Remo turned on his heel to walk away.
“You can’t go,” Joan Hacker shrieked. “You’ve won me. You have to take my body now.”
“I might have your body but I know your soul will always belong to the Third World.”
“No, Remo,” she said. “Not any more. I’m tired of the Third World. I want to go home. I want you to take me home.”
Suddenly, she was a very young girl again, as cocaine depression seized her.
Remo felt sorry for her. “I’ve got to find something out first,” he said. “Then I’ll take you home.”
He walked away and as he went down the stairs, he heard Nuihc’s voice behind him, speaking softly to the girl.
Remo cracked open the front door of the museum and stepped out onto the broad stone stairway that led down to the street
From far down the block, he heard the whoop, whoop, whoop of sirens. From the rising pitch, he could tell they were heading his way. He looked, and then saw a familiar looking yellow cab, careening down the street, between cars, bouncing off curbs, racing toward him. Several blocks behind it were a string of squad cars, strung out, following the maniacal cabdriver.
Then the taxi pulled abreast of Remo, hopped the curb up onto the sidewalk, and skidded to a stop. The passenger’s door opened and Chiun stepped out on the sidewalk.
“Now, begone, P. Worthington Rosenbaum,” he said to the driver. The cabbie took off again down the street and only seconds later, the police cars roared by in full pursuit. Chiun looked up, saw Remo on the top of the stairs, paused, then smiled.
He strolled casually up the stairs, hitching his robes up around his ankles.
“Kind of in a hurry to get here, Little Father?” Remo said.
Chiun looked at him blandly. “You have no doubt forgotten the importance of this day?”
“Importance?”
“Today is the day we are to visit Brooklyn.”
“Oh,” Remo said, snapping his fingers. “No wonder you were in a hurry.”
“Of course,” Chiun said. “What else could be so important that I would rush anywhere?”
Remo nodded. “Well, before we go, I want you to see something. I have a present for you.”
He turned and led the way into the museum, through the great entrance hall, up the stairs and into the back gallery where the whale hung.
He flung back his arm dramatically toward the whale, stepped back so Chum could see and said, “There.”
“There what?”
Remo turned. Only the belt still hung from the whale’s open mouth. Nuihc was gone. Remo ran to the steps and looked down into the gallery. On the floor at the bottom lay the sprawled figure of Joan Hacker.
Remo ran down the stairs to her and turned her over. Her face had been split open. Blood poured from a fracture near her temple and jagged pieces of bone protruded through her fresh young skin.
“Nuihc did it,” she gasped. “When you left, he said he loved me. He needed me for his revolution. I climbed down and untied him. Then when I got down, he hit me.”
Remo looked at the wound and knew that Nuihc could have killed her instantly had he chosen. He had chosen to kill her slowly. Why?
“Did he tell you anything? To tell me?” Remo asked.
“He said to tell you he would be back. And the next time you would not be so lucky.”
She groaned. “Remo?”
“Yes, Starlight.”
“Why did he hit me? Didn’t he want me with him in the new world?”
And because he did not want to hurt her any more, Remo tried to find an answer. Finally, he said, “He knew I loved you. He could see it in my eyes. He just didn’t want to lose you to me, or to my side.”
“Would your side have me?”
“Any side would be happy to have you,” Remo said.
Joan Hacker smiled broadly, showing a newly capped upper right frontal bicuspid, and died in Remo’s arms.
Remo had once seen a picture, painted by Hyacinthe Kuller, of a young girl asleep, and as Joan’s eyes drifted closed, he thought again of that picture and how Joan at last looked satisfied.
He put her down gently and looked up at Chiun.
“Should we chase him?” Remo asked.
“No. He is gone now. We have only to wait. When we want him, he will find us.”
“When he does, Chiun, he’s mine.”
“Is it of any importance to me what two amateurs do to each other? I wish to keep you alive only long enough to take me to Brooklyn to visit the Streisand shrine.”
“All right, all right, Chiun, enough, enough. Today. I promise.”
But there were things to do first. Back at the apartment, Remo changed, and while he was in the bedroom, Smith appeared.
“The anti-terrorist pact was approved by the nations today by a unanimous vote,” he said to Remo, as he came from the bedroom door.
“Terrific,” Remo said, sarcastically. “It won’t do one damn bit of good. It’s another piece of paper that governments will ignore or tear up whenever it suits their purpose.”
“I’m sure the President will be interested in your viewpoints, particularly coining as they do from someone with such a rich background of international political experience.” Smith sniffed, as if smelling something bad, and Remo knew he was back to normal.
So Remo said, “Because you threw us a curve ball on this one and nearly got us killed with your meddling…”
“Meddling?”
“Yes, meddling,” Remo said.
“You are probably the only functionary in the world who thinks a superior’s order is meddling.”
“Have it your own way,” Remo said. “Anyway, because of that, Chiun and I are going out to blow a month’s pay.”
“Oh? Should I know where you’ll be?”
“We’re going to Brooklyn,” Remo said.
“It’s impossible to blow a month’s pay in Brooklyn,” Smith said.
“Just watch us,” Remo said.
By the time Remo was dressed and ready to leave, the afternoon news was on and the announcer was speaking cheerily of the anti-terrorist pact which would serve to turn worldwide terrorists into hunted animals.
“The nations of the world today have served notice that civilized people will protect themselves from mad dogs, no matter under what political flag those mad dogs hide.”
Halfway across a nation, Mrs. Kathy Miller watched the same newscast. She thought back now of the terror of only ten days ago. It all seemed as if it had happened to someone else, far back in the past. She remembered the rape and she remembered her dead baby, but strangely, equally strong were the memories of the good and gentle man who had sat next to her, and who had told her that life was beautiful and that those who believed in life would survive.
And for that moment, Mrs. Miller believed it. She stood, turned off the television set and went into the bedroom where her late-working husband still slept, determined to join with him in love, to create a new life in her body.
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 th
riller 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 Terror Squad (v 1.2) was published in 2014 by Gere Donovan Press.
If you downloaded this book from a filesharing 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 © 2014 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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