Troubled Waters

Ramirez gave no thought to snakes or other perils of the forest. He was wholly focused on revenge, the mental image of his lifeless enemies eclipsing any thought that might have made him hesitate. He stumbled over roots and vines, scuffing his handmade alligator shoes, snagging his tailored slacks, but they meant nothing. When they reached their destination, Carlos would have more use for the Uzi submachine gun slung across his shoulder than he would for slick designer clothes. If anything, Ramirez wished that he had brought a Kevlar vest along, but there were none among the Macarena's stores.

It didn't matter.

When the shooting started, Carlos hoped to see his enemies cut down like grass before a scythe. There would be-should be-nothing they could do to help themselves. If all went well, they would-

Ramirez heard the sounds of revelry before he saw the torchlight flickering among the trees, still well ahead. He raised a hand and hissed an order to the nearest of his soldiers, waiting for those close at hand to pass it on.

Some kind of gala party was in progress ...or, he thought, perhaps the pirates celebrated this way every night. Their lifestyle was admittedly bizarre, more outlandish than his own, although Ramirez knew the buccaneers had no wealth to compare with his. They wouldn't sleep in filthy hovels, living hand-to-mouth and wearing rags if they had cash to spare. As for the money looted from their victims, or the sums Ramirez paid them for the boats they stole, he didn't know or care what happened to it. This wasn't a raid for revenue.

"Take special care," he warned his men when they were grouped around him like a soccer team, awaiting their instructions for another play. "Ramon and Lucio, you both have silencers, so you will lead the way and deal with any guards we meet."

The soldiers didn't argue. They were paid to follow orders, kill upon command, and they had always known there would be risks involved. On sunbaked city streets or in the steaming jungle, they were still professionals, and they would do as they were told.

"The rest of you, be ready for my signal, but control yourselves. In no case must you fire, unless I give the word or we are fired upon. You understand?"

He scanned their faces, watched them nodding acquiescence. No one spoke; no answer was required. Each of them knew Ramirez, knew exactly what would happen to the man who disobeyed.

When he was satisfied, Ramirez sent his scouts ahead and followed several yards behind them, with the others trailing after.

Chapter 18

The stew kicked in as Stacy was preparing for her long walk down the aisle. Of course, there was no aisle per se, since there was no church in the pirate camp-no chairs, in fact, since those in camp seemed to prefer sitting on the ground, or on rough stumps where trees had been cut down to clear the compound. If anything, her march to the altar would be more like running a gauntlet, with pirates lined up in two ranks, waiting for the bride to pass.

They weren't looking at her, though-a fact that struck the redhead as peculiar. She had grown used to the eyes that followed her each time she left the hut that was her prison cell, lewd comments muttered as she passed, but now the pirates had apparently experienced a change of heart en masse.

Could it be Kidd's influence? Stacy knew that he had killed one of the pirates for objecting to his wedding plan, but this felt different somehow. Several of the grubby men were actually making faces at her, grimacing, rolling their eyes, baring discolored teeth. One clutched his stomach, fingers digging in like claws. As Stacy neared him, he hunched forward, closed his eyes and spewed a stream of vomit in her path.

Stacy recoiled, disgusted, but the spectacle was only getting started. As the bearded pirate retched again, one of the men beside him doubled over, grabbing at his midsection, and followed his example, splattering his own feet with the remnants of his latest meal.

In no time flat, a wave of gastric panic swept the audience. Some of the pirates were vomiting, while others clutched themselves and took off hobbling toward the tree line, cursing as they soiled themselves. Stacy stood rooted to the spot and watched them scatter, her nose wrinkling in disgust at the sights and smell surrounding her. Her own stomach was rolling, but she hadn't eaten when the others had-nothing, in fact, except some rice at breakfast.

Some fifty feet away, Kidd stood beside a bonfire that had been constructed to provide the central lighting for the wedding ceremony. He wasn't looking at Stacy now, however, but rather was sweeping the camp with fierce eyes, watching his men as they seemed to go mad. She watched a hand slip underneath the too small velvet jacket he had donned for the occasion, probably in search of hardware, but this was no attack that he could meet with force of arms.

In truth, he seemed to have no more idea of what was going on than Stacy did. Whatever plagued his men, it seemed to have no hold upon the captain. Kidd stood firm and straight, watching all but a handful of the others as they fell apart.

