The Gates of Hell (Matt Drake 3) (11 page)

“We do know there are no references on the web that tie Cook to Diamond Head, or
Leahi,
to the Hawaiians. We know that Diamond Head is but one of a series of cones, vents, tunnels and lava tubes that run underneath Oahu.”

Ben sipped the hot coffee. “We also know that Cook landed at Kauai, in the town of Waimea. Points to note about Waimea—there’s a canyon there awesome enough to rival the Grand Canyon. The locals of Kauai coined the phrase
Hawaii’s original visitor destination
, as a cheeky taunt toward Oahu. Cook’s statue stands in Waimea near a very small museum.”

“The other thing we know,” Karin responded.  “Is that Captain Cook’s logs and journals are right here.” She tapped her computer. “Online.”

Ben sighed and started flicking through the first of the extensive journals. “Let the fun begin.” He plugged his earphones in and sat back.

Karin stared at him. “Turn it down. Is that the Wall of Sleep? And another cover? Someday, little brother, you’re going to have to get those new tracks down and stop wasting away your five minutes of fame.”

“Don’t talk to me about wasting your time away, sis. We all know you’re the master of that.”

“You intend to bring that up again? Now?”

“It’s been five years.” Ben turned the music up and concentrated on his computer. “Five years of ruin. Don’t let what happened back then wreck the next ten.”

*****

Running on no sleep and minimal rest, Drake, Mai and Alicia decided to take a short break. Drake had been receiving calls from Hayden and Kinimaka since about an hour after the sun came up. The mute button soon resolved that problem.

They rented a room in Waikiki. It was a big Outrigger hotel, packed with tourists, allowing them a high level of anonymity. They ate quickly at a local Denny’s, then headed to their hotel where they took an elevator to their room on the eight floor.

Once inside, Drake relaxed. He knew the benefits of fuelling up on food and rest. He curled into an easy chair near the window, basking as the clear Hawaiian sun bathed him through the French windows.

“You two can fight over the bed,” he murmured without looking around. “Someone set an alarm for two hours.”

With that, he allowed his thoughts to drift away, calm with the knowledge that they had an address on two men who were as close to Claude as anyone could be. Calm with the knowledge that Claude led straight to the Blood King.

Calm with the knowledge that bloody vengeance was only hours away.

*****

Hayden and Kinimaka spent the morning at the local Honolulu PD. The news was that some of Claude’s ‘associates’ had been taken out during the night, but no real news was forthcoming. A club owner called Pilipo was saying very little. Several of his bouncers were in hospital. It also appeared his video feed had miraculously
gone down
when a man and two women had assaulted him sometime before midnight.

Add to that a bloody gun-battle somewhere in downtown that involved more of Claude’s known associates. When armed officers had arrived at the scene, all they found was an empty house. No men. No bodies. Just blood on the floor and a kitchen table that, when dusted, revealed traces of C4.

Hayden tried Drake. She tried Alicia. She pulled Mano to one side and whispered furiously in his ear. “Damn them! They don’t know we have the backing to proceed as we see fit. They need to know.”

Kinimaka shrugged, his big shoulders rising and falling. “Maybe Drake doesn’t want to know. He’ll do this his way, government backing or not.”

“He’s a liability now.”

“Or a poisonous arrow shooting straight for the heart.” Kinimaka smiled when his boss glanced at him.

Hayden was momentarily fazed. “What? Are those song lyrics, or something?”

Kinimaka looked hurt. “Don’t think so, boss. So”—he flicked a glance toward the assembled cops—“what does the HPD know about Claude?”

Hayden sighed deeply. “Not surprisingly, very little. Claude’s the shady owner of a few clubs that may or may not be involved in illegal activities. They’re not high on the HPD’s watch list. Hence, their silent owner stays anonymous.”

“With everything no doubt engineered by Kovalenko.”

“No doubt. It always pays for a criminal to be several times removed from the real world.”

“Maybe Drake’s making progress. If he wasn’t, I think he’d be with us.”

Hayden nodded. “Let’s hope so. In the meantime, we have a few locals to shake down. And you should make contact with anyone you know who might be able to help us. Kovalenko’s started a bloodbath already. I hate to think how it might all end up.”

