That was Chiun’s voice, and this old man’s voice that had said it was going to allow itself to die, that wasn’t Chiun’s voice, Remo told himself. It was an impostor’s voice, because Chiun would not die and Remo would tell him that. Remo would tell him, Chiun, you must live. But to tell him that he had to be able to move.

  His right arm was flung out in front of him. He forced himself, through the pain, to feel the dust under his fingertips. He moved his index finger. He felt the dust and dirt slide up under his fingernail. Yes, Chiun, see, I am alive, he thought, and I am alive because my mind says live, and I remember it, even if you don’t, and then Remo made his right middle finger move.

  His left hand was under his head. The pain burned his shoulder like a white-hot poker as he turned his hand a fraction of an inch under his head. But didn’t you always tell me, Chiun, that pain is the price one pays to stay alive. Pain belongs to the living. Only the dead never hurt.

  He could hear their voices again, Nuihc’s loud and triumphant, demanding no delay, demanding that Chiun march now down to the sea and out into the bay until the waters covered him and he went home to his ancestors. And he heard Chiun’s voice, soft and sad and weak, the voice of a man who has suffered a great loss, and he was saying he could not go home until he had made his peace with his ancestors.

  Remo felt the knot of muscles in his right thigh and he could feel the separate tears in them, the tear that had first been opened by Lynette Bardwell and then reopened by Nuihc who had, in delivering the blow, done some new damage of his own.

  Remo screwed his eyes tightly closed. He could feel the muscles, sense their existence, and pressing his lips together so he did not scream, he tensed the muscles and the pain was worse than any pain he had ever felt, but that’s it, Chiun, isn’t it, pain tells you you’re alive.

  He heard another voice now, it must have been from the Korean official who stood with Chiun and Nuihc because Remo did not recognize it. The voice said that Chiun could have a few minutes before he would go home and the American would be dispatched any way Nuihc decided, but his body would be sent to the American embassy as a protest against spies infiltrating the glorious People’s Democratic Republic of North Korea.

  His left leg still worked, Remo found, flexing the muscles from thigh to calf. And the most important muscle of all worked. His mind. His mind was the master of the muscles, the intellect the ruler of the flesh, and he let them talk, he let them babble on, and he knew what he would do. He licked his lips to get the dust off them and he tasted the dirt on his tongue and it made him angry at himself for failing, angry at Chiun for surrendering, angry at Nuihc for always coming at them.

  But mostly angry at himself.

  He heard the voices talk on but he was not listening any more, he was speaking himself, speaking without sound, but speaking in his mind to his muscles and they were hearing him because they moved.

  The crowd stilled, and there was a tiny babble of voices, and over them came Nuihc’s voice issuing his final ultimatum to Chiun: “You have five minutes, old man.”

  And then there was another voice Remo heard and he was surprised because it was his voice. He heard it say, loudly, as if he was not even in pain, and he thanked the mind for making the body work, and the voice said:

  “Not yet, dog meat.”

  And there was a scream from the villagers as they all turned and saw Remo standing again. His black uniform-was coated with the dust of the street, but he was standing, and the villagers could not believe it, but he was standing, staring at Nuihc and he was smiling.

  · · ·

  When Nuihc turned again to face Remo, he could not disguise the look on his face, a look of shock and terror.

  He stood there, death-still, alongside Chiun and the premier. Remo, hurting in every muscle, in every tendon and fiber and sinew, made the only move he had left.

  He charged.

  Perhaps surprise or shock might stop Nuihc from moving fast enough, and while Remo could not walk to him, his charge might get him to Nuihc before Remo fell down again. And if he could fall with Nuihc under him, then perhaps. Just perhaps.

  Remo was lunging forward now, his body moving lower and lower toward the earth, only the will of his forward motion preventing him from falling onto his face.

  Three yards to go.

  But Nuihc was in control again. He stood his ground ready to deal the final blow to Remo, and Remo saw it. When he was only a yard away, he let his body flip out to the right, and as he fell onto his damaged right shoulder he used all the power that was left in his body and concentrated it on his undamaged left leg and drove his bare left foot into the solar plexus of Nuihc. He felt the toe go in, deep, but he did not feel the crunch of bone, and he knew he had missed the sternum, he had hurt Nuihc but the blow was not fatal, and that was all Remo had left. As Remo lay on the ground, he looked up toward Chiun, in supplication, as if asking for forgiveness, and then he heard a scream and Nuihc’s eyes bulged forward and he reached down with his hands to grasp his abdomen, but his hands never got there because Nuihc was pitching forward onto the ground.