She glanced at Chiun, still in position near the cooking pot, as if at work on something for dessert, and an idea began to form in Stacy's mind. Chiun caught her watching him, flashed her the bare suggestion of a smile and cocked his head in the direction of the forest.

What? She almost mouthed the word, but caught herself, afraid that Kidd would see her and react with paranoid aggression. In the circumstances, he might open fire on Chiun, and then what would the old man do?

The gunfire shocked her. It wasn't Kidd who started firing, though-nor, Stacy saw, had any of the pirates opened fire. As Stacy turned in the direction of the noise, crouching instinctively, she spotted muzzle-flashes in among the trees. One of the stumbling pirates took a hit and went down, wailing. Almost instantly, she saw another fall, and yet another.

Chiun was instantly forgotten in the chaos that erupted, and she gave no further thought to breaking for the trees. The prison hut would be her only sanctuary now, and Stacy bolted for it, heard the long gown rip along the seams with her first stride.

Behind her, screams and gunfire made the night a living hell.

THE TWO-MAN SKIFF HAD seen them through the mangrove swamp, hungry mosquitoes trailing them along the half-mile course, but they were forced to ditch it when the stagnant water changed to spongy earth and forest. Humphrey's enthusiasm for the journey had been slight enough to start with, but he balked now at the thought of trekking through the jungle after nightfall.

"We'll get lost," he said. "I can't-"

"So stay," Remo replied.

"Very well," Humphrey said reluctantly. "This way."

Humphrey might be a sailor, but his woodcraft left a great deal to be desired. He lurched and staggered every third or fourth step, reached out to brace himself against the nearest tree and muttered nonstop oaths that would have startled his old colleagues at the university.

As night descended on the forest, it began to come alive. Insects picked up their trilling songs, competing shrilly from the undergrowth, while night birds shrieked their raucous mating calls.

Ethan Humphrey stumbled yet again. He didn't catch himself this time and went down on his face, grunting in shock and anger as the breath was driven from his lungs.

At that moment Remo heard a whisper of sound far ahead and got a fix on its source. Shouting. Cheering. It sounded like some kind of wild-ass party going on, and Remo guessed that he had found the pirate hangout he was looking for.

He only hoped that he wasn't too late to join the fun.

"I'm going on. You want to take a hike, feel free," he told his guide.

"Where should I go?" asked Humphrey, sounding timid now.

"Your call," he said. "Just stay the hell out of my way."

Remo left the old man standing in the darkness and moved through the night swiftly, his ears and instincts leading him. He made less sound in passing than a night breeze whispering among the trees. No man would hear him coming.

The sounds ahead of him began to change, grew even more bizarre. Instead of cheering, shouts and laughter now, it sounded more like gagging, interspersed with coughs and garbled curses.

Remo was picking up his pace when yet another sound erupted in the night. Staccato, sharp, like heavy-metal thunder. Gunfire.

What kind of party did these wack-job pirates throw, anyway?

CHIUN WAS IRRITATED. He had hoped his special stew would buy himself more time for the treasure hunt while Remo dawdled, but the arrival of guntoting South Americans spoiled his plans.

Now he would have to find and protect Stacy Armitage. He couldn't let her be shot. He would never hear the end of it.

He moved through the camp, a shadow flitting amid the chaos.

A pirate lurched into his path. This one hadn't been wounded yet, but suffered only from the effects of Chiun's culinary masterpiece. He had already emptied out his stomach, judging from the dark stains on his chin and faded denim shirt, but that didn't prevent his doubling over, retching with the dry heaves.

Chiun was merciful. He sent the buccaneer to his reward with a stroke that was barely more than a caress. At that, it was enough to whip the pirate's head around and snap his neck as if he were a chicken. When he landed in the grass he was already dead, the cramping in his stomach mercifully forgotten.

Chiun pressed on, here dodging bullets from the forest, there dispatching pirates as he met them, with a touch, a jab, a kick. He left a trail of broken mannequins behind him, lying twisted where they fell.

When he had almost reached the prison hut, a burst of automatic rifle fire streaked through the air above his head and stitched its way across the hut's thatched roof. Inside, a woman screamed-not Stacy Armitage; Chiun would have recognized her voice. As he gained the doorstep of the hut, one of the three young hostages who had been here before him rushed outside.

