Warren Murphy - The Ultimate Death

He would have left the gyonshi as he was but for Chiun. The Master of Sinanju had seen some special significance in the release of the weird orange smoke, so Remo, while not entirely understanding it, decided he would honor the ritual.

He'd find a scalpel or something in the medical wing of the facility. But for now he turned his attention back to Harold Smith.

He didn't know how badly Smith had been affected by the gyonshi poison. The CURE director seemed to be sleeping peacefully at the moment. He remained slumped in the chair where Remo had left him, his chin pressed down against his chest, breathing deeply. In fact, he looked as relaxed as if he had been embalmed.

Remo experienced a moment of unreality. Chiun stricken. Now Smith. It felt like the walls were closing in.

He recalled the tale Chiun had told him years ago, when a Master of Sinanju-Remo suddenly remembered his name had been Pak-had encountered the blood-drinking gyonshi in a Shanghai forest. There, the House of Sinanju had nearly been rendered extinct, as one by one Pak's servants' relatives were overcome by a mist that took the form of men with long, killing nails. Only by deceit and cunning had Pak compelled the bloodsuckers to spare him.

Now, untold generations later, Remo stood in Pak's sandals. And he found them cold.

Remo shook off his fear.

He decided to get Smith to a doctor, then return later to release the bad air of the dead man.

Remo stepped up to the chair and slipped his left hand behind Smith's stiff neck. His right found the backs of his employer's knees, and he started to gather the old man up.

At the moment of Remo Williams' maximum exposure, Harold Smith's eyes sprang open in a wild burst of energy. Remo felt the vibrations as Smith's heart rate increased almost fivefold.

Smith's hand shot up in a stunningly quick strike.

There was little time to react. Remo felt the sudden, unstoppable jab to his throat. His blood ran cold.

Remo Williams was spared only by the fact that Harold W. Smith was by nature a meticulously neat individual.

The older man's fingernails were always kept clipped and filed precisely. There were no sharp edges to pierce the skin. The blunt tip of his index finger merely poked the flesh of Remo's neck, like a soft eraser.

"Nice try," Remo snapped, dropping Smith back into the chair. A cold sweat trickled down the gully of Remo's back.

Hot-eyed, Smith tried again. This time, by holding his finger to Remo's throat and digging at his carotid artery, leaving only pale tracks that quickly faded.

Firmly, Remo removed Smith's hand and forced it into a harmless fist. Smith looked up, but the gray eyes that stared into Remo's were not those of Harold W. Smith. They were those of Don Pietro. Of the old gyonshi in the bed behind him. Of the Chinese couple. Of Sal Mondello. Of the black-clad Oriental with the creepy eyebrow who had ambushed Chiun.

They were the eyes of the Leader. The Leader who stared mockingly into Remo's soul through the vacant, dispossessed eyes of his superior.

And a voice that was unlike Smith's began to chant.

"The stomach is the center. The house of all life and death. Life begins and ends here. The soul dwells there. Destroy the stomach and destroy all life. We are the holy saviors of the stomach. We wander the earth as the undead, slaves to our God, punishers of all transgressors."

"Tell it to the head psychologist," Remo said bitterly, hefting Smith carefully into his arms.

He carried him out of the hospital room, knowing that his employer was as lost to him as the Master of Sinanju.

For there was no cure for gyonshism-except by slitting the throat and releasing the orange smoke that clogged Smith's lungs.

Remo knew he might have to perform that operation on Smith. And he would do it.

But who would free the Master of Sinanju from his living hell? For Remo knew he could never bring himself to cut the throat of the man who was more than a father to him-not even if Chiun himself were to beg for such a boon.

Chapter 19

Mary Melissa Mercy stood before the Leader in the security room at Three-G, Incorporated, the room he had been using as his headquarters. He was seated before a bank of television monitors.

"The Master of Sinanju has succumbed!" she trumpeted proudly.

The words thrilled him. So many years . . . so much wasted time . . . so hungry for vengeance. Now, fulfilled.

"He is dead?" the Leader asked eagerly.

"Better." The girl's tone seemed to shimmer with delight. "He has become one with the holy Creed. He is gyonshi now."

The Leader nodded. "The Taoist," he said, knowingly.

"Yes, Leader."

"The last any would suspect. Our bitterest enemy, but for Sinanju. The Shanghai Web proved true. The Master and his gweilo thought they had evaded each snare laid in their path. They did not dream that only through flight could they escape their doom. Only through flight."

His hands grasped the arms of the old-fashioned wooden chair that now served as his throne. He had once had a true throne of rosewood and rare gems, but Sinanju had robbed him of that glory. Just as they had robbed him of fifteen years of his life in death. The Final Death. But now his long years of shame had been expunged by the words of his gweilo nurse.

"The plan?" he asked, his blind pearl eyes upturned to where he sensed the girl to be.

The girl hesitated. "All is not well," she admitted.

A frown like a spring thundercloud passed across the Leader's shriveled purple features. "Explain."

"Their dead number only in the thousands, Leader. Not millions. Your requirements for the Final Death have not been achieved." She shrugged. "Not enough chicken-eaters, I guess."

The Leader seemed to relax ever-so-slightly. "The despised Master of Sinanju is no more?" he asked.

"Yes, Leader."

"If the Master can be stopped, cannot the pupil?"

Mary frowned. "Yes," she replied at length.

"Then where is the failure?"

"The failure is to your ancestors, Leader. To our Creed."

"Missy, this Creed of which you speak is as old as I, and older still. It is no more yours than the air you breathe, or the ground upon which you tread. The gyonshi will survive Sinanju, that is all that matters. Be it by a week, a day, an hour. The gweilo will come, and he will be consumed. Like the sacred blood that breaks our fast."

"But . . . the Final Death?"

"Will be achieved, Missy. There are other poisons. Plagues, famines, disease. If I am not here to carry out the work, it will be another. It will be you." He said it as an offhanded gesture. She was, after all, but a woman. And a white. She could be true to the Creed in spirit, but not in blood.

Mary Melissa Mercy's ample chest swelled with pride. "I will not let you down, O Leader."

He turned away from her, waving his guillotine-nailed hand in a shooing gesture. "I know you will not, my nurse."

Chapter 20

The Master of Sinanju knew not where he abided.

Upon regaining his senses, Chiun muttered a low curse for having allowed himself to fall victim to the Leader's trap.

The Leader knew what Chiun would do. Knew what he must do. It was the Leader himself who, years before, had infected the Sinanju elder with the gyonshi virus. The Leader knew of Chiun's father. It had been the Leader who had engineered his father's ultimate disgrace. If the elder of the village had succeeded in striking Chiun so many years ago, his plan would have come to fruition that much sooner. Sinanju would have ended then, the long bloodline severed.

But Sinanju had not ended. It lived. It lived in Chiun. It now lived in Remo as well.

Chiun got out of bed, setting his sandaled feet to the floor.

The Master of Sinanju glanced down at his feet. Most curious. It was unusual that the American doctors had not removed his sandals.