Never Say Die

Chapter 19

“What are they shooting at, for Christ’s sake?” Dr. Radcliff felt a sudden surge of panic. He could hear the sharp reports of gunfire even where he stood, inside the blockhouse, with the heavy door closed. “Don’t you give them silencers or something?”

“Not on automatic rifles,” Lasser told him, almost sneering. “Anyhow, the nearest neighbor is at least a mile away. We’ll have the job cleaned up before they even think about complaining.”

Radcliff flinched as more gunshots erupted from the grounds. In front of him, the monitors were flickering, scenes changing rapidly, as Lasser tried to find the source of gunfire, give them all a view, of what was happening. It took him several tries, and twice the cameras caught a blur of running figures, then he had them. Four of Radcliff’s children, armed with military weapons, closing in a semicircle on a clump of tangled shrubbery that grew between two fair-sized oaks.

“Watch this,” said Lasser, sounding pleased. “They’ve got him now.”

As if on cue, the four clones opened fire in unison, bright muzzle-flashes sparking from their rifles. There was no sound from the monitor, but Radcliff heard the sound of shots outside. Somehow the echo sounded out of sync, retarded, like the poorly dubbed dialogue of a foreign movie.

The concentrated firing only lasted for an instant, then his children closed the ring, prepared to drag a riddled body from the bushes.

“Here he comes,” Lasser announced, grinning like a wolf.

And he was right. No sooner had he spoken than a fifth man joined the others, dropping from above and landing in a crouch behind the nearest of them, with his back turned toward the camera. Even so, there could be no doubt that it was the same man they had glimpsed short moments earlier.

“Look out!” Lasser warned, leaning toward the monitor as if he could protect the children somehow, warn them of their peril.

It was already too late.

As Radcliff watched the shrunken image, horrified, he saw the stranger grab one of his children by the head and twist, the body going limp, collapsing like an empty suit of clothes. Before the others could react to that, he struck out to the right and left with blows so swift the eye could not even follow them. Three down, and when the fourth of Radcliff’s children raised his weapon, squeezing off a burst of automatic fire, the stranger started dodging bullets, closing in to finish off his sweep.

Radcliff could never have explained exactly what he saw—the stranger’s body ducking, weaving, almost slithering, and yet without a seeming break in stride. It took perhaps two seconds for the man to reach the fourth of Radcliff’s children, twist the rifle from his grasp as if it were a toy, and do something one-handed that left the neck lolling at an odd angle.

“He can’t do that!” raged Lasser, grabbing for the walkie-talkie. “All sentries!” he snapped. “We have four men down. The subject has an M-16. Forget about detaining him. Just take him down!”

Again, as if in answer to the words he could not hear, the stranger dropped his captured weapon, turned and passed beneath the watching camera empty-handed, headed for the orphanage.

“He’s coming,” Radcliff said.

“No shit.” The look on Morgan Lasser’s face was six parts anger, four parts fear.

“What can we do?” asked Warren Oxley, looking pale as three grim pairs of eyes were focused on his face. “I mean, how can he do that?”

“Let’s go out and ask him,” Lasser said. The chairman of Security Unlimited produced an automatic pistol from beneath his jacket as he spoke.

Beside him, Garrick Tilton also palmed a weapon.

“We’re not armed,” said Oxley, glancing desperately at Radcliff for support.

“You will be,” Lasser said, and turned to Tilton.

“Stop off at the gun room,” he instructed. “Fix them up.”

“But we’re not gunmen,” Oxley protested.

“No shit,” Lasser repeated. “Anyway, it’s time you learned.”

“Shut up, for Christ’s sake, Warren!” Radcliff snapped. “This is a critical emergency.”

“You got that right,” said Lasser, moving toward the exit. “All hands to their battle stations.”

Radcliff fell into step behind the men who were, in fact, subordinates. It was no time to challenge Lasser, when they needed all his expertise and he held all the weapons. Later, after they had cleared this problem up, there would be time enough to deal with Lasser’s insubordination, shop around for someone else to fill in as the leader of Security Unlimited. Perhaps the company itself should be dissolved, a new one organized to take its place.

