Warren Murphy: Next Of Kin

"How many hours you got logged?" he asked.

"Seven thousand. I'll bring it back within a half-hour. You can keep my card."

The ground control chief flipped the card over in his hand. "Well, okay, if it's an emergency. But if that machine isn't back here in time, I'm going to put out an area search for you, including airspace."

"That's fine. Thank you very much."

"In the west hangar." He watched Smith trot off. They sure aren't very fussy about their agents down in Langley these days, he thought.

Then, just as Smith got the chopper off the ground, the air to the northwest lit up in a soaring explosion of flame.

Smith knew his suspicions had been right.

?Seventeen

Chiun's blue ceremonial robe lay folded near a cluster of bouganvillea. The Dutchman's white jacket was strewn carelessly over the balcony railing, where he had tossed it. He wouldn't need it after today. He wouldn't need anything.

It was as it should be, he thought. His life was scheduled to begin after his twenty-fifth year; he would never see it. The Dutchman would instead be claimed by the sea, his freakish spirit drowned for all eternity. There would be no more death urged on by the hungry, senseless thing inside him, no more pain. A long swim out, one struggling gasp, and done. After Chiun's death, his own would come easily. An hour had passed since the two men first faced each other in their fighting gis. Although their movements were constant and spectacular, no blow had been struck. Each was aware of the other's lethalness: one blow was all it would take. The slowness of the battle was agonizing. The Dutchman's body was bathed in sweat.

He jumped high in the air, twisting into a perfect triple spiral that jolted his downward spin to incredible speed. The air behind him sparked. He landed less than an inch away from Chiun. His arm was ready, rocketing in the direction of the old man, but Chiun was already fifty feet away, transported as if by sheer magic.

"Excellent," the old man said. "A beautiful variation. But you waste too much energy in unecessary movement. Prepare your feet before you begin the upward thrust. It should help the angle of your landing."

The Dutchman bristled, his concentration broken. "We are met here in mortal combat," he reminded Chiun with the consummate dignity of youth.

Chiun smiled. "I cannot help it. I am too much the teacher."

"I will kill you."

He shrugged. "Perhaps. What will you do then, Jeremiah?"

The Dutchman's jaw worked. "None of your business," he said finally.

"You need not hate me to kill me, you know." The old man's eyes were smiling.

"You murdered Nuihc!" he shouted.

"He murdered himself through his evil. What will you do, my son?"

"Don't call me that!"

"What will you do when I am dead?"

The words rushed out in a torrent of fury. "I will die! I will go to the sea and end the useless pain of my life. I will find rest." Tears streamed over his face.

Chiun stammered. "You will die?"

"That is all I wish."

"But you are so young—"

"I am an abnormality. A cancer. I set my own parents on fire!"

"That is done, just as Nuihc's life is done. You cannot change that. But you can control your power. It need not be destructive."

"I can't control it. It only gets worse with each year. Soon I will be killing children on the street. Don't you see? I cannot live. I am an evil thing, not a man. I must not live."

Chiun was puzzled. "Then why do you bother to kill me?"

He answered with downcast eyes. "I have made my pledge to Nuihc."

Night was falling. Beyond the terraced lawns of the castle, the tide rushed inward. The tree frogs of twilight began their eerie song. Chiun walked toward the Dutchman slowly. He stopped in front of him.

"Then kill me," Chiun said simply.

"No!" The young man was enraged. "You are a legend. You will fight me. I will not butcher the Master of Sinanju like a defenseless cat." He stepped back. Chiun smiled. "Stop it!"

"I see now," Chiun said. "You did not plan to kill me at all. You wished only that I would kill you."

"That's not true! I promised Nuihc!"

"You are not an evil man, Jeremiah."

"Get away—"

Both men froze in their tracks, their eyes riveted to the silhouette coming over the horizon. Remo stopped, too, looking in bewilderment at the two of them.

"Now I will force you to fight me," the Dutchman said.

The air crackled with electricity. The tree frogs abruptly stopped their song. All was silence.

He raised his right arm slowly. Starting on his shoulder, a ball of light traveled down his arm, growing, glowing brighter, and shot off his finger like a bullet. It hit Remo in the stomach. Remo blinked, stunned, and doubled over with a gasp.

"Halt!" Chiun shouted.

Remo wobbled to his feet. "I think I've just about had it with you," he said.

The Dutchman sent out a wall of air to knock Remo off his feet. At the same time he sent another, stronger one toward Chiun, The old man squinted against the gale, unable to move. The Dutchman closed in on Remo.

Remo rolled out of the way of the first blow, a kick that left a deep pit in the ground. The dirt from the pit swirled and dissipated in the growing windstorm that the Dutchman had created. He struck again. Remo dodged it by instinct alone. The experience in the cave had taught him not to rely on his eyes.

A long tongue of flame licked out of the turbulence. Without thinking, Remo lunged toward it, two fingers poised to strike. They hit. Out of the flying dirt and thick salt spray came a howl. Then the Dutchman's fingernails thrust past Remo's face, near enough to scrape four bloody lines across his skin.

It was hard to breathe in the maelstrom of whirling leaves and earth. Two trees were uprooted nearby. Their gray trunks flew overhead, weightless. Remo lunged again and missed. An invisible foot caught him on the thigh, sending him sprawling through the mist. He kept going when he landed, sure the Dutchman would have heard his fall. The shape came— how fast could that guy move? Remo positioned himself for attack. When the Dutchman touched ground, Remo stepped forward with a thrust to the neck.

He hit. Not the neck. A shoulder groaned in its socket, shattered, and fell away from his fist. Without a second's hesitation, the Dutchman's other arm lashed out and took Remo in the ribs. Two sharp snaps sent Remo back, reeling. An inch closer, and they would have pierced his heart.

Then another shape loomed nearby. Instinctively, Remo charged for it before realizing it was Chiun. He stopped cold as Chiun spoke.

"Move!" the old man said. But Remo moved too late. Chiun's tiny figure in the mist upended and seemed to blow away in the wind.

"Chiun!" Remo called.

Silence.

"Chiun!"

The hand came out of nowhere toward Remo's temple.

"Chiun," he whispered as the walls of consciousness came crashing in blackness around him. It had been a glancing blow, but enough to stop Remo. Enough to weaken him. The next would kill him. He was beaten. It was over. He tasted the dirt on his lips.

And then from the depths of his soul, his voice spoke. "I am created Shiva, the Destroyed; death, the shatterer of worlds. The dead night tiger made whole by the Master of Sinanju."

And he struggled to his feet.

He moved, infinitely slowly, the blood of ages stirring within him. The Dutchman emerged from the storm. His mangled shoulder was dripping blood, and blood was pouring from his side. His face was twisted in pain and rage as he came for Remo.

Silently, swiftly, Remo sprang from his back, his being focused in his powerful right arm. A look of terror flashed across the Dutchman's eyes as Remo struck, tearing his face to a pulpy mass.

At the instant it was over, Remo felt a wave of pity rise in his throat.