  He hit open mouth first and lay there, in a kneeling position, his eyes open, staring in death at the dirt of the street, as if it were the thing that interested him most in life and in death.

  Remo looked at him carefully and realized that Nuihc was dead, and he did not know why, and he passed out because he didn’t care.

  Unconscious, Remo did not hear Chiun proclaim that Remo’s courage was worth more than all Nuihc’s skill and that Nuihc had not died of the blow but had died of fear and that now the villagers would know that the Master had selected wisely in choosing Remo.

  And Remo did not hear the villagers proclaim undying allegiance to Chiun, and praise Remo for having the heart of a Korean lion in a white man’s skin.

  He did not hear the villagers drag off the body of Nuihc to cast it into the bay to feed the crabs, and he did not hear Chiun order the premier to have his soldiers carry Remo gently back to Chiun’s palace, and he did not heard the premier promise that he would never again involve himself in Sinanju’s internal matters, and that there would be an immediate end to the graft visited upon the tribute by the thieving governor.

  Remo woke for just a fraction of an instant as he was being lifted by the soldiers, and in that fraction of an instant he heard Chiun’s voice, strong again and demanding, order “gently,” and before his eyes closed again, he saw that the fingernail of Chiun’s left index finger was stained red.

  Blood red.

  And it was wet.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  When Remo opened his eyes again, it seemed as if the entire village of Sinanju had crowded into his bedroom to look at him.

  Standing alongside him was Chiun, who was busy pointing out to the villagers that they should not be fooled. “He only looks American. Inside the best white man is a Korean trying to get out.”

  Remo looked around the room at the flat-faced villagers, who only a little while before had been ready to hand up not only Remo, but also Chiun, who had supported them for untold years, and he said: “I have something to say to all of you.”

  He looked around the room as Chiun translated his English words. He could see their attention grow stronger.

  “I am an American,” said Remo.

  Chiun said something in Korean.

  “I am proud of it, proud to be an American,” Remo continued.

  Chiun rattled off a string of Korean words.

  “The next time you start talking about the weak Americans, perhaps you should think that it was an American who overcame the pain, a white American.”

  Chiun said something.

  “And it was Nuihc, not only a Korean, but of your village, who was cowardly and died.”

  Chiun said something more.

  “And I think his fate is what all of you deserve because as far as I’m concerned, you are a pack of back-biting worthless ingrates who all ought to be sent home to feed the fishes. If the fishes would have you.”

  Chiun said something and the villagers’ faces broke into broad smiles and they applauded. Then Chiun ushered them out of the room and was alone with Remo.

  “I think it lost something in the translation,” said Remo.

  “I delivered to them your coarse words,” said Chiun. “Of course, I had to make minor changes to fit the idiom.”

  “Give me an example of a minor change,” said Remo.

  “I had to tell them so that they would understand, you see, that you had shown Korean heart, and that Nuihc had been softened by reactionary imperialism and that I would not have picked anyone weak to be my son, even if he was white, and…well, and so forth. It is not necessary to go on because it was all just as you said to say it.”

  There was a knock on the door and when Chiun opened it, Premier Kim Il Sung stood there.

  “You are awake,” he said to Remo in pleasantly flavored English.

  “Yes. I am glad you speak English,” said Remo.

  “Why?” asked the premier.

  “Because I have several things to say to you that I don’t want Chiun to have to translate.”

  “He is very tired,” interjected Chiun. “Perhaps some other time.”

  “Now will be fine,” interrupted Remo. “Pyongyang is a whore city,” he started off.

  “Don’t we know it,” said Sung. “If you want to see a good town, you should come to Hamhung, my home town. That’s a real place.”

  “If the people there are like the people here,” said Remo, “you can stuff them.”

  “People are people everywhere,” said Sung. “Even here. Even in America, I suppose.”

  Chiun nodded. Remo found it maddening not to be able to insult Sung.

  “I was in Vietnam,” Remo finally said. “I wasted a lot of Vietnamese!”

  “Not enough,” said Sung. “Vietnamese are like bird droppings. As far as I’m concerned, Hanoi is no better than Saigon. I sometimes wonder how the bird droppings tell themselves apart.”

  “I’d like to wipe out the whole Communist gang,” said Remo,

  Kim Il Sung shrugged. “It might not be a bad idea. Vietnam is the only country I ever heard of where the population increased during a war. I hope you didn’t get too close to any Vietnamese. They’re all diseased, you know.”