But first they had to stop the man who was intent on ruining a lifetime’s work. Find out what he was doing here and who had sent him. Failing that, destroy him utterly and relocate the whole damn operation to a safer place.

Radcliff was thinking now in terms of the Caribbean or South America. The land that sheltered Dr. Josef Mengele for over forty years should be amenable to visitors with plenty in the bank. The world could be his oyster, after all, but he would have to take it one step at a time.

Step one was getting through the next half hour alive.

The sound of gunfire in the woods was audible before she reached the driveway leading to the boys’ home. Chelsea Radcliff hesitated, rolling down her window with a hand that she found trembling unexpectedly.

It sounded like a war in there, beyond her line of sight, and Chelsea played with the idea of turning back. Stop at the first pay phone she found and call the sheriff’s office.

She shook her head vehemently in response to that impulse. One lesson that her father had repeatedly drilled into Chelsea’s skull: avoid outsiders as much as possible, and shield the family’s business from their prying eyes.

Still, this was serious trouble, obviously. People died when guns went off. Her father’s very life might be in danger while she sat there on the roadside, pondering his orders. There was still a chance that she could save his life with one quick phone call.

Again she shrugged it off.

The first thing she would do is have a look inside. She might find out the gunfire was no more than target practice, though the very notion seemed ridiculous to Chelsea at the moment. Why would they have guns around the home at all, much less the kind that sounded like machine guns tearing up the woods?

She rolled her window up again to minimize the racket as she turned in from the two-lane highway. Intertwining branches met above her car to block a portion of the sunlight out and place her in a realm of dappled shadow. She accelerated, taking chances with the narrow driveway, knowing that the longer she remained a moving target, the more likely that some gunman in the woods might draw a bead upon her vehicle. The shooters wouldn’t recognize her, wouldn’t know her car, and it might well be worse for Chelsea if they did.

Suppose that she had blundered into an attempt against her father’s life. What could she do about it? How would she respond?

She would defend him, certainly!…but how?

A moment later, she could see the building coming at her through the trees. No one was in sight, but it wouldn’t surprise her if the boys were hiding in their rooms, with all the shooting going on. She drove around the south side of the building, still braced for the impact of a bullet that would smash through glass or ring against the metal of her car, but no shots came.

She killed the engine, hesitated, wishing that she had some kind of weapon with which to defend herself. Not that it would have helped her much. No. one would readily mistake her for a warrior, even in a pinch.

But if she had to fight, no way around it, to protect her father and his work.

Perhaps, thought Chelsea, she might find a weapon in the house. It would be worth a look, at least, since she was bent on looking for her father, come what may.

Reluctantly, still trembling, Chelsea bailed out of her car and started running toward the nearest door.

The Master of Sinanju left his cab on Webster Road and barely heard the driver asking him if he was sure he had the address right. The cabbie blinked and shook his head in wonder as his wizened passenger appeared to vanish in thin air. One moment he was standing there beside the taxi, and the next he was a flitting shadow, lost among the trees.

The driver took his hundred-dollar tip and split, no longer interested in what the old man wanted on this stretch of rural highway. Cruising past the entrance to the Fairfield Home for Boys, he barely gave the sign a second glance, before he turned around and started back toward Louisville.

By that time, Chiun was deep into the forest, homing on the compound proper with unerring intuition. The reports of distant gunfire made him hesitate, but only for a heartbeat. He corrected his direction slightly, homing on the sharp, staccato sounds.

It would not be that simple for the enemy to murder his adopted son. Chiun had confidence in Remo’s skill. However, faced with a confusing situation, even Remo might falter. And that could give an enemy the moment he needed.

Chiun felt a burning rage directed against those who would attempt to slay the future Master of Sinanju. They were idiots, but even the most simple-minded fools got lucky now and then. It seemed unlikely that they could destroy Remo, but if he was wrong, there would be nothing to protect them from the Master’s vengeful wrath.

He would destroy them all in such a fashion that they would regret the miserable days when they were born.

Chiun had another hundred yards to go before he reached the source of gunfire, silent now, when he was interrupted by a shout from somewhere on his left.

