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Warren Murphy: Shock Value

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"You listen, shithead!" the leader shouted.

Remo rolled his eyes. "Take your time, pal. But you might want to know that the roof's going to give." His eyes wandered back to the spot in the ceiling behind the men, where the smoke was jetting out in a thin black stream.

The leader smiled. "That's an old trick. There's nothing burning back there."

"I said the roof was going to give. The burning'll come after."

"How do you know?" asked one of the others.

"I can feel the vibrations from the beams," Remo said.

"Very funny. What do you take me for, a fool?"

Remo shrugged. "I wouldn't take you to a public trough."

"Shut up!" the leader yelled, his eyes glowing. "Now you listen and you listen good." He spoke with a whispered intensity. "Those cops down there are going to want somebody to pin this on. And it ain't going to be us, get it?"

"Heaven forbid," Remo said. "Then you wouldn't be free to start another fire down the street."

"You're catching on."

"The roof's going to give," Remo reminded him.

"Look, jerk, that roof crap didn't work before, and it's not going to work now, see?"

"Just trying to be Mr. Good Citizen."

"Well, you're going to get your chance, right, boys?"

"Yeah," one of the men said in a nasal twang as he stuffed his index finger into one nostril. "A chance to keep us out of jail." The three laughed uproariously.

"Here's what you do. First, we go up on the roof—"

"The roof won't be here in another thirty seconds," Remo said.

"The next roof, stupid. I got a can of kerosene all ready for you."

"Use it yourself," Remo said. "It's wonderful for cutting through grease and grime."

"Then Junior's going to kill you."

Junior swung a baseball bat from behind his back, grinning delightedly.

"Then we stick the can of kerosene in your hands and push you off. One dead arsonist for the pigs."

"Oh," Remo said. "I thought you wanted me to do something hard."

"Get over there," the leader said, shoving Remo toward the hole in the ceiling. "I'm going first. Then you, smart mouth, and don't try any funny stuff, 'cause Junior'll be right behind you."

"Junior's never going to make it," Remo said.

"The roof?"

Remo nodded.

"We'll take our chances," the leader said disgustedly, climbing out onto the roof.

Three seconds later the first section of the roof collapsed.

The leader scrambled clumsily to the edge as the screams of the trapped men died beneath the falling timber. He remained there for a moment, frozen, trying to decide whether to check on the others or run. He opted for running.

"They're all dead anyway," he muttered as he pulled himself across the gap of sky between one building and the next. The firemen below would be too busy battling the flames to chase after him. He could crawl down the fire escape and lose himself in the crowd of displaced tenants on the sidewalks. No one would catch on. And the bodies on the top floor would tell the story about who set the fires.

It was all worked out. He breathed easier as he brought himself to his knees on the roof containing the kerosene can. Just a few feet over to the fire escape...

"Hey, what about your friends?" called a voice from the smoking wreckage behind him. It was the stranger with the thick wrists, pulling himself onto the edge of the building with one hand while he dragged something with the other.

"How'd you get out?" the arsonist choked, unbelieving.

"I flew. I have a wonderful body," Remo said, his hands busy. "Thanks to twelve minutes of pulse-raising exercise every other day."

"Wh-what about...?" The leader edged toward the fire escape. "They alive?"

"No, they're dead," Remo said, flinging something out of the wreckage. It sailed high into the air, coming to rest with a heavy thump at the arsonist's feet, directly in front of the fire escape. It was the bodies of the two men, their limbs broken and knotted together.

"Real dead," Remo said. "And guess who's next."

The arsonist screamed.

Blubbering in fear, he pushed and pulled at the twisted mass of flesh in front of him to clear the way for his escape. But the stranger with the thick wrists had crossed the roof in one easy stride and was practically on him now. The arsonist rolled away, his teeth bared. From his pocket he extracted a squat, dark object. With a snap, the blade shot upward and gleamed in the moonlight.

"Okay," he said hoarsely, his smile twitching. "You try and get me now." He circled Remo menacingly, the blade slashing.

"First things first," Remo said. He stepped over the dead bodies and yanked up hard on the metal railings of the fire escape. It gave with a crash, bolts and shards flying as the stairway came loose and splintered to the ground. "Now, you were saying?"

The arsonist stared at him with eyes like saucers. "How'd you do that?" he cheeped.

"The same way I do this." Entering into a flying spiral, Remo left the surface of the roof in a movement that looked like a dance, except that the turns in his maneuver were fifty times faster than any dancer's. His foot shot out a full two feet away from the arsonist. Still, the knife soared, shattering in the air high above their heads. The arsonist stared at his empty hand in amazement, then at the empty place where the fire escape once stood.

"Nuh," the man blurted, rushing for Remo in a desperate tackle.

Remo picked up the kerosene can. "Catch." He tossed it in what looked like a slow underhand lob, but the impact of the can broke both the man's arms and shattered his ribs before propelling him toward the edge of the building.

"Don't kill me," the man wheezed as he tottered on the brick skirt of the roof, the kerosene can lodged in his chest.

"Now, why should I kill you?" Remo asked. He poked the can with two fingers. "Gravity's going to kill you." With that, the man careened over the edge and screamed his way to the pavement below.

"That's the biz, sweetheart," Remo said, looking absently for a way off the roof.

There was only one. Straight down.

He readied himself now. The back of the building faced onto a court of sorts, a jumble of debris surrounded by chicken wire. Still, it made a better surface than concrete if you were planning to make a fifty-foot dive and come out of it alive.

He balanced on the balls of his feet, preparing. When he was in perfect balance, the muscles relaxed, the spine loose and ready, the feet in position to spring, he jumped high and wide, somersaulting in the air.

He landed on the balls of his feet, in exactly the same position in which he had started. In front of the row of burning buildings, a team of ambulance paramedics was scraping the arsonist's remains off the sidewalk.

"Anything I can do?" Remo offered as he sauntered out of the alley between the buildings.

"No, thanks," the paramedic said, pushing the body into a plastic bag. "There's nothing anybody can do for the jumpers. People get scared in a fire, they jump, you know? They don't wait for the fire department."

"Maybe they don't feel like burning," Remo said.

"Jumping's just as bad. Every fire, there's a jumper. Somebody just said he saw another one."

"A jumper?"

"Yeah. Off the back."

Remo groaned. It was a policy of Harold Smith's that anyone who could identify Remo and consequently compromise CURE had to be eliminated. Remo was tired. The last thing he was in the mood for was another death. "Okay," Remo said, scanning the crowd. "Where is he? What's he look like?"

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