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Warren Murphy: A Pound of Prevention

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A Pound of Prevention: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация

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IT AIN'T CLUB MED... Something funny is going on in the East African nation of Luzuland...and it's more than just the usual civil unrest or military coup.  Organized crime lords are converging for what looks like an underworld summit - and Dr. Harold Smith dispatches Remo for a look-see and some quiet, effective neutralization. But Remo has his own problems, and he's just not in the mood to be killing his way up chain of command in East Africa.  Chiun has gone AWOL, fulfilling some ancient Sinanju contract and busily storming the Luzu presidential palace with a handful of saber-wielding warriors. And unless Chiun can beat some sense into his pupil's skull, Remo's bent on nuking an entire mob-infested Third World city to deliver a pound - make that a megaton - of prevention guaranteed to wipe out a generation of predators...and a few million innocent souls.

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"Excuse me, ma'am," Remo said, gently trying to coax the crazy old woman's hand from his arm. Her grip tightened. Eyes red from weeping stared deeply into his own. "There are decisions you must soon make," the old woman said, her voice becoming strangely distant. "Difficult decisions. Your life is going to be hard these next few years... Remo." And she smiled.

In spite of himself, Remo felt a chill tighten around his spine.

As a secret assassin in the employ of the United States government, there were only a handful of people who knew his name. And a demented old inmate of a Peoria nursing home was definitely not part of the inner circle.

He shot a glance at the undertaker. The man was engaged in conversation with another mourner. Remo turned back to the woman.

He studied her face, trying to find something that might trigger a memory. But there was nothing. As far as he knew, he'd never met her before in his life. "Do I know you?" he asked quietly.

She gave him the sweet smile of a grandmother he had never known-of the great-grandmother baby Karen would never meet. "You want this," she insisted.

She pressed her hand into his. There was something in it. Remo opened his hand on a small scrap of torn notebook paper. When he unfolded it, he found an address.

He looked up, puzzled.

"The bad boy is there," she said with simple innocence. "They told me. Just like they told me you'd come for him." She finally released the grip on his arm. He hadn't even realized she was still holding him. "Oh, and there's one more thing." A small black purse hung from her elbow. The old woman clicked it open and rummaged inside. She pulled out a small silver crucifix. "It was little Karen's. I got it for her at the religious store the day she was born." She forced the cross into Remo's palm.

"I don't underst-" Remo began, shaking his head.

Before he could finish, a voice cut in. "Ma, what are you doing back here?" Remo glanced up dully.

Mr. Carlson had left the rest of his family near the coffin. He stood before Remo, a look of deep apology on his sad face. "I'm sorry, sir," he said softly to Remo. "She's in and out lately. Ma, you really should be with us."

Taking his elderly mother gently by the elbow, he led her back up to the front of the room. When she retook her place in her folding chair, she didn't even look Remo's way. Her eyes were glazed, distant.

She took firm hold of the young boy's tiny hand. Remo could see now that he was Korean.

Fighting his confusion, Remo looked from the old woman to the crucifix in his hand. It was cool against his flesh.

He thought of baby Karen, her flesh made as cold by her own father. His face growing resolved, he closed his hand tightly on the cross.

Slipping the crucifix into his pocket, Remo walked down the short staircase and out the side door. In another moment, he melted away into the shroud of the swelling storm.

LIGHTNING CRACKLED in jagged lines across the swollen sky above the tenement, ripping through black clouds. Two seconds later, thunder roared from the nearby darkness. It was quickly followed by another burst of lightning.

Through the dirt-streaked pane of the fourth-floor bedroom window, Brad Miller watched the raging storm.

He had been cooped up in this apartment for six days. Almost a week of doing nothing at all.

His father owned the building. The elder Miller had promised his son that he'd have to stay there only until the lawyers figured something out. The fact that Brad was still stuck in this dump was proof enough that the army of Miller attorneys was having a rough go of it.

Behind Brad, the television played softly, the flickering images keeping pace with the lightning. It was the news. He caught some of what was going on in the screen's reflection on the pane.

He had stopped watching for himself. At first it was a kick seeing his face on the news day and night. Cabin fever had long wiped that thrill away. Now it was just boring.

He had no idea what could possibly be taking so long. That baby of Ellen's was only a month old. Barely human. More like an animal.

Brad hoped fervently that the days he'd wasted in this slum would count toward his probation. The lawyers should get on that, too. He'd be sure to mention it to his mother the next time she called.

Brad watched a lazy droplet of water roll along the uppermost windowpane. It intersected with the blurry reflected image of the television screen.

For a moment, he thought his eyes were not in proper focus. The TV screen seemed to be obscured by something.

Bored, Brad turned away from the storm... and blinked.

There was a man in the room with him. Even standing perfectly still, the intruder exuded menace. His face was a death mask.

"Who are you?" Brad demanded as he took an involuntary step back.

The intruder didn't move. He just stood in front of the flickering TV, his gaze directed beyond Brad. "You're a bad father," Remo Williams intoned. The scrap of paper with the tenement's address given to him by baby Karen's great-grandmother lay crumpled at his feet.

A crackle of lightning split the night sky.

Brad swallowed. In that moment, a lifetime's worth of arrogance derived from privilege drained away.

"I got lawyers," Brad Miller gulped. "Tons of them."

If Remo heard him, he didn't acknowledge it. "My father wasn't around when I was growing up. He left me on the steps of an orphanage when I was a baby. I finally met him just a couple of years ago. He's a good guy."

Brad didn't like the sound of this. His ears thrummed as he watched the strange intruder across the room.

"I didn't meet my adoptive father until I was full grown," Remo continued. "I didn't know it at the time, but I was just an infant in a man's body. He's been a real pain in the ass almost the whole time I've known him, but..."

As his voice trailed off, Remo closed his eyes. He thought of that tiny coffin. Of the Carlson family-robbed of daughter and granddaughter.

Brad didn't know what this guy's story was, but he was getting an inkling. The moment Remo's eyes were closed, he saw an opportunity. He lunged for the door.

He barely took two steps before he felt a strong hand grab him by the shoulder. He was ripped from the floor in midstride and thrown back across the room. He landed on the unmade bed, his head smashing against the peeling varnish of the headboard. The cheap wood cracked in two.

When his groggy eyes opened, he saw Remo seated in a chair next to him, his own eyes still closed.

"I have a daughter," Remo said with eerie stillness. "Because of my line of work, her mother took her from me. My father has her now-my biological father. Even though I hardly ever see her, she matters more to me than I ever could have imagined."

In the bed, Brad pulled himself to a sitting position. A section of broken headboard thudded to the floor. When he pressed fingers to the back of his head, they came back smeared with blood.

"Dammit, man, I'm bleeding," he panted. When Remo said nothing, Brad shifted awkwardly. The bed squeaked.

At long last, Remo opened his eyes. "I've failed," he said simply. Face hard, he stared out into the bleak night.

For the first time, Brad noticed something in the intruder's hand. It was a tiny cross. In fact, it looked just like the one Ellen's crazy grandmother had given the baby just before they put the old woman in the home.

An image of the demented old hag suddenly sprang into Brad's mind. Her dust-gray face grinned teeth of brown.

She was forever claiming to have visions of this and that. "Talking to the angels" was what she called it. The first time Brad had met her, he vowed it would be the absolute last time, as well. The wrinkled old biddy creeped him out.

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