"What's this?"
"Education center. All Ripper volunteers are processed through this facility. It insures correct political attitudes."
"Uh-huh," Remo said, putting the car into a designated slot. He got out. Blaise Perrin emerged, buttoning his suitcoat and inhaling the mountain air greedily.
"Ahhh! Isn't this great? Fresh air! When we're done, all California will smell like this."
To Remo, whose sensitive nostrils now detected trace elements of airborne zinc and sulphur, that was hardly an enticing thought, even if it was an improvement over city smog.
He watched as Blaise Perrin stepped into the headlights of the approaching van and waved the driver into the adjacent parking slot.
"Just shoot her right there!" he called.
The van coasted to a stop, and the headlights were doused. The doors on either side popped open and out popped Cheeta Ching and her driver.
"Vito!" she called.
As if that were a signal, the ground came alive with men in olive drab, toting Colt automatic rifles.
"What's this crap?" Cheeta demanded.
"You're trespassing," Blaise Perrin said.
"I'm a major network anchorperson!" Cheeta spat. "I don't trespass. I investigate. Look it up in the Constitution."
"In this case, you're trespassing," said Blaise Perrin, snapping his fingers coolly. The Colt rifles were cocked with military precision.
"This isn't a good idea," Remo warned.
Blaise Perrin smiled broadly. "Oh. I forgot to tell you. You're a prisoner, too."
Two rifle muzzles shifted from Cheeta Ching and her driver to Remo's white T-shirt.
Remo looked down the weapon's barrel and suppressed a smile. He was making progress. Already.
"Okay," he said nonchalantly, throwing up his hands. "I'm a prisoner."
"How can you just surrender like that?" Cheeta Ching said hotly.
"Because he doesn't want to be shot," Blaise explained.
"Because I don't want to be shot," Remo echoed, knowing it would put Blaise Perrin at ease and annoy Cheeta Ching.
"I hate you," Cheeta hissed. "What did I ever see in you?"
"A cute guy with an unforgettable name," Remo said.
Blaise snapped, "Let's go. Inside. All of you."
Remo allowed himself to be marched into the main building, a long, low, barracks-like structure in the center of the quonset huts.
The sign on the entrance door said POSITIVELY NO SMOKING.
So did the sign on the first inside wall they came to.
They were marched down a rough, unpainted corridor. On either side there were other signs:
SMOKING IS PUNISHABLE BY FLOGGING NO IFS, ANDS, OR BUTTS SAY NO TO NICOTINE REMEMBER YOUR PATCHES.
"Patches?" Remo asked. He was ignored.
A man with a blondish mustache, and a powder-blue paramilitary uniform that looked like it had been pilfered from the Universal Studios prop department, greeted them with a salute.
"I remand these antisocials into your custody, commandant," said Blaise, returning the salute.
"Commandant?" asked Remo.
"Antisocials?" said Cheeta.
"Shut up," said Blaise.
They were escorted past rows of cells. The cells were heavily barred, and all were empty except for piles of straw on the floor. Remo noticed white electronic devices attached to the ceiling of each cell. So did Cheeta Ching.
She demanded, "What are those? Burglar alarms?"
Blaise Perrin laughed.
At the end of the narrow corridor was a blank wall. On either side were facing cells. The commandant opened one cell, and Cheeta Ching and her driver were frisked at rifle-point.
"Are you crazy?" he snapped. "We aren't carrying weapons."
"We know," Blaise said smugly.
"Ah-hah!" said the commandant. "Contraband!"
A pack of menthol cigarettes was brought to light.
"Take a good look," Blaise told the unhappy driver. "Those are the last coffin nails you're going to see."
"You're going to kill us?" Cheeta blurted.
Blaise Perrin laughed without answering. Remo thought it was a crazy laugh.
Cheeta and her driver were pushed into a single cell, and the bars clapped shut.
The second door was opened and Blaise said to Remo, "In you go, sport."
"How am I supposed to get out the vote from behind bars?" Remo wanted to know.
"You don't," said Blaise Perrin.
