Warren Murphy - Father to Son

"It's Purcell!" Howard yelled.

Remo's attention was directed at Nuihc, Chiun's at the Dutchman. Neither man dared look to Howard, who had stopped on the road below the bluff.

"I told you to stay back, junior," Remo snarled.

Mark's face was pleading. "You're both fighting Purcell!" he insisted. "There's no one else there but him. It's just another illusion."

The words struck hard.

Howard had some insight into Purcell's sick mind. For an instant Remo thought he had been given a decoy and that the Master of Sinanju was fighting the true Dutchman.

But then the man Remo thought was Nuihc glanced down at the assistant CURE director, hatred in his eyes.

"Knives!" he shouted.

Mark instantly buckled, grabbing chest and abdomen. He collapsed to the road. Smith ran from cover to his side. He began dragging the injured young man to safety.

Remo wheeled in shock. "Purcell," he hissed. From the corner of his eye he saw the shadow that had been dancing around Chiun vanish. The Master of Sinanju found himself facing empty air where a moment ago he would have sworn was a solid opponent.

As the shadow Dutchman was evaporating, Nuihc's features began to change. The flat Asian face dissolved, replaced by the Caucasian features that had been lurking below all along. The black hair lengthened and turned to silken blond. The hazel eyes melted to electric blue.

Remo found himself face-to-face with Jeremiah Purcell.

A crooked smile split the younger man's pale face.

Above their heads, lightning crackled blindingly across the swirling purple sky, flashing demonic light over the Dutchman's twisted features. Fat drops of rain the color of blood began to splatter the ground. They struck the earth like balls of thick molten lead.

"I am Nuihc!" Purcell cried out. "Do not speak the name of that failure in my presence, for he is dead to me."

"That makes two of you," Remo said.

And ignoring the growing storm that was a window to the madness of Jeremiah Purcell's mind, Remo Williams lashed out.

SMITH PULLED Howard behind the half-burned building. By the end the young man was crawling as Smith dragged.

"I'm fine," Mark insisted, panting. "He just knocked the wind out of me."

Smith searched for blood. There wasn't any, nor were there any wounds. Typically victims of the Dutchman's mental attacks believed so vividly in their injuries that they manifested fatal symptoms. But, thank God, Mark Howard's reactions to the Dutchman's mind games were atypical.

Leaving his assistant propped against the wall, Smith scampered over, peering around the corner. Up near the House of Many Woods, Chiun had fallen cautiously back, his hands tucked inside the sleeves of his kimono. This fight was Remo's. Smith didn't know how to gauge a Sinanju battle. It seemed to last an eternity. Feet and fists flew. Traded blows deflected to impotence.

The first blow to hit home came abruptly, landing with a sickening crunch. The sound echoed out across the wasted village.

At first it was unclear who had drawn first blood. Remo and Purcell stood locked in eternal struggle, each with an arm outstretched, fingers like steel mauls.

Then Remo wavered.

The Dutchman! Jeremiah Purcell had scored a blow against Remo!

Remo's arm dropped back to his side. His face was a grimace. Of course the pain had to have been excruciating. But when Remo again raised his hands, Smith saw that he had been mistaken.

No, not pain. At least not for Remo.

It was Purcell who had been hit. The Dutchman pivoted back on his heel, twisting out of harm's way. As he did so, his left arm swung down useless to his side.

"Strike one," Remo said tightly.

One arm crippled, the Dutchman battled on. Another blow, this one to Purcell's right arm.

It was the traditional Sinanju attack of disrespect to show an opponent was unworthy. Years before, Nuihc had used the method on Remo. Back then Nuihc had played the coward, using proxies to deliver the first three blows. Coward as he always was. Coward as Remo, a full Master of Sinanju and so much more, would never be.

Purcell knew what was happening. He held his injured arms close. "Fire!" he cried in desperation. And Remo felt the flames lick his damaged skin. But he had already come through worse, and the fire that burned from within was far greater than any mere hallucination.

Remo wound like a top, twirling on one leg, the other bent up near his body. He took out the Dutchman's right leg. The mass of muscles tore, and the young man could no longer stand. The leg buckled and he felt to the dirt.

"I will have my vengeance!" Purcell shrieked. And Remo spoke. The words were thunder that rolled up from a place deep within him, and for the first time in his life he owned them. And he did say, "I am created Shiva, the Destroyer; death, the shatterer of worlds. The dead night tiger made whole by the Master of Sinanju. Who is this dog meat that dares challenge me?"

"I am Nuihc," Jeremiah Purcell sneered, "he of the pure bloodline, true Reigning Master of the House of Sinanju."

"This is my house now," Remo said. "And you're nothing but a schizo son of a bitch."

And he was on Purcell, his arms wrapped around the younger man's injured shoulders.

"Did you forget?" the Dutchman taunted weakly. Blood and sweat streaked his face. His teeth were bared in a superior sneer. "You can't kill me. If I die, you die."

"That should work both ways, pal," Remo whispered in his ear. "But I died a couple of times already, and you're still kicking. Lemme test a theory."

And Remo Williams took the throat of the last false Master of Sinanju in both hands and gave a mighty twist. There was an unholy crack of bone. The Dutchman's head whipped around twice on a tightening knot of loose flesh before lolling to one side. Strings of mottled blond hair stuck to pale skin.

In that instant there was shock in the eyes.

For Jeremiah Purcell, life had been a curse. Death was a thing longed for. But in that final, brutal moment there was the first true instant of understanding of life.

Then the light faded from his electric-blue eyes. And as the flickering force of life slipped finally and forever from the wicked Dutchman, the illusions around the village of Sinanju began to fade.

Chapter 34

The bodies went first. Disappearing one by one in little puffs of light and steam. The purple sky washed to blue, sweeping away the mirage of destruction that had been painted across the village. The sunlight of a new winter day erased the charred buildings, replacing them with familiar wooden homes and businesses.

The Dutchman's mental projection had apparently surrounded the entire village of Sinanju with a false backdrop, for as the final spell ever to be cast by his tortured mind collapsed, there appeared just beyond the northern border a row of North Korean tanks. Soldiers shouted to one another as they ran between army equipment.

Smith had come out of hiding. Mark Howard, now well enough to stand, also came.

Smith's eyes strayed to the bay. Until moments ago it had been shrouded in darkness. He was relieved to see that the Darter wasn't visible. The sub had sunk below the waves and wasn't scheduled to resurface for hours.

"What now?" the CURE director asked Remo warily.

"Don't sweat it, Smitty," Remo said. "They're with me."

Some men were moving into the village. Smith and Howard stayed back with the Master of Sinanju as Remo went to meet the new arrivals.

The soldiers were propelling a lone captive before them.

Benson Dilkes had been captured while trying to flee the village. The North Korean forces turned him over to Remo without question. Their orders had been clear. They were told from on high to do anything the white Master of Sinanju asked. So far, they had only been told to round up anyone who tried to escape from Sinanju.