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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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At his age it was rough going, but he eventually made it to the top. The hill became a plateau. Behind him the West Korean Bay stretched out to greet the cloud-smeared sky. Two curving columns of rock framed the bay.

The Horns of Welcome had been placed above the bay centuries ago so that visitors searching for the glory of Sinanju would know that they had reached their destination. The twin stones raked the sky above frail old Pullyang.

At the top of the plateau opened the black mouth of a deep cave. Pullyang was not permitted to enter the cave, for it was a sacred place. Indeed, he rarely ventured up this high as part of his professional duties.

There were three trees at the cave's entrance. Bamboo, pine and plum blossom. It was Pullyang's responsibility to keep them healthy throughout the changing seasons.

The three trees had survived the windy night intact. Bending, the old caretaker swept some needles from the ground around the pine into his coarse hand. Shuffling over to the edge of the plateau, he brushed them away.

He was slapping the dirt from his hand and was turning back to the path when something caught his eye.

Squinting in the weak sunlight, Pullyang peered down the far side of the hill.

The hill rolled more quickly down to flatland on this side. A short distance from the bottom was a plain stone hut. It was far away from the main village.

The family that had lived there for centuries had died out. The house had been abandoned for almost two years.

And yet, on this cold morning, old Pullyang saw a thin wisp of smoke slipping from the stone chimney. For a moment the old man hesitated.

His stomach grumbled loud from hunger. By now Hyunsil was probably wondering where her father was.

He was hungry, but in the end duty won out. Pullyang picked his careful way down the short side of the hill. He was relieved when his sandals reached flat ground. He hurried across the frozen mud to the hut.

He felt his will dissolve with every step. The house was a place of evil.

A wicked family had lived there. It had for countless years been residence to shaman. More recently Nuihc, the current Master of Sinanju's nephew and the greatest enemy of modern Sinanju, had been born and raised there.

For some reason lost in the mists of ancient time, the family that had lived there had rejected direct assistance from the Masters of Sinanju. The shamans took payment from the other villagers for their spells and tonics.

Pullyang was certain that the Masters of Sinanju knew why the occupants of this house alone in all the village rejected the generosity of their protectors, but the reason was never told. If the family of the last shaman who had lived there knew, the secret had died when his daughter disappeared two years ago.

The hut was in disrepair. Here and there the mud-and-thatch roof was falling in.

Pullyang no longer saw smoke coming from the chimney. The warming sun burned steam from the rotting roof.

Maybe he had been mistaken. His eyes had remained strong all his life, but it was possible he had confused the steam with smoke.

The path to the front door was overgrown with weeds. There was no indication that a single human foot had touched the ground from the old road to the dilapidated house since the dwelling had been abandoned two years before.

Old Pullyang felt his nerve grow stronger.

He had to have been mistaken. He had exerted himself too much this morning. He was hungry. That, coupled with the strangeness of the night before, had caused his tired old eyes to leap to flights of fancy.

It was time for breakfast. He would take a single peek inside the hut before heading back to his daughter's home.

His belly growling at thoughts of food, Pullyang rested a shrunken hand of bone on the door frame and leaned his face inside the open doorway.

Nothing. As he had now expected.

No one lived there any longer. He was foolish to have imagined seeing any sign of life in that unholy place.

The fireplace was black.

Wait. There was something. Specks of orange glowing amid the ash. They became clearer as his eyes adjusted to the dark interior of the hut.

Someone had been here. Pullyang's heart tightened. Movement. Something to his right.

Startled, Pullyang whipped his head to the source. He saw something in the dark. A flat face. Sinister eyes drawn up like those of a cat.

And then Pullyang's turning head kept going. It was off his neck before he knew what had happened. The decapitated head hit the frozen floor of the hut with a dull thud.

Shocked old eyes already growing dull in death, the head of the Master of Sinanju's loyal caretaker rolled into the corner of the abandoned hovel.

The body fell. Slowly. With great and lingering purpose. As if reluctant to leave the life it had clung to for so many years. The clutching old hand slipped away from the wooden door frame, and the body toppled forward.

For a moment all was still.

A scratching sound came from within the hut. Pullyang's body shook as an unseen hand took hold of his clothing.

Toes dragging in the dirt of the abandoned front path, the body of the Master of Sinanju's caretaker disappeared inside the squalid hut.

Chapter 4

Remo turned off the city street. A wooden barrier across the road blocked his way. Slowing to a stop before the lowered gate, he leaned out the car window, passing the security card he retrieved from his dashboard through the scanner. The gate lifted and he drove onto the private main road of the development complex that he and the Master of Sinanju were currently calling home.

The roads were laid out as carefully as a Monopoly board. The street names strained to be cute. Remo turned down Gingerbread Lane to Hopscotch Road.

Half of the community was for rent, while the rest were condos for sale. Every building looked exactly like the one next door. Remo's rented town house was a simple duplex with absolutely no distinguishing features whatsoever. It was a plain gray-sided number with tidy white trim, a green-turning-to-brown lawn and a private one-stall garage.

As places went, it wasn't so bad. It beat the old hotel ritual Upstairs used to make him engage in back in the early days. A few days or a week in one place and he had to move on. But, thank goodness, that had eventually changed. He and the Master of Sinanju had lived in two houses for a number of years without incident. The last had been home for a decade and, even though it fell victim to arsonists, the burning of that house hadn't really been work related.

At first Upstairs resisted the idea of another more-or-less permanent home, but Remo insisted. In the end he won out. Remo, for one, was grateful. He hadn't looked forward to living out of suitcases again. Not that he ever actually technically owned a suitcase, but it was the principle of the thing.

Remo parked in the garage and headed around to the side door of the duplex.

The Master of Sinanju wasn't in the living room. The big-screen TV was off.

He didn't need to call out. There was a pulsing vibration in the air, like the plucked string on some musical instrument in tune with the very forces of nature.

Remo followed the thrum of life through the kitchen and out the sliding doors to the small garden patio.

Chiun was sitting cross-legged on the colored flagstones. The old Korean had been sitting in the same spot when Remo had left for Milford earlier in the afternoon. His shimmering scarlet day kimono was arranged carefully around his bony knees.

"Hey, Chiun. Anything happen when I was out?" The Master of Sinanju's leathery face was upturned to catch the dying rays of the cold white sun. He did not bother to open his eyes.

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