“Hey, you! That’s far enough! Stop where you are and raise your hands!”

Chiun paused, turned toward the voice and saw three men approaching through the trees. All three held automatic weapons, and their faces were the same. Same close-cropped hair. Same cold, unfeeling eyes. Same mouths and noses. The one on the right looked slightly younger than the others, but. Chiun could have been mistaken.

These must be the creatures Remo called the clones.

They were the walking dead.

“Let’s get those hands up!” barked the gunman on the left.

“Are you addressing me?” the Master of Sinanju asked.

“Who else, you stupid dink?”

The others laughed at that, enjoying his presumed embarrassment. Chiun frowned and asked, “What is this ‘dink’?”

“It’s like a gook,” the young one answered, smiling. “Chink, Jap, slope—you know?”

More laughter from the walking dead.

“You are mistaken,” said Chiun.

“Oh, yeah?” the gunman in the middle said. “You sure look like a dink to me.”

“Your eyes deceive you,” Chiun replied. “It is a common failing of the mentally deficient.”

“Don’t push your luck, old man!” one of them snapped. “And get your fucking hands up!”

Chiun complied, the sleeves of his kimono fanning out like bat’s wings. When he turned and ran in the direction of a nearby maple tree, the gunmen spent a precious second gaping after him, then opened fire as one, their bullets fanning through the air behind him. They were astounded, gaping, as he ran directly up the tree trunk, then reversed directions like a squirrel and sprinted out along a limb that pointed in their general direction. When he leaped off into space, the shooters tried to track him with their weapons, but they had already lost their only chance.

Chiun fell upon them in a kind of cartwheel, slashing with his feet and open hands. The three men fell as if they had been cut down with a scythe, their bodies twitching on the grass as life fled from their battered flesh and broken bones. He left the useless weapons where they fell and turned away, moved on to find his son.

Those three had not faced Remo; he was sure of it, since they were still alive when they discovered Chiun. The first shots he had heard came from a greater distance, farther to the west, in the direction where he knew the so-called orphanage must stand. Remo had come directly to the site, with something like a twenty-minute lead, but it appeared that he had taken time to scout the property before he ventured into contact with the guards.

So much the better, then. They could complete the work in unison.

The Master of Sinanju did not run, but rather he seemed to glide across the forest floor. A fox or rabbit would not have heard him passing by; an eagle could not have glimpsed him dodging through the shadows. As for the men he hunted, they would neither see nor hear Death coming for them from the east.

Remo would see to that, distracting them, monopolizing their attention as they tried to rub him out. Chiun only hoped his son would leave a few more of the enemy alive for him to play with.

It would be a shame, he thought; to travel all this way and only send three zombies to their graves.

The first four had been easy. They were quick enough, and fairly accurate with firearms, but they had too much faith in automatic weapons: Push enough lead through a given space, the theory said, and you were bound to score a kill. Assuming, always, that your target waited for the bullets to arrive.

But Remo had not waited, scrambling up the nearest tree while they were wasting countless rounds on earthbound shadows, tearing up the landscape. Moments later, when the firing ceased and they were all below him, it was simple to jump down and take them out.

He saw the camera afterward and didn’t care. The firing would have given him away, in any case, and he was in the middle of it now, where strength and speed meant more than stealth. The home and several outbuildings were visible between the trees from where he stood, and Remo moved in that direction, conscious that the enemy was waiting for him, armed and ready for the kill.

How many?

He would have to wait and see.

The sudden burst of gunfire from behind him, several hundred yards away, took Remo by surprise. He hesitated, turned in that direction, but he saw no point in going back to find out what the guards were shooting at. Most likely they were spooked by shadows or some forest creature that had blundered into range. As long as they were wasting ammunition somewhere else, Remo was glad to leave them unmolested, thereby spreading more confusion in the hostile ranks.

If there was someone covering the security monitors—and logic said there must be—then they would have seen the four clones drop like rag dolls, massacred despite the weapons they were carrying. It couldn’t hurt to let his adversaries sweat a little, wondering how Remo pulled it off, what he would do to them if he got close enough.

When he got close enough.

