket yielded four coins and a torn, fake leather wallet with two fifty-dollar bills, a five, and a single. One hundred dollars amounted to a fortune for a street urchin like Nihoa, who slept in a shelter on the best of occasions. So where, Koa wondered, had Nihoa gotten the money?
Koa found no car keys, driver’s license, or credit cards but guessed that Nihoa had never owned a car or qualified for credit. Nihoa hadn’t been a good robbery prospect, and despite the hundred dollars in his pocket, nothing about the scene suggested a theft gone awry. Instead, it looked more like an execution.