*****

Ben fought hard to keep the focus at a high level. His emotions were in disarray. It was months now since his life had been normal. Before the ‘Odin thing’ his idea of being adventurous was keeping his modern rock band, The Wall of Sleep, a secret from his mum and dad. He was a family man, a good-hearted nerd with a talent for all things technical.

Now he’d seen fighting. He’d seen men killed. He’d fought for his life. His best friend’s girlfriend had died in his arms.

The adjustment between worlds was wrenching him apart.

Add to that the pressure of coping with his new girlfriend, an American CIA agent, and he wasn’t the least bit surprised to find himself floundering.

Not that he’d ever tell his friends. His family, yes, he could tell them. But Karin wasn’t ready for it yet. And she had troubles of her own. He’d just told her that after five years she should have moved on, but he knew that if the same thing ever happened to him, it would destroy the rest of his life.

And the remaining members of the Wall of Sleep were texting him constantly.
Where the f*** are you, Blakey? Get together tonight? At least text me back, wanker!
They had new tracks ready to lay down. It was his bloody dream!

Placed in jeopardy now by the very thing that had given him his big break.

He thought of Hayden. When the world came down, he could always switch his thoughts to her and everything felt a little easier. His mind drifted. He kept on scrolling down the pages of the online eBook that someone had transcribed from Cook’s own scribblings.

He almost missed it.

For suddenly, right there amidst the weather reports and the longitude and latitude notations and the brief details about who was punished for refusing daily rations of beef and who had been found dead in the rigging, was a short reference to the Gates of Pele
.

“Sis.” Ben breathed. “I think I’ve found something.” He read a short paragraph. “Wow, it’s a man’s accounting of their journey. You ready for this?”

*****

Drake went from lightly sleeping to wide awake in the time it took to open his eyes. Mai was pacing up and down behind him. It sounded like Alicia was in the shower.

“How long have we been out?”

“Ninety minutes, give or take. Here—check this.” Mai threw him one of the handguns they had liberated from Buchanan and his men.

“What’s the count?”

“Five revolvers. All serviceable. Two .38’s and three .45s. All with three quarter full mags.”

“More than enough.” Drake stood up and stretched. They had decided they were likely to be hitting more serious opposition—men close to Claude— so carrying weapons was imperative.

Alicia padded out of the bathroom, hair wet, shrugging on a jacket. “Ready to roll?”

The information they had obtained from Buchanan was that both Scarberry and Peterson owned an exotic car dealership on the outskirts of Waikiki. Called Exoticars, it was both a sales outlet and repair shop. It also rented most types of high-end vehicles.

A very lucrative front, Drake thought. No doubt developed to help conceal all sorts of criminal enterprise. Scarberry and Peterson were undoubtedly close to the top of the food chain. Claude would be next.

They climbed into a cab and gave the driver the dealership’s address. It was about twenty minutes away.

*****

Ben and Karin read through Captain Cook’s log with wonder.

To see through another man’s eyes events that happened to a famous seafaring Captain over two-hundred years ago was remarkable enough. But to read an account of Cook’s recorded but still highly secretive journey beneath Hawaii’s most famous volcano was almost overwhelming.

“This is amazing.” Karin flicked through her copy on the computer screen. “One thing you don’t realize is the brilliant foresight
Cook had. He took men from every field with him to record his discoveries. Scientists. Botanists. Artists. Look—” She tapped the screen.

Ben leaned over to see an exquisitely rendered drawing of a plant. “Cool.”

Karin glared. “It
is
cool. These plants were undiscovered and undocumented until Cook and his crew logged them and returned to England with these fantastic drawings and descriptions. They
mapped our world, these men.
They painted the landscapes and the coastlines like we would just snap a photo today. Think about it.”

Ben’s voice betrayed his excitement. “I know. I know. But listen to this—”

“Woah.” Karin was engrossed in her own yarn. “Did you know that one of Cook’s crew was William Bligh? The man who went on to captain the
Bounty
? And that the American president at the time, Benjamin Franklin, sent a message out to all his sea captains to leave Cook alone, despite the fact that the American’s were at war with the British at the time. Franklin called him a ‘common friend to mankind.’”