Chiun didn't know her name, but he recognized her as the one who had withdrawn into herself, as if from shock. Whatever else she had become, the woman hadn't lost her voice entirely, nor had she forgotten how to run. In fact, if Chiun hadn't been there to stop her, she would certainly have run into the middle of the firefight, to her almost certain death.

The girl was several inches taller than Chiun, and she outweighed him by as much as thirty pounds, but she seemed weightless as he looped an arm around her waist and whisked her back inside. The other three, including Stacy Armitage, stood gaping at him in surprise.

"Robin!" the blonde spit out. "What's wrong with you?"

"Chiun, can we get out of here?" The question came from Stacy. She stood watching him, arms crossed, hands clasping her elbows as if to stop herself from trembling. "Well, can we?"

It didn't sit well with Chiun to leave before the job was finished, but it sounded very much as if the buccaneers were being massacred without his help.

"This way," he said, and moved directly to the side of the hut that was farthest from the door, farthest from the gunfire rattling outside.

Its roof aside, the hut was built of scrap lumber.

The wall he chose was plywood, and it shivered at his touch. He took a step back from the wall, examined it and lashed out with one hand. The steelstrong blades of his fingernails slashed through the plywood once, twice. A freshly made archway was left as the wood pieces fell to the earth.

Chiun turned to face the four women, his face impassive.

"Now we go," he said.

KIDD TRACKED ONE OF THE raiders with his revolver, framed the runner in his sights and squeezed off two quick shots. Though he had never seen the man before, it pleased him greatly when his bullets struck and spun him in his tracks, dumping him facedown into the dust.

Some of his men were starting to recover, fighting back in something that recalled their old, familiar style. The sickness that had gripped so many of them earlier still sapped their energy and made their movements awkward, but they clearly recognized the danger that confronted them, and those still fit to use a gun or blade would not go down without a fight.

The first outbreak of gunfire had come close to paralyzing Thomas Kidd. It stunned him to imagine anyone had found his secret compound, much less that the unknown enemies could mount a raid and take him by surprise. The shock had lasted but a heartbeat, though, before Kidd told himself the law had found them somehow. But no sooner had the notion taken shape than he rejected it. Lawful authorities, he knew from prior experience, came bearing papers from the courts, announcing their arrival with all manner of lights and sirens, demanding surrender before they opened fire.

Which told him that the men around his camp were outlaws, like himself. How had they come to be here at the very moment of his wedding? And why had they attacked like this, without apparent motive?

There was no time, in the heat of battle, to answer such questions, and Kidd had barely drawn his revolver when the answer came to him, as plain as day. Along the west side of the compound, several raiders were already breaking from the trees. One of the faces shown to him by firelight was familiar, after all.

Carlos Ramirez!

Kidd had known the cocaine lord was coming for another boat. The bargain they had struck was lucrative for all concerned. He had expected the Colombians to show up sometime following his wedding ceremony, while the celebration was in progress, to join in the festivities. Now, instead, here they were with guns blazing, and led by Ramirez himself!

Logic meant nothing in a fight for life. It didn't matter why Ramirez and his men had gone back on the bargain, shifting from allies to mortal enemies.

All that mattered now was stopping them-and that meant stopping them forever, dead in their tracks. His first shot had been aimed at Carlos, but Kidd rushed it, jerked the trigger instead of squeezing it, the way he had been taught, and the bullet had missed by inches. Ramirez had gone to ground, beyond the firelight, and then everyone had been firing at once. Billy Teach had found his M-60 machine gun, staggering to battle with it tucked beneath one arm, his shirt and denim pants still reeking with the remnants of his recent meal.

The Chinaman would pay for that, whatever he had done, but that wasn't Kidd's first priority. Old men could wait their turn to die, when there were younger men with guns around, demanding his attention at the moment.

One of those, in fact, was charging Kidd's position, firing from the hip with some kind of stubby automatic weapon. Kidd swiveled to face him, raising his revolver in a firm two-handed grip, sighting on the shooter's chest before he squeezed off two quick rounds.

The young Colombian was staggered, lurching sideways, firing even as he fell. The bullets raised a storm of dust between himself and Kidd, but none came close enough to cause the pirate chieftain any harm. Instead, he watched his dying enemy collapse, twitch once and then go slack in death.

