Warren Murphy: Dark Horse

Remo stepped out into the night. Yes, the smell was stronger out here. It was a hot smell. It overwhelmed the grape scent that made the air so heavy. The smell was cloying but unmistakable.

Moving stealthily, Remo followed it.

It was coming from some kind of long, low outbuilding on the opposite slope of the hill. A thin pipe of a smoke stack gave off the fresh hot smell.

There were no windows, so Remo simply went in the door.

A blast of hot air hit him in the face. It was thick with different smells-cooking chocolate, and other, more chemical odors.

No one noticed him enter, so Remo closed the door behind him and went to a pile of machinery. He crouched down, so he could see what was going on.

The place looked like a sweat shop. Hispanic workers toiled in the heat. One end was devoted to a number of brick ovens and other food-processing equipment.

Black chocolate wafers came rolling out of the open ovens, hot and malleable. They were stamped on one side by hand and flipped over like silver-dollar pancakes.

Remo saw what the stamping did to the wafers, and wondered why anyone would be counterfeiting Oreo cookies.

Nearby, giant vats bubbled with white matter. Over these, glassine packets were broken and their powdery contents shaken in.

Remo's nostrils detected their scent. The stuff looked like sugar, but it didn't smell like sugar.

"Coke," Remo said under his breath.

The white stuff was ladled off onto rows of black wafers set on long tables, making small, steaming mounds. Busy hands slapped identical wafers on top, and the finished cookies were set aside to cool before being packaged.

In one corner, there were boxes and boxes of Oreo cookies. Someone was opening them, tossing out the cookies, and replacing them with the counterfeit versions.

It's starting to make sense now, Remo decided. Cashman's addiction. The fervor with which the crowds cheer Esperanza's speeches as they munch on their give-aways. Everything.

Remo moved to the opposite end of the building. A different operation was under way there. Grim workers were doctoring long punch cards. They were adding extra punch holes.

Remo recognized them as voting cards. He wasn't sure how it worked, but he knew that every card was being fixed so that it registered a vote for Enrique Espiritu Esperanza when the voting lever was pulled.

He decided he had seen enough. Remo was on his way to the door when he spotted a cellular telephone lying on a work bench.

Unfortunately, the bench was almost completely surrounded by workers.

Remo decided it was worth any price to get that phone, so he simply straightened up and walked boldly toward it.

A sweaty-faced man shouted at him in Spanish.

Casually, Remo said, "No problem. Ricky sent me."

"Que?"

"Enrique," Remo repeated. "Carry on."

A varied collection of pistols and automatic weapons came out from under places of concealment as Remo laid a hand on the cellular telephone.

Remo smiled. No one smiled back. With his thumb, he activated the telephone and held down the one key.

In a moment, Harold Smith's tight voice was saying, "Remo! Thank God you called."

The voice spooked someone, because Smith's voice was suddenly drowned by a short burst of gunfire.

Remo twisted out of the way. He needn't have bothered. The bullets peppered the ceiling, making a hollow drumming sound.

Holding on to the phone, Remo faded back through the door, not bothering to open it. He simply bulled through.

On his way out, he batted the door back. It took its own frame back with it and slammed into three pursuing men.

Remo raced toward the mansion, the phone up to his face. He was shouting into the receiver.

"Smitty. You copy?"

"Remo, I hear shooting," came the anxious voice of Harold W. Smith. He burped.

"I'm at Esperanza's vineyard. Guess what? Esperanza isn't Esperanza. He's-"

"General Emmanuel Nogeira," said Smith bitterly.

"Huh? How'd you know that?"

"Fingerprints off the Everglade's body. They belonged to the true Esperanza."

"They must have kidnapped him and pulled the switch during the Baptism," Remo growled. "And I didn't see it because I was too busy ducking cameras. But can we prove it?"

A bullet track snarled over Remo's head. He cut off to one side and kept zigzagging. Up ahead, lights were going on all over the mansion.

"The real Nogeira has five general's stars tattooed on each shoulder," Smith shouted.

"Tattooed?"

"He took his rank very seriously," said Smith.

"Yeah, well his smile gave him away to me," Remo said.

"His smile?"

"Later," Remo said. "I just stumbled upon an Oreo counterfeiting plant, and they're doctoring voter registration cards."

"Why would they counterfeit Oreos?" Smith shouted over the growing din.

"They're loaded with coke!" Remo shouted back. "Instant voter support. Nogeira was turning California into a land of cokeheads," Remo added.

"My God! It's Bananama all over again."

"Skip the anguish," Remo said quickly. "The bad guys are hot on my heels, and Chiun's up ahead with Nogeira. He doesn't suspect a thing. What do I do?"

"Nogeira must be eliminated. We have no choice."

"But Chiun'll kill me," Remo protested. "He thinks Cheeta Ching is going to give birth to the next heir to the House, and now this."

"Remo, we can deal with Chiun later. You have your orders."

Up ahead a door opened, and from out of the house a contingent of Crips, Bloods, and Los Aranas Espana poured out. They had weapons in their hands and Oreo cookies in their mouths, and their eyes were filled with a crazy light.

"Nobody better shoot!" Remo warned them.

"Our man Esperanza says we gotta!" spat back a familiar voice. Dexter Dogget's.

And behind him, Remo heard the shout, "Viva Esperanza!"

It was his pursuers. Probably Colombians or Bananamanians. Maybe both.

Remo threw himself on the ground as two fans of bullet tracks filled the air over his head from opposite sides. Rounds actually struck one another in midair, making short, ugly sounds and sending hot needles of lead spraying all around.

A few struck Remo's Hispanic pursuers. But only a few.

The pursuing Colombians did better. They chopped down about a third of the gang members in return. This brought further retaliation, and as he lay flat, cradling the cellular phone, Remo realized he had been forgotten. It was eye-for-an-eye time-which suited Remo just fine.

The firefight swelled into a crescendo of blood and bullets.

Moving low, Remo circled the mansion, the sound of firing covering him. He wondered why Chiun hadn't shown.

The Master of Sinanju listened thoughtfully as his patron explained the future.

"You will work for me. Exclusively."

"This is possible," replied Chiun. They stood before the dormant fireplace of the great parlor.

"I will pay you very, very well," continued Esperanza. "You will no longer need to work for the U.S. President."

"I do not work for him."

"Then who?"

"I cannot say."

Esperanza nodded. "I understand. I will expect the same loyalty."

Chiun inclined his head. "Of course."

"There is just one other matter," added Esperanza.

"Yes?"

"The one called Remo. He works for the government. He is CIA?"

"Possibly."

"He will be a hindrance to us. You must sever all ties with him."

Chiun touched his wispy beard in preparation before speaking.

Just then, the night exploded with the sound of automatic weapons fire.

Remo went in the back door. He brought it down with a flying kick and was past it before it quite hit the floor.

"Chiun!" he called. "Where are you?"

From a nearby room the Master of Sinanju's voice came, thin and unwelcoming.