Because of children on the grounds, presumably both clones and normal kids, they had not gone all-out with booby traps. There were no trip wires fitted to grenades, no Claymore mines, not even simple snares. The enemy had put his faith in cameras and men with guns to follow up on any images of strangers wandering the grounds. The necessary lapse gave Remo greater freedom, let him move with more haste than he could have in a military free-fire zone.

He thought again about the numbers he would have to face. Close to a dozen of the Hardy clones were dead now that he knew of, but the gunmen at the Dogwood Inn were proof that Dr. Radcliff’s force was not confined to home-grown soldiers. Even so, it seemed unlikely that the doctor would expose his most secure facility to strangers if he had a viable alternative.

Send in the clones, thought Remo with a smile.

He smelled the enemy before he saw them, sweat and gun oil mingling on the breeze. Most humans would have missed it, nostrils jaded by their diet and environment, but Remo caught a whiff from twenty yards, in time to save himself.

Before the guns went off, he bolted to his left, fell prone behind a rotted log and wriggled several more yards on his belly to the cover of a venerable elm. The ambush party—only two men, by the sound of it—was busy tearing up the landscape where they saw him go to ground, apparently believing he would be incapable of movement once he left the trail.

The firing slacked off moments later, like a passing squall, and Remo heard his adversaries stirring from their hideout, moving cautiously into the open. Any second now. It would be foolish to delay his move and wait for reinforcements to arrive, attracted by the sound of shots.

He watched them, braced himself, hung back until he verified that there were only two, both doppelgangers, armed with submachine guns, moving, toward the spot where they presumed his lifeless body would be found. He rose and moved into the clear behind them, silently approached the nearest of the two until an arm’s length separated them.

“Right here,” he told the gunner, almost whispering.

His adversary whipped around, his weapon coming with him, but he wasn’t quick enough. The punch that Remo threw was not flamboyant or dramatic, but it did the job, connecting with the shooter’s chin and lifting him completely off his feet as vertebrae were separated at the point where skull and spinal column meet. He caught the dead man falling, spun him with an easy maneuver that made the body look like one of those inflatable “companions” sold in shops that advertise their stock as “educational material” or “marital aids.” The flaccid, still-warm body made a shield for Remo as the second gunner spun and opened fire, his bullets flattening against the Kevlar vest his late companion wore.

It would have been a relatively simple thing to duck and fire between the corpse’s dangling legs, at Remo’s feet, but such a move requires coherent thought, perhaps rehearsal—in the mind, at least— before the actual, event. Right here, right now, the second gunner found himself strung out between the two extremes of rage and panic, firing in a kind of automatic reflex.

Remo tossed the body at him, closing in behind it as the shooter lost his balance, stumbled, going down with his dead clone on top of him. The submachine gun stuttered half a dozen futile rounds before the^: shooter lost it, grappling with the corpse in an attempt to rise.

He never made it.

Remo was beside him in a heartbeat, one hand cupped beneath his chin, the other on his crown. A simple twist, mere leverage, and Remo felt the spinal column separate, the skull twist backward with a realism Linda Blair and Hollywood could never duplicate.

Six down, and Remo was unscathed—so far. Luck was a part of that, he understood, but only part. The plain fact was that his opponents, so far, had been no match for the powers of Sinanju. If they were going to be saved by luck, it would require a great deal more than they had shown yet.

He left the dead where they had fallen and proceeded to his target like a guided missile, homing on ground zero. Morgan Lasser squinted in the sudden, glare of sunlight as they left the bunker, muttering a curse as he remembered that his shades were in the car. Screw comfort, then, as long as he could see to aim and pull the trigger when their adversary showed himself.

Assuming he survived that long. More firing came from the woods, a little closer than the last round. This had only been one weapon, and it sounded like a submachine gun. Lasser didn’t know which clones had drawn what weapons, and he couldn’t tell the creepy pricks apart in any case. What did it matter, anyway? If one of them got lucky with the stranger, he would hear about it soon enough. Meanwhile he had to be prepared for the worst-case scenario.