Around him, as he scanned the compound, Kidd saw numbers of his own men sprawled among the slain. He gave up counting at a dozen, knowing that there had to be more, but he believed their enemies were still outnumbered. If his men stood fast, despite the sudden illness that had weakened them before the sneak attack, they had a chance.

And if they won the fight, what then?

That problem had to wait until another time. He saw Ramirez now, just rising from behind the cook fire in his fancy clothes, the jacket spoiled by soot or gun smoke, Kidd couldn't say which. Nor did it matter, as the pirate leader rushed his business partner turned would-be assassin, closing the gap between them with long, loping strides.

Ramirez saw him coming, but it was too late. The drug lord swung his weapon to the left, in Kidd's direction, finger clenching on the trigger, but he had already spent the magazine and was rewarded with only a sharp metallic clicking as the hammer fell upon an empty chamber.

Kidd wasn't about to waste his golden opportunity. The revolver thrust in front of him, he squeezed off three rounds and watched the bullets strike his target, the once-stylish jacket rippling with the impact of his lethal rounds. Ramirez staggered, dropped to one knee, staring back at Kidd before he toppled slowly onto his back.

One down, Kidd thought, but taking Carlos down wasn't the same thing as a victory. Kidd's crew and his community wouldn't be safe as long as one of the attackers lived.

"Come on, you scurvy swabs!" he shouted to his men who were still alive and fit to fight. "Have at 'em, lads, and get it done! It's time to be true pirates again!"

REMO MET CHIUN EMERGING from the shattered back wall of a thatch-roofed hut. The Master Emeritus of Sinanju had four women with him, one of whom was Stacy Armitage. She wore some kind of formal gown that had been pinned beneath her arms and ripped along the seams, revealing shapely legs. A handmade diadem of flowers sat atop her head, askew and dangling from one side, although she didn't seem to notice it. She recognized him in the darkness, and her mouth fell open like the jaw hinge had suddenly broken. She made noises as if she were trying to speak but couldn't.

"Looks like I missed the party," Remo said.

"You are certainly tardy," Chiun squeaked in irritation.

"I had to catch a ride from where you dropped me off," Remo explained. "I would have walked, but you know how it is."

"Excuses," Chiun snapped. "Now clean up this mess while I convey these young women to a safer place."

Remo knew better than to argue, even with the sound of automatic weapons hammering his eardrums from the far side of the hut. Chiun was moving toward the tree line with the women, even as Remo prepared to join the shindig in the pirate compound. Stacy seemed as if she had something to say, but simply squeezed his hand before she followed Chiun into the night.

He went in through the open back wall of the hut. A bullet slapped into the wall as Remo neared the entrance, but he paid it no attention. Peering out into the camp, he glimpsed a strange, surrealistic battlefield, where pirates brandished swords along with modern firearms, squaring off against opponents dressed in flashy suits and pointy shoes.

The strangest, and least pleasant, aspect of the battle was the smell.

Remo could only guess who the invaders were, but it was no concern of his. They weren't police-that much was obvious-and he wouldn't allow them to impede his mission. Now that he had found the pirate stronghold, and Stacy was out of the way with Chiun, he knew exactly what he had to do.

He slipped outside, keeping to the shadows, watching the gunners he could see. A ragged-looking pirate came at Remo, slashing at him with a cutlass in his left hand and a metal hook that had replaced his right. Remo ducked the blade, grabbed the hook and maneuvered it. The pirate saw what was coming even if he didn't understand how it was happening.

"Yo-ho-ho," Remo said, then with a lightning stroke forced the pirate to rip his own throat open. A spray of bullets rippled past him, and he sidestepped them instinctively. Remo sought the shooter and found one of the raiders scowling at him, grappling with a compact weapon that was either jammed or empty. Remo closed the gap between them in a flash, moved around the SMG his adversary swung as if it were a club and struck back with an open hand. The shooter's head snapped backward, eyes already glazing, as the front of his skull shattered and sent shrapnel ripping through his brain.

Remo moved through the grappling, cursing combatants like a shadow of death. He was everywhere at once, lashing out, thrusting, jabbing with stiffened fingers like daggers. Wherever he paused for a heartbeat, another man died on one side or the other, pirate or invader. At the same time they were so engrossed in their loud, confused melee they never even suspected he was there as they continued killing one another without letup, guns rattling, blades flashing, doing Remo's work for him.

