Warren Murphy: Dark Horse

"In here."

Remo veered toward the sound. He came up short, in a spacious parlor decorated in the Spanish style of old California. He pointed in the direction of Enrique Esperanza.

"That guy's a phony," he said hotly. "He's not Esperanza."

"It is true," admitted Enrique Esperanza. "I have taken the place of the real Esperanza, who had the misfortune to share a meal with a swimming reptile." He looked to the Master of Sinanju. "With your history, you must appreciate my cleverness. I had plastic surgery to make my face resemble his."

"Not to mention a dermabrasion," Remo inserted.

Esperanza smiled. "My new face is so much more photogenic, no?"

"No," said Remo flatly.

Esperanza shrugged and went on. "My plan is quite simply foolproof. I have recruited the very illegals I have helped to smuggle into this country in my-how you say?-previous life. The homeless will vote for me, too, because I have registered them under the names of the dead. Those who enjoy my cookies will also vote for me. Those I have frightened with my vision of the future of California will, sadly, not vote for Esperanza. But I think many of them have other plans for their own futures, which do not include California."

"Let's not forget the doctored voter punch-cards," Remo added darkly.

Chiun's wrinkled features acquired a questioning cast.

"Once I have my people put them in place," Esperanza explained, "they will insure that even those who vote against me will be casting a vote for Esperanza. Brilliant, no?"

The hazel eyes of the Master of Sinanju shone in appreciation. "Yes, it is very brilliant."

Remo shouted, "Chiun! What are you saying?"

"Merely the truth. This is a ruler after my own heart. He understands power. And he will achieve it."

"That mean you're sticking by him?" Remo demanded tightly.

"Only a fool would not," replied Chiun. "He is what is called 'a sure thing.' "

"Then call me a fool," growled Remo.

Chiun shrugged. "You are a child yet, Remo. You will learn that the true leaders are those who take power, not accept it from the fickle populaces."

Esperanza smiled broadly. "You are too late," he told Remo. "He is with me. There is no changing that."

"Too bad," Remo said. "Emperor Smith wanted him taken out."

Esperanza looked blank.

"Smith is my emperor no longer," Chiun said coldly. "Our most recent contract has expired. It will not be renewed. Better work has come along."

"He'll be sorry to hear that," Remo said. "Especially when he hears that you let a golden opportunity slip through your fingers."

Chiun cocked his head to one side. "What opportunity?"

"The one that atones for my earlier screw-up, when I let Nogeira get eaten by that alligator."

"What has that to do . . . ?"

"Because that's Nogeira right there," Remo said, pointing.

Chiun turned to the man he knew as Enrique Esperanza. "This is true?"

"Not at all," said a smiling General Emmanuel Nogeira. "I do not know what this man is saying."

"There's one way to prove the truth," Remo said. "The real Nogeira has five general's stars tattooed to each shoulder."

General Nogeira squared his shoulders.

"Nonsense," he said, tightening the cord on his terrycloth robe. "CIA lies."

"Then you would not mind disproving this accusation," Chiun said slowly, his eyes going as narrow and steely as knife blades.

"Seems to me, I recall a clause in that contract that covers unfinished business," Remo said pointedly.

The man who called himself Enrique Espiritu Esperanza looked from Remo to Chiun, to Remo again. His mouth fell open like a hungry frog's. "I refuse," he said, sweat forming on his smooth forehead. "I am Esperanza. I do not need to prove anything. To anyone. And when my men finish shooting at shadows, they will deal with that pig of a CIA agent," he added, indicating Remo.

"I see," said the Master of Sinanju, turning away. His hands slashed back like the talons of a striking eagle. Nails ripped the terry cloth away, exposing the broad brown shoulders of General Emmanuel Nogeira-and five bluish-green stars on each shoulder, where the artist's needle had inscribed them.

Before anyone could react, in from the front door poured a knot of triumphant Colombians. They burst into the room, holding their weapons at the ready for instruction.

General Nogeira pointed at Remo Williams and said, "Kill that blanco!"

Then the blood erupted from his naked throat, as the right index fingernail of the Master of Sinanju opened it with a seemingly careless slice.

As the once-again-dead dictator of Bananama started to tip forward into a fountain of his own gore, Remo went to work on the Colombians.

They were handicapped by the need not to fill the parlor with flying lead and hit their own leader, so they began backing around for clean shots even as Nogeira's throat split open.

Remo danced in. He kicked high, and sent the jaw of one Colombian crashing up through his own palate. His foot had barely touched the rug on the rebound when the attached ankle twisted, and Remo's other foot went for a handy temple. The kick didn't tear the second Colombian's head off his shoulders. It only dislocated it. But the result was the same. The floor began to collect fallen Colombians.

The Master of Sinanju was more direct. He stepped up to each of his intended victims, batting their impotent weapons away, and punctured them at critical points. A paralyzing stab to a heart muscle here. A jugular-severing slice there.

It took less than two minutes. Nobody got off a single shot. When it was over, Remo and Chiun were the only ones left standing among the dead and dying.

They bowed once to one another formally. Remo bowed a second time. The Master of Sinanju returned it. But when Remo started a third bow, Chiun made a disgusted face and said, "Enough! Only a Japanese would indulge in such an unseemly display of emotion. Do not be a Japanese, Remo."

"Sorry, Little Father. It's just that I thought you had gone over to Esper- I mean, Nogeira's side."

"That," intoned the Master of Sinanju, "is a decision I would have made after the election, not before."

"That's a relief."

"Besides," Chiun added, "if I abandoned you, Remo, who would raise my grandson?"

"Uh, I hope that's not the only reason you made that decision," Remo said uncomfortably.

"Why do you say that?"

"Because there's something you need to know about Cheeta Ching . . . ."

And over the expanse that was the Esperanza vineyard, where men lay dead and dying, a piteous cry of despair rose up to the moon-burdened sky.

Chapter 34

The blackened patch of ash nestled in the Santa Monica foothills was still being hosed down by fire apparatus when Remo pulled up to the fire-barrier sawhorses.

In silence, he got out. The Master of Sinanju, face still, hands concealed in the sleeves of his brocaded kimono, followed a decorous two paces behind.

A fire marshal stopped them.

"Sorry. Off-limits."

Remo flashed his secret service ID, and the fire marshal changed his tune.

"We're looking for a possible body," Remo told him.

"We got them all."

A low moan issued from Chiun's wattled throat.

"Find a female body?" Remo asked.

"No. All males."

"Then you missed one," said Remo, striding into the blackened area.

The smell of fire was like charcoal on the tongue. The sweet stink of roasted human flesh added to his discomfiture. Fire-scarred iron bars lay amid the burnt timbers and light gray ashes, like the bones of some metallic dinosaur.

Remo located the exact spot on the pile of ash that had been his cell, then walked five paces west.

"Right here," said Remo, standing on the spot where Cheeta Ching had been imprisoned.

He took up a bar and began to poke the ashes, which lifted into the warm air like snowflakes from some evil dimension.