Warren Murphy - Unnatural Selection

"Two men inside," the uniformed officer at the door volunteered breathlessly. "The shooting started once they were locked inside. I don't know what's going on."

A small Plexiglas window sat at eye level in the door. The young officer jumped when a hand abruptly slapped against the glass.

"It's O'Reilly," Sergeant Simon said, exhaling relief. "That's his high-school football ring. Let him out."

"No," Remo snapped, snatching the keys that had been heading for the lock.

"What?" Jimmy Simon growled angrily. "What the hell-" He stopped dead. "Oh, my God," he breathed.

Sick eyes were trained on the door. The red flush of his cheeks paled.

O'Reilly's hand continued to tap against the window. But on closer scrutiny Simon saw now that the fingers were pale and lifeless. And then he saw the other hand holding it aloft, and saw the ragged flesh where O'Reilly's hand had been severed from his forearm. And then Sergeant Jimmy Simon-eighteen years on the force, immune to everything this crummy job could throw at him-was vomiting up his lunch onto the Midtown station cell-block floor.

The face of the man who had been pressing O'Reilly's hand to the window appeared briefly. Eyes wild, fangs bared, the creature took a vicious bite out the patrolman's severed hand before disappearing from view.

"Shit," Simon said, wiping puke on his sleeve. "Sweet Jesus, they're out of their cells." He slumped against the cold wall.

"Can they escape this?" Chiun demanded, waving at the door.

"I don't know. Maybe. There's this door and one way on the other side. They were built pretty tough."

Chiun turned to Remo. "Even now they look for weaknesses in this dungeon's fortifications," the old Korean said. "They must be contained."

"Why is it always us?" Remo sighed. He turned to Simon. "Okay, stand back, Pop 'n Fresh. We're going in."

"Are you nuts?" Jimmy Simon asked. "Did you see what they did? They'll eat you alive."

"Fine with me," Remo grumbled. "Dead is the only way I'm ever gonna get a rest in this life. All the time it's work, work, work."

The police could see by the look of angry resolve on the strange FBI man's face that there would be no arguing.

"At least take my gun," Sergeant Simon pleaded. Chiun swatted gun and sergeant away. The police fell back from the door, weapons leveled should anything try to escape when it opened.

"There's no way you two guys are going to get them back in their cells," Simon called, perspiring on the far end of his Smith And if they charge out of there, you're getting mowed down, too."

"Go deep throat a cruller and let me work in peace," Remo suggested, jamming the key in the lock.

Before he could give it a turn, Chiun touched Remo's wrist. "My son," the Master of Sinanju whispered, "there is something I did not mention to you when last we encountered these creatures." His parchment face was drawn tight.

"I don't think now's a good time, Little Father."

"Listen," the old Korean snapped. "It is important." There was a gleam of furious concern in his hazel eyes.

Remo felt the shudder of urgency pass from the frail little man who had taught him all he knew. He grew still.

"When we encountered the first of these beasts, I told you of the Sinanju legend. Do you remember?"

"That was over twenty years ago. And that time is still kind of fuzzy to me," Remo admitted. "I had the wind knocked out of my sails."

Chiun pitched his voice low. "You are avatar of Shiva-" He paused, waiting for the argument that always came after making this assertion.

But this time-for the first time-Remo remained silent. A shadow of acceptance crossed his brow. The wizened Asian could not take joy in the fact that his pupil had finally accepted destiny.

"While now is not the time to discuss what it is the gods have in store for you, there is more than mere glory with which you must contend. The legend that speaks of Shiva also speaks a warning. You who have been through death before can only be sent to death by your kind or my kind."

"I think I remember that," said Remo, who had been sentenced to die in an electric chair that did not work as part of the elaborate frame-up that had brought him into CURE. He scrunched up his face. "I didn't know what it meant then, and crap if I know what it means now."

"What's going on?" Sergeant Simon called nervously.

"Silence, gaspot!" Chiun shot back.

He spun to Remo. "You are the dead night tiger made whole by the Master of Sinanju," he said urgently. "Your kind are other night tigers. My kind-now our kind-are Masters of Sinanju. Since you need not fear death from me, if the legend speaks truth, it can come from but one other source."

"Night tigers," Remo supplied.

"Precisely. The legend states that even Shiva must walk with care when he passes the jungle where lurk other night tigers."

Remo considered his words for a long moment. Finally he looked down into the intent hazel eyes of the Master of Sinanju.

"Lucky for me this isn't a jungle," Remo said. And before the old Korean could stop him, he opened the door and passed like a shadow inside.

For an instant, Chiun remained.

Still young. Still arrogant. There had been times in the past when the most hazardous time for a newly invested Reigning Master were those first years as head of the village. The world was never more dangerous than when it seemed to no longer pose a threat.

All this and more did pass through the troubled mind of the Master of Sinanju in an instant. Praying to his gods that his words had had their desired impact, Chiun twirled through the gap in the door and was gone.

Behind, the police who had been tensed for an attack were jarred by the sudden disappearance of the two FBI men, as well as by the sudden sharp slamming of the metal door.

Somehow the keys came to a sliding stop at the feet of Sergeant Jimmy Simon. His eyes strayed from the keys back to the closed door. He shook his head. "When they get through with you, we're gonna need sponges for the remains," he announced.

Struggling over his wide belly, he stooped to snatch up the keys.

THE FETID AIR inside the lockup was thick with the smell of death. Remo and Chiun kept their breathing low. All the cell doors were ajar. The police had thought it safe to put normal prisoners in the lockup as long as they were separate from the more dangerous ones. With the keys taken from the late Officer O'Reilly, the creatures had made a feast not only out of the unlucky young police officer, but out of their fellow prisoners as well.

Greedy chewing issued from the dank corners of some cells. Sharp snaps came as strong jaws cracked brittle bones.

As Remo and Chiun made their way from the door, both men sensed hungry eyes tracking their every movement.

Noses keener than those of mere men fed the scent of fresh prey to watering mouths. Yellow feline eyes stared unblinking from out the shadows.

"You know the story of Daniel?" Remo whispered as they crept along. The cells opened right and left along the long corridor.

Chiun nodded. "Yes," he said. "And do not believe every Bible you pick up off the sidewalk."

A soft growl rose nearby.

"Sue me for finding comfort in a story where a guy who's tossed to the lions gets out alive."

"Find comfort in whatever nonsense you wish on your own time," Chiun commanded. "For the moment your unwillingness to accept the obvious has dragged me into this pit, so pay attention."

No sooner had the old man spoken than Remo felt a sudden displacement of air to his right.

There were six creatures growling within the nearest cell. As Remo and Chiun passed, one launched from the pack.

Until that morning, Remo's attacker had been an investment counselor who had spent an hour every night pumping away on a treadmill. The powerful legs his nightly workout had given him launched him from his jail cell bunk. He flew from the dark, fangs bared.