Warren Murphy: Coin of the Realm

"Wait," he said when she started back for the boat. "Wait here."

"Papa dui kuru da Sinanchu," she said.

"Right, Sinanchu, Wait here, Sinanchu. Okay? Wait." He pantomimed for her to stay, then ran up to the redwood sundeck and joined Glinda.

"Glinda," he said. "Baby." He was puffing with exertion.

"Who is she, Shane?"

"This is going to be hard on me, baby."

"What? What is?" Her face screwed up like a baby whose lollipop had been snatched away.

"We're adults. Both of us."

"Yeah?" Glinda bit her knuckles.

"But better than that, we're both Realized Beings. We've been through Yoga together. We've Rolfed together. We've chanted mantras until the sun came up."

"We've been on Donahue together," Glinda retorted. "Don't forget that. You wouldn't have gotten on Donahue without me."

"Baby, don't make this any worse than it is. Remember before, when we were talking about reincarnation?"

"Yeah. But what does that have to do with her?"

"Everything. Just listen to me. Okay? Remember when I told you all about Soul Mates?"

"You said we were Soul Mates."

"We are, we are, baby. That's what has made our time together so special. That's why we'll always have these precious memories, no matter what."

"I knew it. You're dumping me. Dumping me for that ... that ragamuffin who just happened to wash up on your beach. Our beach. The beach you bought with the money we made."

"Baby. Glinda. Please. I'm trying to explain Soul Mates."

Glinda folded her arms. "Go ahead."

"That girl down there, do you know who she is?"

"No. And I don't want to."

"She's Princess Sinanchu. My eternal Soul Mate. She's really from the lost continent of Atlantis, too. But she never died, because she's immortal. She's been at sea for thousands of years, searching, seeking. And do you know what she's been seeking all this time?"

"A free lunch?"

"No, she's been seeking me. Because in a previous existence, we were married."

"You told me that we were married in a former life. How many wives in former lives have you had, anyway?"

"That was a different past life. That was during the French Revolution. But Princess Sinanchu and I ruled Atlantis together. Don't you see how much higher that is, karma-wise?"

"No, I don't, and how do you know this stuff, anyway?"

"It's kismet. You got to trust me."

"I did trust you, you temporal two-timer!"

"Baby, just get a grip on yourself. Go inside and do some Yoga breathing exercises like I taught you."

"Then what?"

"You can pack."

"Pack!"

"You can take your time. Just be gone by noon. Okay? Don't make this hard on yourself."

"What about our past life together? Doesn't that mean anything?"

"I forgot to tell you that we got divorced in that life. I didn't want to mention it before because, sentimental me, I thought we could work it out in this one. But now that Princess Sinanchu has found me, I know that it was never meant to be. But take comfort in the true knowledge that we've improved each other's journey through life in these few months together."

"You mean I've improved yours, you ... you bastard!" Glinda turned on her heel and stalked through the open door. She slammed it after her, cracking the glass.

"And, Glinda, baby, on your way out, could you cancel today's appointments?"

Chapter 2

His name was Remo, and he was collecting heads.

It was not as difficult as it sounded. True, the heads that he was collecting were firmly attached to the necks of their owners, and the necks held to muscular torsos by strong tendon and nerves. And the nerves were in turn connected to nervous hands and itchy trigger fingers that rested on the firing levers of a collection of vicious weapons ranging from stubby Uzi machine guns to rocket-propelled grenade launchers. But for Remo Williams, slipping around the perimeter of the self-sufficient solar-powered log cabin deep in the Wisconsin woods, harvesting heads was as easy as picking blackberries, but not nearly as much fun.

For one thing, you could eat blackberries. Remo had no such intentions today.

Remo carried two of the heads by their hair. His fingers felt greasy from an assortment of hair oils. The oils were clogging his pores and their petroleum poisons were leaching into his system. He switched hands and wiped the free one on his black chinos. He had to hold the heads off to one side so the dripping blood didn't spatter on his shoes.

Blackberries didn't drip blood either. That was another downside.

One of the upsides was that people didn't have thorns. But they did have weapons.

Remo saw another guard, a shotgun sagging in the crook of one arm, pause by a thicket to light a cigar. He had virile black hair that gleamed like an oil slick and Remo's cruel face got a disgusted look on it. At this rate, he'd soon have both hands full. It was an unpleasant thought.

Crouching, Remo set his trophies on the ground. He noticed that one eye of one of them had popped open. He shut it.

Then he waited while the cigar smoker drifted in his direction.

It was a clear cloudless day. Yet the guard did not see Remo, even though Remo crouched three inches in front of him. He did not see Remo because Remo was trained not to be seen. And the guard was only trained to watch the skies for helicopters.

When he was hired to protect the life of the man in the log cabin, the guard was told that he would be assigned to the middle ring. The outer ring, he was informed, was posted to take care of ground threats. No vehicle or ground force could get past the outer ring, he was assured. But the outer ring might not neutralize a helicopter on the first try. That was his job. He asked about the inner ring, and was told never to step beyond his defense perimeter without checking with The Man by radio.

So he smoked and watched the skies, less concerned about helicopters than getting skin cancer from standing out in the open like this six days a week.

Like many people, he worried about the wrong things. While his eyes were on the broiling sun, he did not hear Remo Williams rise up from the thicket like a ghost from its grave. Nor did he sense the open hand that swept out for his skull.

He felt the other hand on his opposite side only because Remo wanted him to. Remo needed to steady the man's torso-otherwise there would be a mess. He wanted the head intact, not exploded.

"Wha-?" the man started to say. Actually, he barely got the W out. He reacted to the unexpected touch on his right, and with his attention properly diverted, the other hand slapped his head clean off his neck.

Pop!

Remo backpedaled with the head in his hands, knowing that exposed necks usually spurted like fountains. This one was no exception. The body collapsed and fed the flowers with its most precious fluid.

It was that easy. And now Remo had three heads. Number four was a short guy. He carried two Uzis, one in each fist, like he expected to use them at any second. The short ones were like that, Remo thought. In all his years in the game of violence, as a Marine, as a cop, and now as an assassin, there was one constant. Short guys were always trigger-happy. There should be a height requirement for gun ownership. Anyone under five-foot-seven could not own a pistol or rifle. They were psychologically unfit.

For that reason, Remo took an extra precaution with the short one. He sneaked up behind him and yanked his arms back. They broke at the shoulder. As the Uzis fell onto the grass, Remo slapped this way and that and the head bounced into his arms.

Four heads now. Upstairs said there would be six guards in all. Six would be a good, convincing number. At least he hoped that Pedro Ramirez, AKA The Man, and the owner of the log cabin, would be convinced after he eliminated all six guards. It would be nice, although not mandatory, if Remo didn't also have to eliminate Pedro Ramirez.