Warren Murphy: The Eleventh Hour

"Your opinion doesn't enter into it. You no longer exist. The perfect agent for an agency that doesn't exist."

"Why me?" Remo asked, working his stiff facial muscles.

"I told you. You're perfect. No family. No close friends. No one to miss you, Remo."

"A lot of people fit that profile," Remo said flatly, sitting up in bed.

"Not many of them with your skills. I did field work in Vietnam. I saw you in action once. You were good. With a little work, you'll be good again." Remo grunted.

"You're also a patriot, Remo. It's in your psychological profile. Not many people feel about America as you do. You're getting a raw deal, but let me explain it in terms you can appreciate."

Remo noticed that a break in his nose had been repaired. One improvement, anyway.

"A few years ago a young energetic President assumed office and discovered America was dying slowly from a rot too deep to fix with new laws or legislation. The Mafia had its tentacles in corporate America. Drugs had infiltrated all levels of society. Judges were corrupt, lawmakers for sale. There was no solution, short of declaring permanent martial law. Believe me, it was considered. But it would have meant admitting that the great Democratic experiment did not work. The Constitution was about to turn into so much cheap paper.

"But this President saw a way out. He created CURE, the ultimate solution to America's decay. The President knew he could not fight lawlessness legally. It was too late for that. So he came up with a way to protect the Constitution by breaking it. CURE. Empowered to secretly fight America's internal problems. At first, it was Smith and me. It seemed to work. But crime continued to grow. Things got worse. And the President who had given CURE a five-year mandate was assassinated."

Remo remembered that President. He had liked him.

"The next President extended CURE'S mandate indefinitely," MacCleary continued. "And gave us a new directive: CURE was sanctioned to kill. But only one man could be that enforcement arm. More than one would have turned America into a secret-police state. It requires a professional assassin. You, Remo."

"That's crazy. One man can't solve everything. Especially me."

"Not as you are now. But with the right training."

"What kind of training?"

"Sinanju."

"Never heard of it."

"That's the beauty of it. No one knows it exists. But it's going to turn you into America's indestructible, unstoppable, nearly invisible killing machine. If you accept."

Remo looked at his new face in the mirror and then at the photograph of his grave.

"Do I have a choice?"

"Yes. But we'd rather you do it for America." And Remo had accepted. That was almost two decades ago. MacCleary had died. Remo later met Smith, and most important, Chiun, who had dodged a revolver of bullets Remo had fired at him as a test and then threw Remo to the floor like a child. Chiun had taught him Sinanju, at first reluctantly, then with passion.

And Remo was using Sinanju now, racing into the roaring flames with his eyes squeezed shut, trusting in his training, trusting in the sun source.

Eyes closed, Remo avoided the fire easily. His ears picked out the pockets of roaring flames. He moved away from them. Where he couldn't avoid them, he ran through them. But ran so fast the licking tongues had no chance to ignite his clothes. Remo could feel the short hairs on his exposed arms grow warm. But they did not ignite either.

Remo found the stairs leading up to the second floor by sensing the furious updraft. His acute hearing told him there were no people on the first floor. There were no racing heartbeats of panic, no smell of fear-induced sweat, no sounds of movement. And most important, no smell of burning flesh.

Remo went up the stairs, his lungs pent. He released a tiny breath with each floating step. He dared not release too much at one time because he dared not inhale. The greedy flames ate all the oxygen. His lungs were left with just smoke and floating ash.

It was just as bad on the second floor. Remo dropped to his stomach, where the rising smoke did not boil, and quickly peered around. A long corridor with rooms going off on both sides.

And the sounds of panic. Remo ran to them. He encountered a locked door, locked to keep the smoke and fire out. Remo popped the door from its hinges with an open-handed smack. The door fell inward like a wooden welcome mat.

Remo opened his eyes again. They were here. The whole family. They were hanging out the windows and didn't see him.

"Hey!" Remo yelled, going toward them. "I'm here to help."

"Thank goodness," the young wife said.

"Save the children first," called the husband, trying to see Remo through the eye-smarting smoke. He was holding a two-year-old boy out the window with both hands.

"Chiun?" Remo called down.

"I am here," said Chiun, looking up. "Are you well?"

"Yeah, Here, catch this kid," Remo said, snatching the boy from his father's arms and tossing him to Chiun.

"My baby!" the mother screeched. But when she saw the miracle of a seemingly frail old Oriental catching her tiny son in his arms and offering him up for inspection, she was relieved.

"The girl next," said Remo.

And Remo lowered a girl in pigtails, dropping her into Chiun's upraised arms.

"You're next," Remo told the mother.

"Thank God. Who are you?" the mother sobbed.

"I'm going to lower you as far as possible," Remo said, ignoring the question, "then drop you. Okay?" The flames had crept down the hallway, eating the wallpaper like a voracious animal, and were licking at the doorjamb. "Don't worry."

Remo hoisted the woman out by her arms. Chiun caught her easily, lightly.

"Now you," Remo told the father.

"I'll jump, thanks." And he jumped. Chiun caught him too.

Remo stuck his head out the window. "That's everyone?"

"You forgot Dudley," the girl in pigtails cried. Tears were cutting rivers down her soot-streaked cheeks.

"Right. Hang on."

"Wait!" the father called up. But Remo didn't hear him.

Remo recharged his lungs, but the smoke had already touched them. His eyes were tearing. He shut them.

In the corridor, Remo danced past the flames, focusing beyond their angry crackle and snap, listening for a sound. Any sound. He zeroed in on a tiny, racing heartbeat. Remo followed the sound to the end of the corridor, where the smoke was thick. He pushed past a half-open door. The sound was low. On the floor.

Remo hit the floor and crawled. He knew that children instinctively hid under or behind furniture when frightened. He felt a dresser, but it was flush to the wall. He knocked over a chair. Then he found a small bed. A child's bed. The heartbeat was coming from under it.

Remo reached in, touched something warm. He grabbed it. It was small and warm and struggled like a newborn, and Remo ran with it. He found a window, shattered the glass to harmless powder with a fast tattoo of his fingers that upset its crystalline structure on the molecular level.

Remo stuck his head out the window. He smelled air. He sucked it in gratefully. Then he looked in his hand. He saw a brown-and-white tabby cat.

"Damn," Remo said. And he tossed the cat, which landed safely in the backyard and scampered off.

Remo went back into the smoke and flames. But he heard nothing.

"Hey! Anyone here? Anyone!" he cried. He had visions of a child, maybe a baby in a bassinet, overcome by smoke and not breathing.

Remo went through the rooms of the upper floor like a frantic tornado. He used his hands and his ears. His eyes were useless, but in his concern he opened them anyway, seeking, searching. And found nothing.

Finally, the flames were too much. He found himself cut off from the stairs. He couldn't get to a window, either.