Warren Murphy: Syndication Rites

A small shrine had been constructed on an upended wooden crate. On it, surrounded by flickering votive candles and rose petals, was a lovingly framed picture of a woman. The photo was meant to show its subject as pensive and caring. Instead, it looked as if she'd had a bowl of glass for breakfast and was ready to spray fragments from her eyes at whoever had the misfortune of gazing at the picture too long.

Careful to keep his own eyes from meeting those in the photograph, Sanchez raised his hands in supplication. His dark, pockmarked face was somber.

"To you, Senorita Primera, we dedicate this new, fresh wave of bloodshed."

With the reverent tone taken by Sanchez, silence had descended upon the wide two-stall garage in which they were assembled. And in that moment of respectful, solemn silence, the gathered leadership of MIR was shocked when the woman in the picture seemed to speak.

"Oh, great, not her again."

It was disorienting. The picture was in front of them, but the voice came from behind. The man's voice.

The men and women of MIR wheeled around. A thin young man stood behind them, arms crossed in disgust over his chest. He was looking beyond the group of scruffy terrorists. The photograph of America's First Lady glared back at him. "You know," Remo griped, walking closer, "I have this feeling that you can trek into the middle of the Sahara, you could jump from a plane in the dead center of the Arctic Circle, you could hide out on the dark side of the moon, for God's sake, and I don't think you'd ever find a place in the universe where you're gonna be safe from those two." Only a few MIR members carried guns. Confusion quickly surrendered to professionalism. The weapons flew up and were leveled on Remo. The unarmed terrorists, including Eduardo Sanchez, took safety behind the rest.

"Who are you?" Sanchez demanded. "What do you want?"

"Besides mandatory muzzles for every politician and his wife in the forty-eight contiguous states?" Remo said, his voice thin. "What I want is for dirtbags like you to slither back under the rocks you climbed out from. And before this turns into twenty questions, I know what you're up to. I know part of the secret deal you cut for your pardons was to keep your noses clean until the President was out of office. I know he's gone by the end of the week, and I know you planned to celebrate this great peaceful exchange of democratic power by blowing up a couple of planes heading for the mainland from the San Juan airport. I knew everything but that." He pointed to the First Lady's picture.

For the first time, Remo noticed something lying on the floor beneath it. The thing had feathers. "Dammit, don't tell me you're sacrificing chickens to her?" he demanded.

Sanchez's spine stiffened. "We owe her our freedom," he sniffed. "If she had not wished to curry favor with the Hispanic community during her Senate campaign in New York, her husband would never have released us."

"Yada-yada-yada," Remo droned. "Let's just get this over with. I have a cab waiting."

When he took a step toward Sanchez, the raised guns rattled more alert. Remo was a hair away from the nearest gunman.

"I do not know how you learned of our plans, but you are not from the pig United States government," Sanchez insisted. "The President who released us still serves. He fears the wrath of his wife, so would not send anyone against us."

"You only heard from one part of the government," Remo assured the terrorist, "The part that studies polls and does focus groups and reads frigging tea leaves and Ouija boards to see what's the right or wrong thing to do on any given day. I'm not from that part of the government. I'm from the other part. The good part."

"There is no other part." Sanchez grinned malevolently. "We were given pardons by the President himself, thanks to the intercession of his lovely wife. We are free men. Free to do whatever we want. And you are a dead man."

The smile Remo returned was cold. "Been there, done that," he said. "At least five times. I've lost count." Not a facial muscle twitched as he studied the MIR leader.

Sanchez couldn't believe the stranger's nerve. He was as cool as they came, not even giving a hint of concern at the weapons that were trained on him.

"Presidents come and Presidents go," Remo continued. "The part of the government I work for isn't even really part of the government. We've lasted through eight presidents, about to go on nine, and we're still standing. We say the hell with what Jeanne Dixon and Dick Morris have to say. We do what's right because it's the right thing to do." And nearby, another terrorist spoke.

"We protected," the rotten-toothed man said, sneering. His cunning eyes were rimmed in black. A crooked yellow smile split the dark swath of his five-o'clock shadow.

Remo didn't like the satisfied smirk the man wore. In fact, he didn't like it so much that he decided to wipe the smile off the man's face. He did so with a sideways slap so fast that none in the room could hope to follow his hand.

Remo succeeded in wiping away the smile along with the rest of the man's face. Dislodged flesh and bone struck the grimy black wall of the garage with a hard wet splat.

So fast did this happen that the man didn't have time to relax his smile. As his body fell, his face remained fixed to the wall, a now toothless grin gaping like a happy mask at the other shocked MIR terrorists.

Seeing how quickly the stranger in their midst could move, the men and women of MIR, so used to delivering faceless death from safe distances, reacted like true terrorists confronted by risk to their own precious lives and limbs. They threw down their guns and threw up their hands.

"We surrender!" several cried.

"Prison in America is not so bad," Eduardo Sanchez agreed numbly as he eyed the smear of bloody bone that was once the face of his most trusted lieutenant. "Maybe if we go back to jail, Ed Asner will start returning my calls."

"Nope," Remo said firmly. "No jail. Not this time."

He was looking beyond the forest of raised hands. An old Ford Escort sat rusting in one corner of the garage. The car belonged to Sanchez.

"You are not here to arrest us?" the MIR leader asked. When he tore his gaze from the bleeding skull on the floor, his eyes were deeply worried.

Remo didn't answer. At least not directly. "Hey, you guys like the circus?" he said cheerily.

Hesitation from the crowd. "Uh..."

"Of course you do," Remo insisted. "Everyone likes the circus."

Like an elderly woman herding a flock of park pigeons, Remo guided the fifteen remaining terrorists back toward the car. When one or two tried to escape, he coaxed them back into place with a sound smack to the side of the head.

Going around the far side of the car, Remo quickly sealed the doors. Coming back around, he sprang the two doors on the nearer side. "Everybody in!" he proclaimed.

A wash of fresh worry passed over the crowd. "We will not all fit," offered a male terrorist.

"That's negative thinking," Remo warned. "We don't allow negative thinkers in the circus."

And lifting up the man bodily, he tossed him onto the far side of the rear seat. The terrorist cracked his forehead on the door. He fell back into the seat, dazed.

Sensing no escape, the others began to climb nervously inside the car. By the time only five of them were in, the sitting room was gone. The three in the back were already squeezed uncomfortably in place.

"The car is full." The next terrorist in line shrugged. She was a woman in her early fifties. She licked her lips nervously.

"That attitude'll get you thrown out of the big top, missy," Remo cautioned with a waggling finger.

And grabbing her by the neck, he tossed her onto the laps of the three men. When she tried to sit up, she found she couldn't. Another terrorist had been thrown in on top of her. His broad bottom pressed down on her face.