They had the normal kids—whom Lasser always thought of as the “regulars”—penned up inside their dormitory, closely watched, with orders not to poke their heads outside or even crack a window blind until they got the word. He didn’t know what story Radcliff had concocted to explain the shooting, and he didn’t care. The little bastards did as they were told, or else. If one of them complained to someone weeks or months from now, who would, believe him? There would be no evidence of any paramilitary action, nothing but the nearby target- practice range to help account for gunshots amplified by an hysterical imagination.

If it went beyond that point, he thought, the little shit could always have an accident, or simply run away from home. Without a witness, the authorities would have no case.

He checked the others with a glance, saw Oxley and their fearless leader holding guns as if they were afraid the weapons might explode and tear them limb from limb at any moment. Damn amateurs were worse than useless in a killing situation, but it felt to Lasser like a moment when he needed every man on tap, regardless of their marginal abilities.

He had considered using the trainees, decided they would only mix things up, get in the way. Still, it would be a fallback option if his first line of defense broke down. And judging from the slaughter he had witnessed on the monitor inside, the drones he had on the perimeter still had a lot to learn about defense.

He wondered how many of them would live to profit, from the lesson they were getting here today.

And if they all went down, but he and Dr. Radcliff managed to survive, what then? It would be eighteen months at least before the oldest drone in training was prepared to solo in the field, and they had orders stacked up to the rafters—from the syndicate, assorted right- and left-wing paramilitary groups, a certain Middle Eastern government. None of their clients was renowned for patience of forgiveness when a plan fell through. The very least they would expect was compensation, possibly with interest, and a couple of the psycho fringe groups might suspect betrayal, possibly come looking for revenge…

But he could think about the irate customers tomorrow, if tomorrow ever came. The business end was Radcliff’s job, in any case, with Lasser handling operations from behind the cover of Security Unlimited. If things went sour, he could always disappear, pull up one of the several alternate identities he kept on tap for such emergencies and spend the next few years in Switzerland or the Bahamas, where the bulk of Lasser’s money was secure in numbered bank accounts. A total bailout meant that he would have to deal with Radcliff, silence him for good, but he could live with that.

It might even be fun.

Right now he had to think about some kind of a defense when he had two drones, Garrick Tilton and a pair of amateurs to back him up. Lasser regretted not importing extra guns to help out with security. So far, they only seemed to be confronting one invader, but he was no ordinary man. If he could stroll through automatic gunfire, kill four men barehanded, he deserved respect. Not fear—at least not yet—but something more than casual disdain.

He wished the place were fortified, but that would be impossible For anybody to explain when the inspectors came around from Health and Human Services. It was hard enough to cover Radcliff s cloning operation with the orphanage facade, pass off the obstacle course and other training facilities as part. of a well-balanced program for physical fitness, without trying to explain barbed wire and booby traps. One hint of paramilitary training, and they would have everybody from the Feds to private watchdog agencies and cult busters breathing down their necks.

So he would have to do with what he had. They could not move inside the dormitory block without attracting even more attention from the regulars whom Lasser had already sought to neutralize. The blockhouse was secure enough, if you liked being locked inside a vault, but that would leave their adversary free to roam the grounds at will, while they were forced to sit and watch him on the monitors.

It came down to a confrontation in the open, and he was relieved that some unknown landscaper had contrived to push the forest back in all directions, clearing out a broad expanse of lawn around the buildings. That way, if they were positioned properly, they had the compound covered. Short of beaming in like an escapee from the ‘Star Trek’ series, their antagonist couldn’t approach the dorms or blockhouse without giving someone ample time to blow his ass away.

Unless, of course, they stalled too long before selecting their positions.

“Quickly, now, we have to separate,” said Lasser. Turning to the drones, he told them, “You two take the north side of the dorm, both corners. Anybody you don’t recognize, he’s dog meat.”

“Right.”

“Yes, sir.”

They went like soldiers, no dumb questions or delays, and Lasser wished them well. He turned to Garrick, saying, “Take the west side of the blockhouse. Now!”

“Okay.”

So far, so good.

That still left Radcliff and his weasel, Oxley. Neither one of them had ever shot a man before, but they would have a chance today.