Shrugging, Remo entered the cell. The door banged shut.
"Welcome to the wave of the future," said the powder-blue commandant in a hearty voice.
"A prison?" Remo asked.
"A reeducation camp."
Cheeta Ching exploded, "But I'm a summa cum laude journalism major!"
"It's not that kind of reeducation," said Blaise, smiling.
"What kind is it?" Remo asked in a cool, unconcerned voice.
"You'll find out in the morning."
"What if I don't want to wait?"
"In Rona Ripper's California, you wait if the Ripper organization tells you to wait."
"So I wait," Remo said.
Blaise Perrin stepped up to the bars and looked at Remo's high-cheekboned face.
"You're an awfully cool customer. Mind telling me why Rona wants you kept under wraps?"
"She thinks I'm a pain in the ass," Remo said.
Blaise frowned. "Is that a joke?"
"Not if nobody laughs."
Nobody did, so Blaise Perrin backed away from the bars and stormed off. His guards followed.
In the silence that followed, Cheeta Ching said, "I don't believe this."
"Believe it," Remo said.
"I've always admired Rona," Cheeta said unhappily. "She's a role model for aggressive women everywhere."
"Maybe if we ask nicely, they'll give us absentee ballots," Remo said.
Cheeta began pacing her cell. "We can't just sit here and let our First Amendment rights be trampled on. Even by a progressive woman."
"Not if we sleep instead," Remo said, throwing himself onto the straw in one corner of the hardwood floor.
Cheeta surged to her bars and glared at Remo. "What kind of man are you?"
"A sleepy one."
Remo willed himself to sleep. It was not easy. Cheeta Ching continued to carp and complain for the better part of an hour. That came to an abrupt halt when a guard came in with a pail of cold water and dashed it through the bars of her cell.
After that, Cheeta Ching got very quiet and eventually fell asleep. She used her driver for a pillow. He didn't complain in the least, but he didn't close his eyes either.
Remo woke up precisely at midnight. He had told his body to come awake at exactly midnight. He didn't know how he knew it was midnight when his eyes snapped open, any more than he understood the biological mechanism that brought him to full consciousness without any logy transition. It was Sinanju. It was a natural ability all members of homo sapiens possess, if only they could access it.
Remo rose to his feet, like an apparition from a fresh grave.
He took hold of the bars, testing them for strength. They were sunk into holes drilled into the floor and ceiling. He found they could be rotated. That meant they weren't sunk into anything more solid than the natural earth under the wood flooring.
Remo grinned. This was going to be easy. He grasped the two center bars and began twisting them. As he twisted, he applied downward pressure.
He took his time. Silence was more important than speed. And he didn't want to wake Cheeta Ching and her leather lungs.
It took a few minutes, but the tops of the bars dropped out of the ceiling holes. As he kept turning the bars, they sank further and further into the soft earth below, making soft grumbles of complaint.
When they were knee-high, Remo stepped out of his cell.
He moved down the narrow corridor, passed through an unguarded door, and paused at the juncture of two intersecting corridors.
Approaching footsteps warned him of a patrolling guard. Remo slipped into a storeroom and waited until the guard had passed. The storeroom was cramped for space. In the dark, Remo allowed his visual purple to adjust to the pitch-darkness until he could see shades of gray.
He picked through a box of what seemed to be medical supplies. Inside the box were smaller boxes and in them, flesh-colored circular patches resembling Band-Aids sealed in cellophane packets. They didn't smell like ordinary bandages, so Remo pocketed a bunch of them.
The guard's footsteps had moved to another part of the building, and Remo slipped out.
Remo stopped and let his senses open fully. His entire skin became a giant sensory organ. He counted heartbeats. There were eight people in the building, not counting himself. That meant four potential enemies, since Cheeta and her driver were locked down tight.
Remo resumed his search. He wasn't sure what he was searching for, but he knew he would recognize it when he found it.
What he found, when he turned the next corner, was a light framing the edges of a door, and Blaise Perrin's anxious voice coming through the veneer panel.