It struck him that the pirates seemed to be at a disadvantage, even with their greater numbers on the battlefield. Most of them had a sickly look about them, as if the attack had caught them in the middle of a grievous hangover or bout of ptomaine poisoning. It had something to do with the ungodly stench about the place. He didn't stop to consider it now-he was on a roll and headed for the finish line.

He came up on the blind side of a pirate with wild red hair, who was strafing the camp with a modified M-60 machine gun, three of the stylish invaders jittering before him as the bullets tore into their bodies. Remo let him finish it before he slipped an arm around the gunner's neck and twisted sharply, hearing the snap-crackle-pop of vertebrae as they separated, shearing through the spinal cord and cutting off all signals to the angry brain.

The killing ground fell silent, but one figure still remained upright. Remo had never seen the man before, but from his garb, he guessed that this was a ranking officer-if not the leader-of the pirate crew. He held a shiny automatic revolver in one hand and raised it.

The pirate discharged the weapon. Remo approached him, walking.

The gun fired again. And again. The final three shots were fired from just a few steps away, and confusion etched itself in the features of the pirate as his target refused to drop. When the pistol's hammer clicked down on an empty chamber, the pirate flung it aside with a sound of disgust and drew the sword that weighted down the left side of his belt. The blade was long and highly polished, glinting in the firelight.

"You don't have the same look as these other scurvy bastards," the pirate said.

"I'm alone," Remo replied.

The pirate glanced around, saw bodies scattered everywhere and said, "It would appear that I am, too."

"It's over," Remo said, advancing slowly toward the sole survivor of the pirate crew.

"Is it?" He wore a crooked smile. "I started on this island alone and look what I built. I'll do it again."

"Yeah, but why?" Remo asked. "I mean, what's with all this Captain Hook stuff?"

Still smiling, Kidd lunged forward with the sword, but Remo dodged easily. The pirate tried a backhand slash that would have left him headless if it had connected, but the blade sliced empty air instead.

"You're quick, my friend," the pirate said.

"That's only half of it."

"Indeed?"

"I'm not your friend," said Remo.

"I suppose I'll have to kill you, then."

So saying, his assailant charged, sword flashing overhead and down toward Remo's face. It would have split his skull down to the shoulders if he had been willing to stand still and wait for it, but Remo was in motion even as the strike began. He removed the sword from the pirate's hand. It was strong, old steel but it snapped easily enough at the hilt.

"God! Oh no!" Kidd exclaimed.

"What?" Remo asked, snapping the blade again and again until it was nothing more than a handful of inch-wide scraps that tumbled into the dirt. The hilt fell there, too.

"That was the sword of my grandfathers!" the pirate said.

"I don't think they need it anymore."

"That sword shed blood around the world," he moaned. "The Kidd family terrorized the oceans for generations."

"So you're just following in your father's footsteps? That's why?" Remo asked.

Captain Kidd spit angrily. "That on my father. He was a pathetic loser, no better than his father. I was the first real man in the Kidd family in generations-the first Kidd in a century to devote himself to the calling that is our heritage."

Remo guffawed. "Kidd? As in Captain Kidd? Come on!"

"Don't laugh at my family name, swine!"

"Oh, sorry, I'll try to show a little respect for the human slime that drips from your family tree. I got news for you, Cap'n-rapists and murderers are nothing but scumbags, even if they did wear white puffy shirts."

Kidd made a guttural noise of fury and charged Remo with bare fists.

At that moment the killing ground was shattered by a piercing sound like a doggie squeeze-toy played through the amplifiers at a rock concert. "Hold!" Remo knew better than to disobey a thundersqueak like that. He put out one hand and gripped Captain Kidd by the scalp. Kidd flailed at Remo's face, then his arms. Remo lifted him high enough off the ground that further struggles caused excruciating scalp pain.

"Do not dare to kill that man, Remo Williams!"

"I'm not, see!" Remo shot back. "But why, I wanna know?"

"He must be questioned," Chiun, Master Emeritus of Sinanju, declared solemnly.

Huh, thought Remo. He could feel it coming. Finally. "This guy's got nothing to tell us. And Smitty wants him dead."

"You do not know this," Chiun retorted.

"Have you see my official job description? It's just two words-'Kill people.' If Smitty sends me after somebody, I'm supposed to assassinate 'em and that's that."

Chiun stood before him. "And you'll get the chance, but first we talk."