“Sis.” Ben hissed. “I’ve found something. Listen—
landfall was made on Owhyhee (Hawaii) near the high point on the island. Latitude 21degrees 15 minutes North, Longitude 147 degrees North, 48 minutes West. Height 762 feet. We were obliged to make anchor near Leahi and go ashore. The natives we employed looked like they might strip the cloths from our backs for a bottle of rum, but were in fact both tolerable and knowledgeable.”

“Give me the abridged version,” Karin barked. “In English.”

Ben growled at her. “God, girl, where’s your Indiana Jones? Your Luke Skywalker? You just got no sense of adventure. Okay, well, our narrator, a man called Hawksworth, went with Cook, six other seamen and a handful of natives to investigate something the natives referred to as the Gates of Pele. This was done without the local king’s knowledge and at great risk. If they were found out, the king would kill them all. The Hawaiians venerated the Gates of Pele. The native guides demanded great rewards.”

“The Gates of Pele must have kindled some major excitement for Cook to take such a risk,” Karin pointed out.

“Well, Pele was the god of fire, lightning, wind and volcanoes. Arguably the most popular Hawaiian deity. She was big news. Much of her legend centered round her controlling the oceans. The way the Hawaiians must have talked about her probably peaked Cook’s interest. And, allegedly, he was an arrogant man on a great voyage of discovery. He wouldn’t have balked over worrying a local king.”

“A man like Cook wouldn’t fear much.”

“Exactly. According to Hawksworth, the natives led them through a dark passage beneath the deep heart of the volcano
.
Once lights had been struck and, as Gollum would say, a few tricksy
bends had been negotiated, they all stopped and stared in wonder at the Gates of Pele
.
”

“Geek. Is there a drawing?”

“No. The artist was left behind for this trip. But Hawksworth does describe what they saw.
A great arch that soared so high it peaked above the topmost range of our flames. A craftsman’s frame inlaid with tiny symbols. Notches at each side, missing two smaller items. The wonder of it stole our breath away and we did stare, until the dark centre began to draw our eye.”

“So, in the spirit of all men, he means that they had found what they were seeking, but then realized that they wanted more.” Karin shook her head.

Ben rolled his eyes at her. “I think you mean—in the spirit of all
adventurers
, they wanted more
.
But you’re correct. The Gates of Pele were just that. A gate. It had to lead somewhere.”

Karin pulled her chair over. “Now I’m interested. Where did it lead?”

At that moment Ben’s cell-phone began to ring. He checked the screen and rolled his eyes. “Mum and Dad.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

Mano Kinimaka loved the heart of Waikiki. Born and raised Hawaiian, he had spent his early childhood on Kuhio beach before his family upped sticks and moved to the quieter north shore. The surf there was world class, the food authentic even when you ate out, the life as loose as you were ever going to get.

But his enduring early memories were of Kuhio: the great beach and the free luau’s, the Sunday beach barbecues, the effortless surf and the easy-going locals and the nightly glory of the setting sun.

Now, as he drove down Kuhio Avenue and then Kalakaua, he noticed the old, poignant things. Not the fresh-faced tourists. Not the locals carrying their morning helping of Jamba Juice. Not even the shaved ice vendor outside the Royal Hawaiian. It was the long black torches they lit every night, the now mostly empty shopping complex where he’d once cried laughing at a simple A-frame warning sign blocking off one of the walkways that read:
Unless you’re Spiderman, the bridge is out.
So simple. So Hawaiian.

He passed the old Lassen
store where he’d once gawped at their magnificent paintings and fantastic cars. It was gone now. His early childhood, moved on. He passed the King’s Village shopping center, which his mother had once told him used to be the residence of King Kalakaua. He passed the most auspicious police station in the world—the one situated right on Waikiki Beach in the shadow of a hundred surfboards. And he passed the enduring statue of Duke Kahanamoku, covered as always in fresh lei’s, the same one he’d stared up at as a young boy with a million dreams bouncing around his head.

His family was now being guarded around the clock. Crack members of the US Marshall Service and select marines were watching over them. The family home was empty, being used as bait for hired killers. He himself was a marked man.