  “Oh, shit,” Remo said and gave up. He turned his head away and looked out the window at the cold white Korean sky.

  “I will leave,” he heard Kim Il Sung say.

  “You will arrange that the tribute is no longer stolen by your thieving ministers here,” said Chiun.

  “I will. The tribute now comes under my protection.”

  Chiun nodded. He escorted Sung to the door and as the premier left, said to him in a stage whisper: “Don’t be upset by anything he said. He’s really a Korean at heart.”

  “I know,” said Kim Il Sung.

  Chiun closed the door and again was alone with Remo.

  “Well?” said Remo.

  “What well?”

  “I’m sure you’ve got something to say. Say it.”

  “I am glad you brought it up, Remo. Your stroke against Nuihc was faulty. It was an inch too low to do any real good. In the old days, I would forgive such sloppiness because your improper American attitudes always make you sloppy. But now I can no longer excuse it. As soon as you are well, you must practice. Fortunately the villagers knew you were injured so they would excuse your sloppiness. You did not disgrace the House, but we must be sure you never do that again.”

  “Is that all you’ve got to say?”

  “What else?”

  “Why was your fingernail red?” asked Remo.

  “My fingernail?”

  “Yes. Your fingernail on your index finger of your left hand.”

  “In your delirium, you must have imagined it,” said Chiun.

  “You zapped Nuihc, didn’t you?”

  “Remo. What a terrible thing to say. You know that the Master is bound never to strike someone from the village. And I am the Master. Oh, maybe for a few seconds there, when Nuihc claimed to be the Master, maybe I was not the Master, but…”

  “Don’t give me any of that,” interrupted Remo. “You were the Master and are the Master and if you zapped him, you shouldn’t have.”

  “If I have done anything wrong, I will answer to my ancestors. But that is all yesterday and today. Now we must speak of tomorrow. Of the day when you, Remo, will become the Master of Sinanju.”

  Chiun threw his arms open wide, to encompass the entire bedroom with its assortments of pots and jars and vases.

  “Just think, Remo, someday this will all be yours.”

  “Bring back Nuihc,” Remo said, and for the first time in days, it didn’t hurt to laugh.

  About the Authors

  WARREN MURPHY was born in Jersey City, where he worked in journalism and politics until launching the Destroyer series with Richard Sapir in 1971. A screenwriter (Lethal Weapon II, The Eiger Sanction) as well as a novelist, Murphy’s work has won a dozen national awards, including multiple Edgars and Shamuses. He has lectured at many colleges and universities, and is currently offering writing lessons at his website, warrenmurphy.com. A Korean War veteran, some of Murphy’s hobbies include golf, mathematics, opera, and investing. He has served on the board of the Mystery Writers of America, and has been a member of the Screenwriters Guild, the Private Eye Writers of America, the International Association of Crime Writers, and the American Crime Writers League. He has five children: Deirdre, Megan, Brian, Ardath, and Devin.

  RICHARD BEN SAPIR was a New York native who worked as an editor and in public relations before creating the Destroyer series with Warren Murphy. Before his untimely death in 1987, Sapir had also penned a number of thriller and historical mainstream novels, best known of which were The Far Arena, Quest and The Body, the last of which was made into a film. The book review section of the New York Times called him “a brilliant professional.”

  Also by Warren Murphy

  The Destroyer Series (#1-25)

  Created, The Destroyer

  Death Check

  Chinese Puzzle

  Mafia Fix

  Dr. Quake

  Death Therapy

  Union Bust

  Summit Chase

  Murder’s Shield

  Terror Squad

  Kill or Cure

  Slave Safari

  Acid Rock

  Judgment Day

  Murder Ward

  Oil Slick

  Last War Dance

  Funny Money

  Holy Terror

  Assassin’s Playoff

  Deadly Seeds

  Brain Drain

  Child’s Play

  King’s Curse

  Sweet Dreams

  The Trace Series

  Trace

  And 47 Miles of Rope

  When Elephants Forget

  Pigs Get Fat

  Once a Mutt

  Too Old a Cat

  Getting up with Fleas

  Copyright

  This digital edition of Assassin's Playoff (v1.0) was published in 2013 by Gere Donovan Press.

  If you downloaded this book from a file sharing network, either individually or as part of a larger torrent, the author has received no compensation. Please consider purchasing a legitimate copy—they are reasonably priced, and available from all major outlets. Your author thanks you.

  Copyright © 2012 by Warren Murphy

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons—living or dead—events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Errata

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  Warren Murphy, Assassin's Playoff

 

 

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