Perrin was saying, "They'll be secure here. And guess what? One of them's a smoker. We'll run him through the pilot program and see if he can cut it."
Remo went through the door. On the other side Blaise Perrin sat with his back to the door, his feet propped up on a desk.
"One second. I'm talking to Rona," he said impatiently.
"Give her my very best," Remo said pleasantly.
"Oh my God!" said Blaise Perrin. "Rona! He got loose!"
Through the receiver diaphragm, Rona Ripper's twisted voice could be heard barking, "Do your duty and cover my ass!"
Blaise Perrin came out of his seat without remembering to let go of the phone. He pulled it out of its base, lunging for a red lever mounted on the outside wall.
The lever was behind glass, and white letters said IN CASE OF FIRE, BREAK GLASS, PULL LEVER. There was a red metal hammer hanging from a silver chain.
Blaise Perrin got his hand on the hammer. But Remo's steely fingers got him by the wrist.
"I don't smell any smoke," Remo said, grinning fiercely.
Sweating, Blaise attempted to move his hand. It wouldn't budge. Effortlessly, Remo pried his fingers loose and guided the director of the Ripper campaign back to his seat. He then pried the phone receiver from his other hand and sat him down. Hard.
"Talk," Remo said.
"I have nothing to say."
"Rona Ripper is behind the attacks on the other campaigns. Am I right?"
Blaise Perrin actually looked startled. "Are you kidding? Why would she do that?"
"Because she wants to get elected."
"Rona is a pacifist."
Remo gestured around him. "Then explain all this."
Blaise Perrin hesitated. He swallowed. Finally, he said, "I'll tell you."
"Go."
"I could use a cigarette first," he said, gesturing to the pack of menthols that had been taken from Cheeta Ching's driver.
Remo laughed. "You political hacks are all alike. Say one thing in public, and practice another behind closed doors." He extracted a single cigarette and stuck it between Blaise Perrin's sweaty lips.
"No lighter," Blaise said, throwing out his hands.
Remo sighed, took a sheet of paper from the desk's out basket, and rubbed it between his palms briskly. First it became a ball, and then under the friction pressure, it became a ball of fire.
Blaise Perrin's eyes went wide. He got control of himself and pushed the tip into the blaze until it caught.
Remo blew out the burning paper and dropped blackened scraps into the wastebasket.
Blaise blinked. "How'd you do that?"
"Home magic course," Remo said. "And I haven't all night."
Blaise Perrin leaned back in his swivel chair and took a deep drag. He threw his head back and let out a long stream of bluish tobacco smoke.
"You're an idiot, you know that?" Blaise said with a smile.
There was something in the confident tone of the man's voice that made Remo look up. He saw the tobacco smoke billowing toward a white device bolted to the ceiling. It was identical to the ones that were mounted in the cells.
When it started to beep, he knew it was a smoke detector.
"I don't smoke," Blaise sneered.
All over the building other smoke detectors started beeping, sounding like arguing computers.
"The guards will be here any second now," Blaise said smugly. "Why don't you put up your hands now, and maybe they won't shoot you?"
Remo took the cigarette from Blaise Perrin's loose lips and returned it, lit end first.
While Blaise was dealing with a mouthful of hot ash and a burnt tongue, Remo went to the door.
"I'm in here," he called.
Running footsteps converged on the office.
Remo went to meet the first arrival. The man came around the corner with his rifle held at hip level. Remo took the muzzle and used it as a lever, slamming the man against a wall and stunning him.
"That's one," Remo said.
The commandant came from the opposite direction.
Remo flattened against the wall at the point at the corner. The man came in fast. Too fast to see Remo's foot trip him. He turned a somersault, and Remo caught him in mid-flip and used his head to make a hole in the wall.
The commandant ended up on his knees, his entire body loose, his neck joined to the wall.
"Two," Remo said.
The two remaining guards happened along then. They skidded to a stop, took one look at Remo, saw their commandant on his knees as if about to be guillotined by a wall, and changed their minds. They doubled back.
