Warren Murphy - The Ultimate Death

"I haven't come through this without a few scrapes as well!" Remo called after him. "That old hairbag in there just tried to harpoon me!" he complained.

Chiun paused. "Yes," he said thoughtfully. "Thank you for that as well. I will have to explain his death to Smith."

"What's to explain?" Remo demanded. "This guy was capo di tutti frutti of the whole frigging Manhattan Mafia, and I took him out."

"Have you forgotten? It was Smith who arranged his ascension to power. A cunning move, because it installed a weak, ineffectual bandit chief in place of the more dangerous man who came before."

"So? He can install another old hairbag. Big deal. They're a dime a dozen."

"That is the least of our concerns at the moment," Chiun said, heaving a sigh. "This all could have been avoided. Had I not been such a kind and forgiving teacher you would not have lapsed into your slothful, corner-cutting American ways." His parchment face hardened. "That is not to say it is still not all your fault, because it is."

Remo was shaking his head slowly.

There came a sharp clatter, as if something had fallen, followed by a low growl behind them.

The busy Chinese shopkeeper had dropped his broom to the sidewalk and was advancing on Remo and Chiun, his right hand slashing and jerking before his own fierce face. Remo saw his gyonshi fingernail making deadly circles in the air.

"What is this-Night of the Living Take-Out?" he exclaimed.

Chiun was sliding off to one side, his hands free, alert to attack. "The Leader is diabolical in his ways," he cautioned. "He has set traps for us wherever we venture."

"Yeah, and he must have spent the last decade breeding like a bunny."

Remo and Chiun moved in such a way as to contain the shopkeeper in the shrinking space between them. As he realized he was being trapped he reacted feverishly, slicing first at one, then wheeling and stabbing at the other. Remo and Chiun dodged the attacks easily, but neither moved to stop the man. They were Sinanju, and understood that the speed of the dead thing before them was equal to their own.

It was clear that Chiun wished for Remo to dispatch the man, but there was something in the gyonshi's eyes. The same dead light had been in the eyes of the bogus chicken inspector Sal Mondello and Don Pietro Scubisci. The Chinese was not in control of his own actions.

"Why do you hesitate?" Chiun asked Remo. He faded back just as the shopkeeper's index finger whizzed past his face, barely missing the Master of Sinanju's tuft of beard.

"It isn't this guy's fault he's like this," Remo said. He avoided a thrust by skipping to one side. The shopkeeper spun back on the Master of Sinanju.

"Pah!" Chiun said, disdainfully. "You are in need of practice against these vermin. If you wish to be merciful, end its suffering."

"Like I have a choice," Remo muttered, moving toward the wild-eyed shopkeeper.

A frantic voice came from across the street. It was high, lilting, although distinctly male.

"Master of Sinanju, behind you!" it called.

Remo had sensed the approaching danger, as he was certain Chiun had. A stocky Chinese woman of about fifty was stomping out of the entrance to the shop, her gyonshi fingernail pointed at Chiun like a deadly mini-lance.

The shopkeeper's wife, Remo figured. He looked about, in search of the author of the warning. He caught a fleeting glimpse of a figure in black. Then, he turned his attention to his own adversary.

Reacting, Chiun grabbed the female gyonshi by her plump wrist and seemed to exert only an easy tug. The woman's feet left the ground and she orbited once around. As she passed him, Chiun's other hand flew out and her throat slashed itself open on the outstretched fingernail.

Centrifugal force deposited her against a light pole, where she slid slowly to the sidewalk, her arms and legs bent at crazy, impossible angles.

It would have seemed to any onlooker as if the pair had simply performed a rather flamboyant dance step, after which the woman had sat down to catch her breath.

The orange mist seeped from her open throat.

"You are free now," the Master of Sinanju told the broken corpse without malice.

Satisfied, Chiun turned away. His wrinkled face smoothed in shock.

For there was no sign of his pupil.

"Remo!" Chiun called plaintively. "My son!"

And far in the back of his mind, he remembered the words of his ancient enemy.

The words were, "Separate and conquer."

Remo used his thick wrists to block the driving nail of his foe. But the gyonshi was stubborn. With the first parry, he cracked a wrist bone against Remo's wrist. He tried again. Another bone broke.

The hand hung off the fractured wrist like a drooping sunflower. The man's flat face also drooped.

Defeated, the Chinese shopkeeper ducked inside his shop. Without hesitation, Remo went after him.

He found the man trying to claw his way through the thick, triple-locked security door in the back storeroom.

"Sorry, pal," Remo said, spinning the man around by the shoulder. He slashed at the exposed throat, but his fingernails-although capable of cutting glass-weren't long enough to pierce pliable flesh, and Remo was forced to use a box-cutting razor against the man's yellow throat. He felt like a ghoul-Masters of Sinanju were forbidden the use of weapons.

Remo waited until the body had vented its puff of orange smoke before he left.

When he emerged into the sunlight a moment later, a crowd had already begun to form around the shopkeeper's wife. Ignoring the commotion, he glanced up and down Mott Street.

It was deceptively quiet. People passed in and out of doorways. Horns honked. Children shouted.

A lone squad car had arrived to investigate the disturbance at the Neighborhood Improvement Association.

But there was no sign of Chiun.

Remo's heart gave a leap of fear.

From somewhere, he seemed to catch a whisper on the wind. The whisper seemed to be in Chiun's squeaky tone of voice.

And the words the wind seemed to whisper were, "Separate and conquer."

Chapter 15

The aged door creaked in a slow and deliberate complaint as it was opened, the rotted wood around the hinges threatening to tip the warped slab of wood back out into the musty hallway at any moment.

The single bare bulb clicked on, illuminating the cluttered living area.

Chiun stepped in.

He stood in a long, musty room covered in bookshelves, work tables, and display cases. Hung along the walls were yin-yang symbols, warped circular mirrors, tattered bamboo umbrellas, rusty swords made of beaten Chinese coins, and the eighteen legendary weapons of China-including esoteric swords, spears, sais and nunchuks.

"I must apologize, for I did not expect to bring the Master of Sinanju home with me," said the creature the Master of Sinanju had followed to this place. He wore a simple black tunic, black kapok pants, and black Chinese slippers.

The man was thin, with a square face, a round chin, flat nose, and beady, amber, almond-shaped eyes. His hair was the color and consistency of wheat, but the most remarkable thing about him was his eyebrow.

He possessed but one. It stretched across his brow and dropped on either side of his face almost to his shriveled cheeks, like a frame of bristly hair.

Chiun picked his careful way through to the center of the shabby living room carpet and stood in stony silence.

The door creaked shut behind him, blocking off the sounds of a strident argument in a neighboring apartment.

"You do not need to thank me for warning you of the gyonshi female," intoned the creature.

Chiun's countenance remained impassive. "And I will not," he replied flatly.

A heavy pause clung like fog to the room's damp air.

"You know of me, then?"

Chiun's head turned, ever so slightly. "You are the Taoist with one eyebrow," Chiun responded. "An embalmer of Chinese. You are familiar with the ways of the dead-living or otherwise."