Warren Murphy - The End of the Beginning

"This better be worth it," Remo grumbled.

It was more than a week since he'd awakened from his drug-induced sleep. Remo's face was still sore. He had caught his reflection in the glass door of an emergency fire-hose box on the way to the gymnasium. The bruising was healing.

It was still a shock to see his own reflection-to look in a mirror and see someone else staring back. His cheekbones seemed higher, his eyes even deeper than before. When he'd finally seen his reflection in the silver serving tray that first day, Remo's own eyes had unnerved him.

MacCleary had told him the plastic surgery was necessary. No point going through such an elaborate frame-up only to leave the victim with his own face. Just another thing CURE had stolen from him.

Remo was absently taking inventory of his own face with his fingertips as MacCleary waited near the gym door. A .38 Police Special dangled from MacCleary's hook.

Remo wondered if he was going to get some more gun training. He had been given a little instruction this past week, mostly on how to casually fire a gun at a point-blank target. He thought he had gotten pretty good at it. When he tried it out on MacCleary with a blank pistol two days ago, however, a blinding flash caught his eyes and he was suddenly sprawled on the floor. He didn't know what had happened, not even when MacCleary, laughing, lifted him to his feet.

"You're learning, kid," MacCleary had said. But through the bluster, even MacCleary seemed a little surprised by the speed of his own reaction.

"What the hell did you do?" Remo asked. He was flexing his hand. His fingertips tingled. "How'd you move so fast?"

"I didn't. Not really. You wanna see fast, just wait."

Remo seemed doubtful. "What'd you hit me with?"

"Fingernails," MacCleary said, offering a boozy smile as he handed back Remo's pistol. "Remind me some day to tell you about the most boring submarine ride in history."

But that was days ago and this was today and Remo was wondering why he was standing in borrowed pajamas while MacCleary was looking out the gymnasium door with that crooked, knowing smile plastered across his face.

"Here he comes," MacCleary called all at once. When Remo looked up, he almost laughed. But the figure shuffling into the gym was too pathetic for laughs.

The aged man was five feet tall with skin the hue of old walnut. Two wisps of white hair floated above shell-like ears. His scalp was otherwise plucked bald. A single thread of beard clung to his chin. The skin was wrinkled like old parchment. The ancient Oriental wore a simple red brocade kimono and plain wood sandals.

He said not a word. With the weariness of some unseen burden he crossed over to Remo.

MacCleary fell in behind the old man. He seemed almost deferential to the wizened Oriental. The gun still dangled from MacCleary's gleaming hook.

The two of them stopped before Remo.

"Chiun, this is Remo Williams, your new student."

The old Korean's lack of enthusiasm was obvious. He stood silent, hands tucked deep in the sleeves of his kimono as he stared at the callow white thing before him.

Remo stared right back. "What's he going to teach me?"

"The Master of Sinanju is going to teach you to kill," MacCleary said. "To be an indestructible, unstoppable, nearly invisible killing machine."

The Oriental snorted.

Remo glanced from MacCleary to the old man and back again. "Master of what? C'mon, Conn, who is he really, your dry cleaner?

"No washie shirtie, Pops," he said to Chiun. Chiun didn't address Remo. Releasing a displeased hiss, he turned to Conrad MacCleary.

"Did you dress it up like that?" the Korean asked.

"Yeah. I thought you said you wanted him to dress respectfully," MacCleary said.

"Hey, I'm a him, not an it," Remo said. He was frowning at Chiun. For some reason he thought he had heard the old Oriental's voice before. It was like something from a dream.

"This is your idea of respectful?" Chiun said to MacCleary. "To dress him in these kung-fool pajamas? And what is this?" He flicked Remo's white belt.

MacCleary shrugged. "He's a student, right?" Rolling his eyes, Chiun offered a muttered prayer of atonement to his ancestors.

"Are you sure I'm supposed to be his student?" Remo asked. "Maybe Upstairs got their wires crossed."

"Don't knock him," MacCleary said. "If Chiun wanted, you'd be dead right now before you could even blink."

At that, Remo laughed derisively. "Whatever you're drinking, cut the dose, Conn."

"Don't believe me, huh?" MacCleary said. "In that case, I've got an idea. You want to shoot him?" He rolled the .38 lazily on his hook.

"Why should I?" Remo asked. "Just sit him on the front steps and call the hearse. The shape he's in, he'll be dead before they back out of the garage."

MacCleary said nothing. He just continued to swing the pistol back and forth, a glimmer of mirth in his blue eyes.

The room seemed to grow very still. Even the cobwebs at the high, raftered ceiling ceased swaying in the stale eddies of cold autumn air.

"You're serious," Remo said, voice level. MacCleary took the revolver from his hook and slapped it into Remo's palm. "Give yourself a chance," he instructed gruffly. "Let him start at the other end of the gym. Try it point-blank, and you'd be dead before you pulled the trigger."

Remo felt the weight of the gun in his hand. "If this is a trick, I don't get it,"

"No trick," MacCleary said. "It's exactly what it seems, give or take. Feel free to shoot him. If you can."

The gun felt cold in Remo's hand. He glanced at the Master of Sinanju. "How do you feel about this?"

"Guns cheapen the art," the Master of Sinanju intoned, face impassive. "But from what I can see, you are completely artless and in need of every advantage you can get. Just be certain you point the little hole the right way."

"You want me to do this?" Remo asked.

Chiun exhaled a tiny puff of anger. "What I want, you will never know, white. Now, let us get this demonstration over with. The sooner we are done here, the sooner I can leave this land of crazed emperors and besotted generals."

Remo examined the gun. Dark shell casings. Probably extra primer. It was a real gun with real bullets. These guys were serious.

He looked to MacCleary.

"If I shoot him, do I get a week out of here?" he asked.

"A night," MacCleary answered.

"So you do think I can hit him."

"Nah, I'm just stingy, Remo. I don't want you to get too excited." MacCleary's smile never fled. His hook rested on his hip.

"A night?" Remo said. "You're not lying?"

"A night," MacCleary assured him.

Remo considered for a long moment. "Sure," he said. "I'll shoot him."

He figured it was a joke. Some kind of bizarre test. Even as the old Oriental padded to the far corner of the gym, Remo was watching MacCleary out of the corner of his eye. He fully expected that the big man would put a stop to this before it went too far. But MacCleary just stood there, the same idiot's grin plastered across his face.

The Master of Sinanju stopped and turned. White cotton-stuffed mats were hanging against the wall behind him.

When Chiun was in position, Conn took a step back.

"Ready?" he asked.

Remo sighted down by barrel instead of the V.

Never trust the sights on another man's gun. The distance was forty yards.

"Ready," he answered.

"Go!" yelled MacCleary. And the old man was suddenly gone. Like that. Vanished like a puff of steam.

And in the deepest pit of his stomach, on a level beyond simple knowledge, Remo Williams realized he'd been had.

When the old man reappeared two yards to the left and five yards closer, Remo knew all bets were off. He aimed for the scrawny chest and squeezed the trigger twice.