“You’re on the south end of the dorms,” said Lasser, both of them included in the order. “Any unfamiliar faces, do your best to drop them. Shoot first, save the questions for another day. If you can’t bring the target down, at least make noise. I’ll try to help you out.”

“And where will you be?” Radcliff asked. The hallmark of an amateur with more ego than common sense.

“I’m covering the east side,” Lasser said. “You’ll know if anybody comes at us from that direction. Are you ready?”

Warren Oxley said, “I’ve never killed a man before.”

“Consider this your lucky day. Now, move it!”

Lasser didn’t wait to see if they obeyed him, but set off in the direction of the watch point he had chosen for himself. Thus far, the gunfire had come mainly from the east, in the direction of the road that ran past Radcliff’s Fairfield Home for Boys, and Lasser knew that any threat was most likely to come from that direction, also. If the stranger held his course, depicted on the monitors so far, he would come out in Lasser’s sector and find death there waiting for him.

Perfect.

Lasser was scanning for a point of adequate concealment to improve his odds. The best that he could manage was a shaded doorway, nothing much, but it would offer him a clear view of the lawn and trees beyond.

He ducked into the alcove, didn’t even bother checking it and stiffened as he heard the voice that issued from behind him. Barely audible the whisper was in his ear.

“Surprise!”

The house was deathly quiet, not at all what she was used to with so many boys around. Where were they? Where was everybody? From the sound of it, the staff must all be out, around the grounds somewhere, unloading with the kind of hardware that was normally restricted to the Army and Marines. It all made Chelsea anxious for her father’s safety, but she was not giving up.

A weapon.

The continual shooting outside, though slackened to some slight degree, reminded Chelsea that she might be called on to defend herself at any moment. Stopping by the kitchen, she spent several moments checking out the cutlery. She was about to choose a cleaver, but it seemed too heavy, too obscenely brutal, and she finally opted for a twelve-inch chef’s knife.

Chelsea held the knife in front of her as she departed from the kitchen and continued with her search. It would be little use against a gun, she realized, but if she managed to surprise an enemy…

It startled her to realize that she was actually considering the means of stabbing someone, snuffing out another human life by force, but then she thought about her father once again, and knew she would do anything required to help him, save him. But she had to find him first. She thought of calling out, then stopped herself, afraid of drawing the attention of her father’s unknown enemies. Far better, for the moment, if she searched in silence, kept a low profile and drew no more attention to herself.

Where should she start?

Her father’s office. He wouldn’t be there, of course, but it was something. There might even be a clue of some kind, something to direct her.

She was wasting time.

Without another moment’s hesitation, Chelsea Radcliff hurried off along the corridor.

He owed the break to sluggish adversaries, spread thin on the grounds. They should have had the treeline covered right away, but Remo made it to the building in a rush, feet barely touching down as he took off across the close-cropped grass. Mere seconds after he was wedged into the doorway, thinking what his next move ought to be, he heard the shooter coming. No attempt to mask his progress, taking it for granted that a gun would handle any problems he encountered on the way. The guy was dumb enough to back in, checking out the lawn. He almost: jumped out of his skin when Remo spoke to him.

“Surprise!”

The shooter was not one of Radcliff’s clones, but he was quick once he got motivated. Pivoting on one heel, snarling like an animal, he swung a pistol into line with Remo’s face—or would have if the gun had still been in his hand.

Disarming him was no great challenge, just a grab and twist, then Remo had the automatic in his hand, the shooter so surprised that he still crooked his index finger, trying to squeeze a nonexistent trigger. “Shit!”

“You got that right,” said Remo, striking out with his fingers in a deadly jab that left the shooter without a heartbeat. The dead man’s eyes crossed as he tried to focus, then he slumped over backward, sprawling on the flagstone walk.

Remo decided not to force the door just yet, moved on in search of other prey. He circled to his right, or south. Before he reached the corner, he heard voices, two of them, and recognized the deeper one as Quentin Radcliff’s.

“This is a mistake,” said someone he had never met. “I’m not cut out for this.”

“Shut up, for God’s sake, Warren!” Radcliff ordered. “You’ve been hunting, surely.”

