Series: The Honolulu Retribution

As I pre­pared to board flight 2620 some­thing was nag­ging at the back of my mind.  I could­n’t quite put my fin­ger on it, but it was there — like a sin­gle gnat that buzzes con­stant­ly around one’s head but is nev­er quite visible.

As soon as the car rental agen­cies opened, I secured a vehi­cle and drove into Kahului which is only a short dis­tance from the air­port, and sought out some men’s cloth­ing stores where I could expand my wardrobe.  It’s amaz­ing how dif­fi­cult it is to find plain old men’s cloth­ing.  It seems that vir­tu­al­ly all the shops on the island tend to cater to “island wear” which is far too casu­al to be used on flights and business. 

“Ah yes, the infa­mous Lionel Trane,” came the snide retort over the phone.  “Mr. Trane has many alias­es.  He likes to make up fun­ny ones like that one.  Another favorite of his is Clark Barr.  He’s some­what of a rogue agent of your NSA.  They’re reluc­tant to claim him, but he’s def­i­nite­ly on their pay­roll.  And you say he made an attempt on your life?”

A trip to Pearl Harbor is a sober­ing expe­ri­ence.  The movie that is shown to vis­i­tors before a launch takes one to the Arizona Memorial dra­mat­i­cal­ly illus­trates the dev­as­ta­tion of the Japanese air assault that sank and dam­aged so many ships and killed some twen­ty-five hun­dred ser­vice­men and women and civilians.

“Thank you so much for accept­ing my invi­ta­tion. I hate to dine alone, and it’s so much more inter­est­ing to meet peo­ple while on vaca­tion,” I said as I helped each into a seat at the table.

“Well, thank you for ask­ing,” said the old­er of the two as she slid her purse under her chair.

“I’m Glenda Fleming, and this is my daugh­ter, Angelique. She goes by ‘Angie.’ ”

“So nice to meet you both. I’m John Singleton from Dubuque, Iowa,” I responded. 

“Thank you so much for accept­ing my invi­ta­tion. I hate to dine alone, and it’s so much more inter­est­ing to meet peo­ple while on vaca­tion,” I said as I helped each into a seat at the table.

“Well, thank you for ask­ing,” said the old­er of the two as she slid her purse under her chair.

“I’m Glenda Fleming, and this is my daugh­ter, Angelique. She goes by ‘Angie.’ ”

“So nice to meet you both. I’m John Singleton from Dubuque, Iowa,” I responded. 

It looked like the only type of weapon I could legal­ly acquire would be a knife of some sort. Knives are messy weapons and require close con­tact, which I usu­al­ly try to avoid, but cir­cum­stance seemed to allow no oth­er choice.

I have always appre­ci­at­ed the design of the Sykes-Fairbairn com­man­do knife. It’s easy to con­ceal and can be used for cut­ting or stab­bing. Maybe try­ing to find one would be worth the effort despite the urgency of my mission.

As I neared Trane’s house, I turned off the head­lights and pulled to a stop at the curb in front of his place.  With the head­lights off, I was less like­ly to draw atten­tion from inside when I stopped. Parking in front of his house would not stir the inter­est of some­one else quite as much as if I had parked in front of their house. I sur­veyed the area briefly before exit­ing the car and walk­ing as casu­al­ly as I could muster to the front door.

“Michael, flight 2620 did explode in mid-air, but not because of a bomb.  There was a cat­a­stroph­ic equip­ment failure.”
“You’re lying, L.T.” I shout­ed.  I was close to pulling the knife even if I was­n’t quite ready to make final use of it.  I want­ed him to feel fear.  I want­ed him to know that ret­ri­bu­tion was near.