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Warren Murphy: Father to Son

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There's some nasty sibling rivalry in the family assassination business . . . For Remo, Sinanju's Holiest tradition is "cash up front" But as his long road to the rank of Reigning Master of the venerable house of assassins nears its end, the   ritual begins. For the enforcement arm of CURE, this means making his way around the globe, killing the best assassins money can buy -- and proving to kings and presidents alike that Sinanju is the   strategic weapon around. For a reasonable fee, of course. But there is a storm cloud on the horizon of Chiun's retirement and Remo's promotion: a dark nemesis has been reborn from the fires of evil and has unleashed his plot for vengeance. He starts by looting Chiun's treasure-filled basement in Sinanju. But he won't stop until he has fulfilled a prophecy of doom that even Chiun may not be able to thwart: the death of the Destroyer.

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With great worry he sought the counsel of the man who had taught him everything important in his life. "Little Father, something's wrong," Remo said, the worry evident in his voice and on his face.

The very old Asian to whom he spoke was in the process of packing. They were scheduled to move soon.

The tiny Korean had skin like ancient leather, dry and weathered. Twin puffs of yellowing white hair clutched the age-speckled flesh above his shell-like ears. He looked frail. He was anything but.

Chiun, Remo's Master and teacher in the ancient art of Sinanju, understood his pupil's unspoken question.

"Your senses do not lie," the wizened Asian explained in his singsong voice. "That which you feel is called the Hour of Judgment. It is the time when the spirits of masters past scrutinize the Transitional Reigning Master of the House of Sinanju. As my successor, they will judge if you are worthy to become Reigning Master."

It was unnerving. The invisible eyes had trailed Remo from his sleeping quarters out to the common living room he shared with his teacher.

There was no one there. Remo was certain of it. But he had seen much in the many years since his training began. He had grown to grudgingly accept things that in his youth he used to dismiss as hocus-pocus.

"The spirits are all here?" Remo asked worriedly.

Chiun tipped his head. "There are probably a few dawdlers who have yet to arrive."

Remo felt his flesh crawl, cold and clammy. As if a too close spirit had just brushed the exposed skin of his arms.

"Can you feel them?" Remo asked.

"No. This is your time, not mine."

Remo exhaled. The knowledge of what was happening didn't bring him the relief he'd hoped for. "So this is normal? It feels like I'm the Super Bowl half-time show for a stadium full of Peeping Tom ghosts."

"You are being watched with great interest. After all, you are the first outsider to achieve such greatness."

Sinanju the discipline had originated in the North Korean village of the same name. In its five-thousand-year history, Remo was the only individual born outside the village to reach this level.

"Swell," Remo had said. "So should I just stand here, or do they want me to do a little dance or something?"

"If you want me to die of embarrassment, go ahead."

Remo folded his arms and studied his surroundings with forced casualness. The basement rooms with the painted cinder-block walls were empty. He and Chiun were all alone. Yet his senses screamed otherwise. "This happens to all Masters?"

"All who reach your level."

"And what if they don't judge me worthy?" Remo whispered from the corner of his mouth.

Chiun had returned to his packing. "There is little they can do now," the old Korean had admitted. He dropped his voice low. "But when you die, they can make your life miserable. If the Masters' Tribunal judges you unworthy, you will be banished with the other outcasts of the Void."

"Great," Remo muttered. "I had to join a heaven with a caste system. I guess I can stand this for a couple of days."

The days stretched into weeks. Moving day came and went. Remo and Chiun settled into their new lodgings, yet still the weird sensation that he was being watched didn't go. When Remo couldn't take it any longer, he again approached his teacher.

Chiun was watching television.

Of late, the Master of Sinanju had developed a fondness for Mexican soap operas. Remo wouldn't dare interrupt the programs themselves. Years ago, when his teacher used to watch American daytime dramas, fatal results came to anyone foolish enough to intrude on the old man's moments of joy. A Spanish-language commercial for Crest toothpaste came on, replacing the bright colors of Mexican TV studio sets and ultraclose close-ups that made the actors' pores look like flesh-draped lunar craters.

"So how long does this judging thing go on?"

"It depends," Chiun replied, his eyes glued to the flickering television set. "It could be brief or long."

"It's been weeks," Remo complained. "I feel like a freaking zoo exhibit."

"Said the monkey to the chimp."

"Ha-ha. It's gotten so I can't even go to the can in peace. Did it take this many weeks for you?"

"For me?" Chiun bristled, insulted. "Of course not. Why would the ghosts of my ancestors need to waste their precious time watching for a mistake from someone who obviously doesn't make mistakes? The dead have better things to do, Remo."

"So how long will they watch me?"

"Ten million years," Chiun replied. "Shush." The old man's program was back on.

It wasn't ten million yet, but it was right around one year since he'd first awakened to his supernatural spectators and they hadn't left him alone for a minute. Even though it had gone on for what seemed like an eternity, it remained a feeling Remo doubted he'd ever get used to.

They were with him always. Watching, judging. Remo had thought his teacher's gaze during training was bad. After all, Chiun hadn't been the most forgiving instructor. Multiplied by a thousand, it was worse than he'd ever imagined.

The invisible eyes were there morning, noon and night.

They were with him earlier that afternoon when he was watching the twelve-o'clock news in the Stamford, Connecticut, duplex he now shared with the Master of Sinanju.

As a rule, daytime reporters and anchors were usually even more frivolous and dim-witted than their evening counterparts. But for some reason this day, everyone seemed very businesslike. Remo soon learned why.

There was a breaking news story out of nearby Milford.

An office worker at a small software company had gone berserk an hour before. According to the reporter on the scene, the heavily armed man had entered the building where he worked, guns blazing.

There were a dozen confirmed dead, seven more wounded.

The killer was holed up in the rear of the building. A handful of office workers were unaccounted for. The police had not yet stormed the building, fearing for the safety of any survivors that might still be inside.

And so began the strange dance of camera and helicopter that seemed to capture American interest every few months.

The film crew showed stock footage of the killer's car a dozen times. It was a red Pinto with Bondo on the hood and rust chewing away the doors. The name Munchie was emblazoned on the lopsided vanity plate. A reporter mentioned repeatedly that this was the killer's nickname.

They flashed pictures of the killer on-screen. It was the sort of face not easily forgotten.

Remo needed only one look.

He had put on the news only for the weather report. But the weather forecast was suspended in favor of shock news. For Remo, enough was enough. He was sick of seeing this sort of thing erupt on his television with disgusting regularity.

When Remo switched off the TV and headed for the front door, the ghostly gaze of his invisible entourage was with him. The eyes trailed him out to the car and remained with him for the drive up to Milford.

"Could you back off today, fellas?" Remo muttered. "I'm trying to work here."

Asking around, he found the cordoned area around Soft Systems, Inc. with relative ease. At the line of police cars he doubled back, parking his car down the street in a Shop-Rite supermarket lot. He returned to the office complex on foot.

Remo was a man of average height and weight. The only thing outwardly unusual about him were his wrists, which were thicker than a normal man's by far. Most women found his face-with its high cheekbones and deep-set eyes-appealing, although even they would have described it as vaguely cruel.

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