“Not since I was ten years old.”

“Same principle,” said Radcliff. “You can think of this as self-defense, if that will help. Remember not to jerk the trigger when you fire.”

“That’s good advice,” said Remo, coming into view around the corner, as if strolling in the shadow of the bogus orphanage was a routine event.

“My God!” the stranger blurted as he raised a pistol gripped in shaky hands. Not quick enough. The floater strike sailed past his weapon, found his face and ended it. The straw man vaulted backward, struck the wall with force enough to tear his scalp and leave a bloody smear behind him as he slithered to the ground.

And that left Dr. Quentin Radcliff, standing frozen, with his pistol pressed against his thigh.

“The newsman,” Radcliff said.

“Not quite.”

“I gathered that. Who are you?”

“I’m from quality control,” Remo announced, keeping one eye on the gun. “Your little monsters didn’t pass.”

“I don’t expect you’d understand,” said Radcliff.

“On the contrary.”

“You’re not a scientist.”

“Well, that makes two of us.”

“You can’t kill me,” the doctor said.

“I must have missed that rule.”

“But my discovery! Think of it! Who’ll take over my research?”

“With any luck,” said Remo, “no one will.”

“You’d throw it all away?”

“I’d flush it down the toilet, if I thought they’d fit.”

The doctor winced at that. “But what about…the others?”

Remo followed Radcliff’s glance in the direction of the building, wondering how many clones-in-progress they would find inside.

“That isn’t up to me,” he said.

“I can’t—”

“How many are there?” Remo asked him, interrupting.

“What? Oh, twelve, thirteen, I think.” Radcliff’s precision memory was failing under stress. “The youngest one is only seven. Will you kill him, too?”

“And what about the women from Ideal Maternity?” asked Remo, pointedly ignoring Radcliff’s question.

“Safe,” the doctor said. “I have an old house south of here, near Irvington. Althea’s with them. She’s in charge.”

“Not anymore.”

“I can’t just let you ruin all my work. I won’t!”

“So, take your—”

“No!”

The shriek, a woman’s voice, came from behind him. Remo cursed himself for letting Radcliff so distract him that another enemy could come so close, unnoticed.

Remo spun, found Chelsea coming at him with some kind of kitchen knife poised overhead, the long blade flashing with reflected sunlight. Everything about her posture and technique was wrong. A punchy boxer could have blocked the swing and decked her.

Remo caught her arm as it descended, used the least force he could manage in a rush and heard the small bones in her wrist give way. Then she was airborne, gasping through a forward somersault and landing on her back with force enough to drive the air out of her lungs.

He threw the knife away and turned back toward her father. “Your turn.”

Dr. Radcliff did his best, all things considered. If he’d had another year or so to practice, maybe Radcliff could have pulled it off.

Or maybe not.

The gun was rising past his hip when Remo stepped in close and drove the stiffened fingers of his right hand under Radcliff’s sternum, rupturing his heart. His eyes blinked once, behind the spectacles, and then he sagged, a mounted specimen with all the stuffing leaking out.

The final parting had been, overdue, thought Remo. This one had been soul-dead for at least three decades.

Remo recognized Chiun’s footsteps by the fact they made no sound. One moment he was standing in the bright Kentucky sunshine with a pair of corpses at his feet; the next moment a flicker at the corner of his eye told him the Master of Sinanju had arrived.

“You’re not sitting moping in a hotel room. Little Father.”

“Do not remind me. There were two clowns watching on the north end of the building.”

“Clones,” said Remo.

“I speak perfect English,” Chirm informed him. “These were clowns. They tried to kill the Master of Sinanju with their puny weapons! Fools!” he spit in disgust.

“Too bad I missed it,” Remo said.

Chiun glanced at Radcliff. “Is this the evil one?”

“He’ll do until the real thing comes along.”

“Where are the rest?” asked Chiun.

“Inside. I was about to go and have a look.”

“I will accompany you,” Chiun announced imperiously.

“I wish you would.”

Together Remo and the Master of Sinanju found the nearest door and went inside to meet the children of a nightmare come to life.