Warren Murphy - The Ultimate Death

"Hey, I ain't seen nothing wrong, so shut up," Favio had responded. "You wanna get us killed?"

Johnny Chisels fingered the butt of the 9-mm Glock pistol in his shoulder holster. He had lifted the weapon off a Colombian hit the year before, and he had treasured it ever since. Owning a piece none of his friends could spell made him feel worldly.

"And quit playin' with that foreign piece of shit," Favio added. "It's gonna go off one of these days, and take your fuckin' nose with it."

"Aw, lay off, Favio," Johnny Chisels complained.

Favio Briassoli had gone back to staring glumly at the floor, and Gaetano Chisli had just gotten up to stretch his cramped legs, when the front door exploded inward in a million shards of wood and metal, carrying Johnny Chisels with it. The two became a red abstract painting on the painted plaster wall behind.

"Come out, come out, wherever you are!" a voice called from out on Mott Street.

Favio Briassoli was up in a heartbeat. His chair clattered to the floor as he slammed his back firmly against the wall to the left of the door, his heavy Wildey Survivor .45 clutched in his meaty palm. About a dozen other burly thugs in ill-fitting suits came cramming into the small foyer from back rooms, Uzis in hand and backs dragging sweat marks across the thirty-year-old wallpaper.

"What is it, Favio?" one asked, eyeing the remains of Johnny Chisels.

"Shut up!" Favio hissed.

They waited in silence, but nothing else happened.

Tentatively, Favio Briassoli pushed his arm out the door, weapon first. He'd come out firing, and maybe peg off a couple of rounds into whoever had done in Johnny Chisels. But before he had a chance to depress the trigger, his gun was plucked from his hand like a spring dandelion. It disappeared in a blur out the front door.

"What the fuck . . . ?" Favio demanded. His fingertips were tingling. He hadn't even seen who or what had taken the gun from him.

A moment later the large handgun rolled back into the foyer. Its long barrel had been tied into a neat overhand knot.

"This is wrong," a sing-songy voice complained from outside. "We are not to harm any who dwell within this place without instructions from Smith." "Since when did you become a pacifist?" the first voice complained.

Wondering if the Irish Westies were making a move-since very few Sicilians were named Smith-Favio motioned to two of his burliest men. They took the signal and rushed to the door brandishing their Uzis. They leapt out into the street, while the others listened anxiously. The weapons managed a few feeble burps, and then were strangled into silence. Somehow . . .

Weapon in hand, Favio eased to the gaping front door, keeping off to one side. He was about to order the next wave into the fray. He got as far as jerking his thumb toward the door, when something that felt exactly like a steel vise grips reached in and dragged him, thumb-first, out onto the pavement.

He rolled back into the hallway a moment later, his spine knotted in the same manner as his handgun.

Next a face appeared at the door. It was youngish, about thirty or so. The man the face belonged to waved once to the cowering pack of mobsters, with an ordinary hand that was attached to his forearm by an extraordinarily thick wrist.

"Borrow a cup of ammo?" he asked cheerfully.

One of the gangsters opened fire, saying, "All I got are fuckin' clips."

The first volley of bullets ripped into the walls around the door, chewing up wood and spitting fragments of plaster onto the well-worn carpetand incidentally, adding a few kinks to Favio Briassoli's already knotty spine.

The man with wrists like baseball bats easily dodged the leaden storm.

He was in the hallway now, advancing on the startled group.

"Gee, all I wanted was a cup. That had to have been more like twenty," he said.

He was too close now for their machine pistols. They ran the risk of shooting one another in such a confined space. A few pulled handguns. The closest pair reached for him with their bare hands.

Those with outstretched hands lost the hands. The thick-wristed man simply collected them like so many toadstools. The newly maimed members of the Scubisci family dropped to the floor, howling and cradling bloody stumps. There were only four left standing. They stuck their guns in the face of the intruder and squeezed their triggers in unison.

Before the rounds left their chambers, their bodies had hit the floor. Bullet strikes peppered the surrounding walls.

But nothing else. For the intended target had vanished from the convergence of bullets, to reappear off to one side.

When all was quiet, Chiun entered through what remained of the front door. He picked his way through the carnage, delicately raising the hem of his silvery kimono.

"Thanks a heap for all the help," Remo complained.

"I disposed of the one who gave orders," Chiun sniffed. With his toe, he indicated the pretzel-like form of the late Favio Briassoli.

"And left me with a dozen more."

"You are in need of practice," Chiun said, glancing around the foyer with narrow almond eyes.

Remo eyed the Master of Sinanju quizzically. "Since when?"

"Since your elbow was bent."

Remo blinked. He hadn't heard that particular gripe-one of Chiun's favorites back in the old days-for many years.

"What's so terrible about a bent elbow, anyway?" he asked.

"Pray that you never find out," Chiun said darkly.

"Let's go find the big cheese," Remo said, shrugging.

"I warn you, Remo," Chiun said coldly. "This is wrong. Emperor Smith will be most displeased."

"Then why'd you follow me?"

Chiun's dry, papery lips thinned. He said nothing. His gaze darted into the building interior warily.

The room was shrouded in semidarkness. Remo trained his senses on the far end, and a black-walnut alcove. Only one person was there. The breathing was coming shallow and labored, laced with a loose-larynxed rattle. Whoever was in there had to be extremely old, sick, or both.

Remo creaked the door open carefully.

"What family you from?" someone in the back of the darkened alcove called.

Remo glanced at Chiun, who shrugged. "Sinanju!" he called out.

"The Jews ain't got no business in Scubisci territory," the voice answered. It was a pained, phlegmy rasp.

A light snapped on in the black-walnut alcove at the rear of the room. The light was the banker's variety, with a green shade and old-fashioned pull chain, and it illuminated walls plastered with sepia saints. A withered hand drew back from the ivory cone of light, to settle in the lap of the figure seated behind the bullet-scarred walnut table. The other hand was rooting around inside a grease-spotted paper bag. The thick smell of fried peppers wafted up from the greasy sack.

"What do you want from me?" Don Pietro Scubisci croaked.

"Answers," Remo said, advancing toward the alcove.

Don Pietro waved his free hand in a casual gesture. The other hand remained firmly inside the pepper bag. "A man my age, he has more questions than answers, I am afraid," he said. His eyes remained downcast, and he seemed to be absorbed in the spectacle of a cockroach that was crawling across his scarred tabletop.

"That's too bad," Remo said. "Because questions I got, answers you're going to give. Starting with Sal Mondello and Poulette Farms."

Chiun had drawn near to Remo, protectively.

"Remo, do not harm him," Chiun hissed.

"What?" Remo asked, surprised.

"Your friend, he is a wise man," Don Pietro Scubisci said. He reached his other hand inside the bag and pulled out a wedge of fried pepper. As if it had plans of its own, the first hand continued to search the bottom of the bag. Don Pietro placed the pepper delicately on his slug-white tongue and chewed it with deliberate calm. "You should be like him-maybe you'll live longer."