"I will tell you nothing, cook!" Kidd said through gritted teeth as he struggled in Remo's grip.

"This is the Island of Many Skulls," Chiun said matter-of-factly.

Captain Kidd stopped struggling. He hung there, almost on his tiptoes with his face and neck stretched out absurdly by the hold Remo had on the top of his head. All that was ignored now as he gazed wide-eyed at Chiun.

After a moment, Kidd said one word in a near whisper. "Sinanju!"

Chiun's head moved in the briefest of nods. "You are the Master?"

Chiun nodded again.

"Hey, I am, too," Remo spoke up.

"Actually, he is simply the Reigning Master," Chiun explained. "I am the Master Emeritus."

"Oh, brother." Remo rolled his eyes.

Kidd looked from Chiun to Remo and back again. "You killed my great-great-great-grandfather!"

"Not me personally," Chiun said, frowning with his forehead. "But one of my own forebears rid this part of the world of the man who settled this island once, centuries ago."

"You stole the family fortune!" Kidd shouted.

"You stole it first," Chiun retorted. "How many human beings died because the Kidd pirates lusted for trinkets and females?"

"We lived by a code of honor and discipline!"

"So does the Mafia and they're slime, too," Remo said. "I knew you had some secret going on, Chiun. Are you telling me one of the Masters was on this island fighting pirates?"

"Yes. Once. There is something you should know," Chiun added with quiet amusement. "The gold that belonged to the Kidd pirates never left the island."

Kidd looked as if he had just been slapped. "Liar!" he retorted hotly.

"A Master of Sinanju never lies," Chiun responded.

Remo snorted. Chiun gave him a glare and continued.

"My ancestor found where the chests were dug up," Kidd rattled off. "They searched everywhere. There was no trace of any other digging. They knew the island, every square inch of it. If the gold was here they would have found it."

"But the Master was still here," Chiun said. "And when he was bored with their games he wiped them out. Would he leave with the gold and come back again?"

"Yes! He must have!" Kidd replied fiercely.

"No."

"We know he left without the gold after murdering my ancestors-that is how the family history tells it! He did not have the gold then!"

"Correct," Chiun said.

"So it must have been removed prior to that!"

"Incorrect."

"No, no, we would have found it. They searched. They came back and searched again. Even though we stopped pirating, my family came here for three generations, always searching for the treasure. If it was here, it would have been found!"

Kidd was emphatic. To believe that the treasure had always been right under his nose for all these years was simply too bitter a pill.

Hands in his kimono sleeves, a slight smile touching his mouth, the tiny, ancient Korean man said, "It is here."

"Where, then? Prove it!"

The smile became slightly more amused. "It was never removed from where your ancestor buried it. My ancestor simply dug deeper into the hole that the old Kidd made for it."

"No. My ancestors thought of that. There's the water table. If you try to go deeper, the water just makes the hole keep filling itself in again with sand. It's impossible to penetrate any deeper."

"Impossible for you. Impossible for your fleabitten ancestors. No problem for a Master of Sinanju."

Kidd sneered. "You lie."

"No."

"Prove it."

Chiun sighed. "If I must."

"What? Huh? Why can't we just kill him now?" Remo demanded, his patience running thin.

Chiun shot him a baleful look, but his voice was almost buttery. "This man deserves to know his heritage before he is removed from this world. We'll allow him to see the gold of his ancestors before he goes. Remo, take him."

"Why don't you take him?"

Chiun wrinkled his nose. "I think not. He has soiled himself."

Indeed, although Kidd himself had hardly noticed it, the stew had finally caught up with him, and his baggy-legged trousers were sloshy and stinky.

"You're the one all fired up about getting more gold," Remo complained. "Like Sinanju even needs more gold."

Chiun's face reddened in the firelight. "Sinanju always needs more gold! Have I taught you nothing, imbecile?"

"All right, don't have a sea cow. Come on, Cap'n. Could you at least see to the prisoners, Little Father?"

"Of course," Chiun said magnanimously.

"HE'S LYING, you know," Kidd said.

"Been known to happen," Remo conceded.

"He said the Masters of Sinanju never lie!"

"That was an untruth. How far is this place?"

"Just up ahead," Kidd said. "We'll see what you dig up. I know the treasure is not there. I know it."

"Okay. Fine."

"I know it. I mean it."