Remo decided there was time to interrogate Blaise Perrin before they got reinforcements. He went back to the office.
He heard the sharp breaking of glass, and remembered the fire alarm. A lot of good that's going to do, he thought.
Remo entered the room just as Blaise grabbed the lever.
"Don't waste your time," Remo said.
To Remo's right, the head of the commandant poking through the wall screamed, "Don't! Blaise! Don't!"
Remo started forward. Blaise pulled the lever.
Then a wave of concussive force blew out every wall in the office, and there was a hot yellow sheet of fire directly in front of Remo's astonished eyes.
Through the darkness that came next, he could hear echoing detonations. He counted seven. One for each of the buildings in the reeducation camp.
Chapter 24
There was nothing to hang on to. And even if there had been, the shock wave would have been too strong to resist.
Remo let it carry him. His body, reacting to free-fall, went limp. He could feel the heat on his bare arms, smelled the hair singeing off, and prayed he wouldn't be scarred for life.
Most of all, he thought of how stupid he had been. He had taken the fire alarm at face value. It had been wired to a detonator. The entire complex had been rigged to self-destruct when that lever was pulled.
A tree branch slashed at Remo's face. Blindly, he grabbed out, snared another. It groaned, snapped, and Remo slammed into a nest of branches that lacerated his face and arms.
After that, he dropped straight down. He rolled upon impact and kept rolling, in case he was on fire.
Remo only stopped rolling when his back slammed into a boulder and blew the air out of his lungs.
He lay there a moment, taking inventory. His eyes came open, and he found his feet. The hair had been burned off his exposed skin and he'd lost a little off his head, but there were no broken bones, no internal injuries. He looked around.
The fires were everywhere. They crackled and snarled like trapped animals. The heart of the conflagration was like looking into a fallen sun.
"Cheeta," Remo croaked, climbing to his feet. "Chiun will kill me if she buys it."
Remo moved toward the flames. A man came running out
, his mouth open in a silent scream, his flaming arms beating like mad phoenix wings.
He ran and ran and then just flopped on the ground and kept burning. He stopped flapping his burning arms, though.
The heat made it impossible to enter the flames. Remo circled the blaze, which was so hot the perimeter fence had begun to wilt.
There were screams coming from the different burning structures. They sounded like they were being ripped out of the throats of their authors. They didn't last long at all.
Remo was forced to retreat.
He found Blaise Perrin draped across a boulder, his spine broken in three places. Remo grabbed up a fistful of hair and pulled his head back.
Perrin groaned. "You . . . can't . . . prove a . . . thing."
"What was that place?" Remo asked harshly.
"Reeducation . . . ."
"For political enemies?"
"No . . . for . . ." Blaise closed his eyes slowly.
Remo shook him back to consciousness.
"For . . . smoke . . ."
"For smoke?"
"Smokers," Perrin hissed.
"This is a concentration camp for people who smoke?" Remo said incredulously.
"It was . . . completely . . . humane. We had . whole program. Nictone . . . transdermal patches. Aerobics. Shots."
Remo pulled out one of the Band-Aids he had found in the storeroom. "Is this one of the patches?"
"You . . . put it on . . . person's skin and . . . it makes them allergic to . . . tobacco. By the year two thousand California would be smoker-free."
"Smoker-free? What about people's rights?"
"Smokers . . . have . . . no . . . rights," coughed Blaise Perrin. His head went limp. This time, no matter how much Remo shook him, he didn't come around. He would never come around again.
Remo used a heavy boulder to scoop out a fire trench, so the blaze wouldn't spread, then reclaimed his car, which was intact. The TV van had protected it. Its tires were smoking and melting slowly.
As Remo drove away the gas tank caught, and the van shot ten feet in the air and came down with a rattling thud.
Remo found a phone booth at a gas station in the Santa Monica foothills. He called the local fire department and reported the fire. Then he called Folcroft.
"Smith. Bad news."
"What?"
"Rona Ripper has a secret plan, too."
Dark Horse td-89 Page 20
