Warren Murphy: Unite and Conquer

"Can you say 'undescended testicles'?" Remo spat.

And his foot kicked up and shattered Gordons's groin. The caricature of a man jumped up in place, reeling upon landing.

"How about 'spinal dislocation'?" And he spun the bewildered android around, reached in and removed the spine whole.

The spinal column thrashed in his hand like an articulated snake. Remo began taking it apart, looking for the brain.

Not finding it, he dropped the loose bones and sent the head flying off the shoulder with a sudden swipe.

The head jumped, bounced and Remo stamped it flat.

That left the trunk weaving on two wobbly legs. The neck ended in a raw stump in which the bronchial tubes pulsed spasmodically.

Behind him the Master of Sinanju offered a suggestion. "My ancestors believed that the soul resides in the stomach."

Remo hadn't tried the stomach yet, so he gave it a shot. "Can you say 'esophageal reflux'?"

And taking Gordons by his shoulders, he drove one hard knee into the pit of the creature's stomach.

The result was better than Remo expected. The exposed windpipe in the neck stump went whoof, and up popped something that resembled a ball bearing except it was the size of a baseball.

It shot a dozen feet into the air and hung there for a horrible moment. Gordons's central processor. No question.

In that moment a thousand possibilities raced through Remo's mind. If he touched it, anything could happen. It might insinuate itself into his own body, taking it over. If it struck the ground, it could burrow like a gopher until it found something new to assimilate.

In that pause in eternity, Remo decided to bring his two palms together in midair, flattening the brain housing so fast it had no time to think, react or assimilate again. Remo hoped.

He never got the chance.

The Master of Sinanju stepped in, index finger leading, and as the shiny ball fell to the level of his wizened, expectant face, he sliced it back and forth so many times Remo lost count.

When the pieces hit the ground, they landed like a steel apple that had been run through a chopper. They sat formless, still holding some of the shape of a sphere but with the sections slipping every which way.

They watched it as the black rain discolored it.

"It's not moving," Remo said.

Then the Master of Sinanju stepped up and drove a heel into the pile of sliced metal.

They made a satisfying crunk as they were mashed into a lump.

His deadly nails retreating into the slaves of his kimono, the Master of Sinanju turned to address his pupil. "Your way would not have worked. He would have taken you as his next form."

"How do you know what my way was going to-"

Chiun smiled tightly. "Persons of correct fingernail length know all."

Remo knelt by the mash of metal. It was not moving. It didn't look like anything so much as sliced and mashed slag.

"I think he's down for the count."

"Of course. Nothing can withstand the Knives of Eternity."

"But I won't be satisfied until nothing is left. There's gotta be a way to make sure." And while they were thinking it through, a groan sounded behind them.

Winston Smith lay on the rain-soaked ground, his face buried in one arm. He pounded the ground again and again and again with his fist, and he only stopped when Remo came over and knelt down.

"This is the way the business goes sometimes," Remo told him in a quiet voice.

They stood over him until he had cried himself out and was ready to pick up the shattered remnants of his life.

The rain stopped before he did.

WOODENLY Winston Smith set his feet on the pedals and took the blood-sticky collective in his hands. They had wiped the inside of the cockpit with rags until the red was only pink. He could see enough to fly. That was sufficient. Nothing else mattered.

They flew north. Remo sat in the passenger seat, his face grim. In his lap he held a mass of metal.

In the back the Master of Sinanju sat on his steamer trunk, legs folded modestly under the flowing skirts of his kimono.

Beside him, wrapped in a shroud made of parachute silk, was a long red bundle. Winston didn't look at it. He couldn't. He just looked ahead, where a plume of smoke hung on the mountainous horizon.

Mount Popocatepetl still smoked. The smoke was grayish now. The crater smoldered red and angry as the chopper neared.

"Make a pass over it," said Remo.

Winston nodded. He had the bird near its operating ceiling.

Remo opened the cockpit door and held the metallic lump out. As they crossed over the crater, he let go.

The lump dropped straight down, and through the thin gray haze there came a distinct flare as it splashed into the simmering bowl of lava.

"Go around again," said Remo.

Winston brought the clattering ship around while the Master of Sinanju tenderly passed the silkwrapped bundle to Remo. He refused to look at it.

The cockpit door was still open. Remo held the bundle in his lap until it was time. The blistering heat of the crater came up to fill the cockpit interior, drying everything that was wet.

Then Remo dropped it down.

Tumbling, it fluttered like a bird. At the last second before it struck, the silk pulled away, showing the only recognizable part of what was left of Assumpta Kaax of the Benito Juarez Liberation Front. Her long, lustrous black hair.

Winston gripped the controls tightly and closed his eyes.

"Sorry, kid," Remo said. "Sometimes the book ends this way."

Winston nodded stiffly. "One last thing."

"What's that?"

Winston tossed his Hellfire pistol into Remo's lap. Around it was wrapped the black ski mask of the Extinguisher.

"Get rid of that stupid thing."

"Whatever you say," said Remo, giving the ungainly weapon a casual toss. It zoomed out, then down, landing with striking precision into the crater.

Winston choked back a sob. "Let's get the hell out of here."

"Make for the border," said Remo.

"What's up there that I should care about?"

"Your future-if you want one."

Winston pushed on the collective, and the chopper put Smoking Mountain and Mexico behind it forever.

Chapter 54

Sunny Joe Roam heard the helicopter in the distance. He came out of his hogan, his windburned face tense.

He called out to his Sun On Jo braves, who were pitching pennies against a giant saguaro cactus.

"Anybody expecting company?"

No one did. So he set his white Stetson on his head and loped up to the settling chopper on his long, denim-clad legs.

A man stepped out of the cockpit. He was young and blond, and there was something familiar about his eyes, but Sunny Joe couldn't place him.

On the other hand, the two other figures were very familiar. A warmth broke over the sandstone lines of his face.

He raised his booming voice. "Remo! Chief! What brings you two back to the reservation?"

Remo waved without much spirit. Their smiles did not light in return. Frowning, Sunny Joe quickened his pace.

"What's wrong?"' he asked as the rotor finished winding down.

Remo shook his hand. "It's a long story. I have a favor to ask."

"Ask away."

Remo set a hand on the shoulder of the young blond man. "This is Winston Smith."

"Howdy."

The boy frowned with all of his face. "Don't call me Smith. It's not my real name."

"This is my son," said Remo.

The boy looked uncomfortable. "I won't fight it if you won't," he muttered to Remo.

"No one's exactly in a hurry to match up DNA, so we're operating on pure rumor," Remo explained.

Sunny Joe's sunsquint eyes blinked several time. "Damned if you don't have your grandmother's eyes."

Winston asked, "Who?"

"My wife. Long gone now."

"Who are you?"

Sunny Joe eyed Remo. "You didn't tell him, Remo?"