Warren Murphy: Dark Horse

"The guards will be here any second now," Blaise said smugly. "Why don't you put up your hands now, and maybe they won't shoot you?"

Remo took the cigarette from Blaise Perrin's loose lips and returned it, lit end first.

While Blaise was dealing with a mouthful of hot ash and a burnt tongue, Remo went to the door.

"I'm in here," he called.

Running footsteps converged on the office.

Remo went to meet the first arrival. The man came around the corner with his rifle held at hip level. Remo took the muzzle and used it as a lever, slamming the man against a wall and stunning him.

"That's one," Remo said.

The commandant came from the opposite direction.

Remo flattened against the wall at the point at the corner. The man came in fast. Too fast to see Remo's foot trip him. He turned a somersault, and Remo caught him in mid-flip and used his head to make a hole in the wall.

The commandant ended up on his knees, his entire body loose, his neck joined to the wall.

"Two," Remo said.

The two remaining guards happened along then. They skidded to a stop, took one look at Remo, saw their commandant on his knees as if about to be guillotined by a wall, and changed their minds. They doubled back.

Remo decided there was time to interrogate Blaise Perrin before they got reinforcements. He went back to the office.

He heard the sharp breaking of glass, and remembered the fire alarm. A lot of good that's going to do, he thought.

Remo entered the room just as Blaise grabbed the lever.

"Don't waste your time," Remo said.

To Remo's right, the head of the commandant poking through the wall screamed, "Don't! Blaise! Don't!"

Remo started forward. Blaise pulled the lever.

Then a wave of concussive force blew out every wall in the office, and there was a hot yellow sheet of fire directly in front of Remo's astonished eyes.

Through the darkness that came next, he could hear echoing detonations. He counted seven. One for each of the buildings in the reeducation camp.

Chapter 24

There was nothing to hang on to. And even if there had been, the shock wave would have been too strong to resist.

Remo let it carry him. His body, reacting to free-fall, went limp. He could feel the heat on his bare arms, smelled the hair singeing off, and prayed he wouldn't be scarred for life.

Most of all, he thought of how stupid he had been. He had taken the fire alarm at face value. It had been wired to a detonator. The entire complex had been rigged to self-destruct when that lever was pulled.

A tree branch slashed at Remo's face. Blindly, he grabbed out, snared another. It groaned, snapped, and Remo slammed into a nest of branches that lacerated his face and arms.

After that, he dropped straight down. He rolled upon impact and kept rolling, in case he was on fire.

Remo only stopped rolling when his back slammed into a boulder and blew the air out of his lungs.

He lay there a moment, taking inventory. His eyes came open, and he found his feet. The hair had been burned off his exposed skin and he'd lost a little off his head, but there were no broken bones, no internal injuries. He looked around.

The fires were everywhere. They crackled and snarled like trapped animals. The heart of the conflagration was like looking into a fallen sun.

"Cheeta," Remo croaked, climbing to his feet. "Chiun will kill me if she buys it."

Remo moved toward the flames. A man came running out, his mouth open in a silent scream, his flaming arms beating like mad phoenix wings.

He ran and ran and then just flopped on the ground and kept burning. He stopped flapping his burning arms, though.

The heat made it impossible to enter the flames. Remo circled the blaze, which was so hot the perimeter fence had begun to wilt.

There were screams coming from the different burning structures. They sounded like they were being ripped out of the throats of their authors. They didn't last long at all.

Remo was forced to retreat.

He found Blaise Perrin draped across a boulder, his spine broken in three places. Remo grabbed up a fistful of hair and pulled his head back.

Perrin groaned. "You . . . can't . . . prove a . . . thing."

"What was that place?" Remo asked harshly.

"Reeducation . . . ."

"For political enemies?"

"No . . . for . . ." Blaise closed his eyes slowly.

Remo shook him back to consciousness.

"For . . . smoke . . ."

"For smoke?"

"Smokers," Perrin hissed.

"This is a concentration camp for people who smoke?" Remo said incredulously.

"It was . . . completely . . . humane. We had . whole program. Nictone . . . transdermal patches. Aerobics. Shots."

Remo pulled out one of the Band-Aids he had found in the storeroom. "Is this one of the patches?"

"You . . . put it on . . . person's skin and . . . it makes them allergic to . . . tobacco. By the year two thousand California would be smoker-free."

"Smoker-free? What about people's rights?"

"Smokers . . . have . . . no . . . rights," coughed Blaise Perrin. His head went limp. This time, no matter how much Remo shook him, he didn't come around. He would never come around again.

Remo used a heavy boulder to scoop out a fire trench, so the blaze wouldn't spread, then reclaimed his car, which was intact. The TV van had protected it. Its tires were smoking and melting slowly.

As Remo drove away the gas tank caught, and the van shot ten feet in the air and came down with a rattling thud.

Remo found a phone booth at a gas station in the Santa Monica foothills. He called the local fire department and reported the fire. Then he called Folcroft.

"Smith. Bad news."

"What?"

"Rona Ripper has a secret plan, too."

"Is it legal?" Smith asked.

"Definitely not. Her secret plan insures a smoker-free California."

"You mean smoke-free."

"That too. I just came from a concentration camp for smokers her people had built in the Santa Monica Mountains. Once she was elected, if you smoked, you'd go through the program."

"That's insane," Smith said sharply.

"This is California."

Smith's ragged breathing came across three thousand miles of telephone line.

"Remo, as you know we do not interfere with elections."

"Right."

"It is against everything CURE stands for. We are above politics. Above the process. Outside the Constitution, yes. But only because the Constitution has been subverted by elements which wish to repeal it."

"Right."

"I myself do not vote."

"Right."

"I personally do not care who governs California so long as they are legally elected."

"Right. Right," Remo said impatiently. "Cut to the chase, will you?"

"Remo, we are forced to take sides. Barry Black, Junior is committing voter fraud. Rona Ripper intends to force her personal beliefs on the citizens of that state, without recourse to lawful legislation. Neither candidate can be allowed to assume the governorship under these circumstances."

"So we help Esperanza get elected?"

Smith's tone was flat. "I see no choice in the matter."

"I'm not looking forward to facing Chiun."

"I would think he would be pleased."

"Not when I tell him Cheeta Ching just went up in a ball of fire," Remo said wearily.

"What is this?"

Remo explained the circumstances leading to Cheeta Ching's apparent demise.

Smith was thoughtful. At last he said, "Is there any trace she was in the camp when it exploded?"

"Not unless they dig up her blackened shark's teeth."

"Say nothing of this to Chiun. Or anyone. The election is less than a week away. After that, the chips can fall where they may. Our task will be done."

"Gotcha. I'm on my way. Where is Esperanza now?"

"San Diego." Smith's tight voice softened slightly. He sounded tired. "Good luck, Remo," he said.