"Okay, okay, you know it! Is this the place?" They were in a clearing in the trees no more than eight feet in diameter. The soil was sandy. "It's one of the lowest points on the island," Kidd said. "The chests were eight feet down, about. It's been dug up over and over in the last three hundred years. At twelve feet you hit water in the sand. You can't get through it. It's been tried a dozen times. You just can't."

"Fine," Remo said. "The treasure is not-"

Remo paralyzed the malodorous pirate with a pinch and propped him up against a tree. Then he started digging with his hands.

The sand flew out of the ground as if some high-tech piece of machinery were pile-driving into it. Captain Kidd, mute, paralyzed and stinky, watched the hole appear as if by magic, frowning deeper by the second.

Then he noticed where the sand was going-flying into the air and sprinkling down on his head and shoulders, and piling up around his legs. His feet were already covered-he could see his shins disappearing if he really strained his eyeballs.

Soon he felt the cool pressure of the sand reach his crotch. By the time he was chest deep in the sandpile, Remo was out of sight, so deep was he in the hole he had created.

But it had only been maybe fifteen minutes-this was impossible! Kidd tried to tell himself this was all a bad dream.

Kidd was now buried to his chin.

The sand coming out of the ground was now soggy, and it landed on his head in globules. Seawater trickled down his face.

The ancient Korean appeared in the moonlight and bent to peer into the hole. "Are you not finished yet?"

"Hey, I don't see you in here shoveling dirt!" Remo cried from the hole.

"Nor shall you," Chiun answered.

"Are the prisoners all right?"

"Yes, yes, the healthy ones are succoring the unhealthy ones. They found a stable in the rear where the used-up prisoners were housed in filth until they finally died-some forty of them. The loudmouthed daughter of the senator is supervising the rescue. She has already called for medical assistance on one of the boat radios."

Kidd's mind was sidetracked violently. Senator's daughter? Who?

"So what was she doing playing dress-up, anyway?" said the voice from the hole.

"Getting married," Chiun said impatiently.

"We do not have all night, lazy boy! Keep digging!" Kidd's vision was swimming. Stacy was the senator's daughter?

"Okay, I'm at the water level. Now what?" Remo called.

"Now go in and get the treasure! Before the authorities arrive would be ideal!"

"It's muck!"

"It's sandy water. It is not a challenge to a skillful master. I'll come and get you if you don't surface."

"Fine! Whatever!"

Kidd heard some sloshing, then nothing.

Had the white man really slithered into the wet sand of the water table? If so, he would never, ever pull free! But the little Korean didn't look worried.

Ten minutes passed. Kidd knew the white man had to be dead, but something told him he was wrong. The old Korean stood watching the hole calmly. Then came more sloshing.

"Next time you want me to go swimming in mud," said Remo from the hole, "I ain't gonna!"

"Give those to me," the Korean demanded. He pulled one heavy chest, then another, out of the hole. They were corroded chests, but they clearly hadn't been constructed of wood. They looked intact.

The Korean was dancing. It was almost a jig. Kidd looked on in horror. All this time it had been there. For all these years he had been this close to unfathomable wealth.

"Hey, Chiun," Remo said, brushing at the damp sand that was caking his body, "was it Shang-Tu?" Chiun became still and looked at Remo in surprise. Kidd rolled his eyes at Remo, too, clearly recognizing the name.

"I do not recall ever telling you of this episode in Shang-Tu's life," Chiun said.

"No, but he's the loser who let the king of Siam rip him off, right?" Remo said, proud of his deductive historical insight. "Right time frame, and he seemed like the kind of knucklehead who would get his hands on a pirate treasure and then lose it again."

"Shang-Tu did not lose the treasure. He simply could not bring it with him when he left the island and planned always to return for it. He never had the chance, and the instruction he left for finding it proved to be inadequate," Chiun explained.

Then the old Korean turned on Captain Kidd. "One thing more you should know, pirate. I looked for the burying place this afternoon. I could not find it. I must thank you for leading my son to the spot."

The bitterness became a bonfire in the body of Thomas Kidd.

"Remo!" Chiun called. "More sand!"

"Sure thing."

The wet soggy sand reached Kidd's mouth, his nose and finally his blazing eyes.

Kidd was thankful for it. Death, now, was a mercy.

Chapter 19

Remo placed the call to Folcroft Sanitarium from the Melody when they were just an hour out of Nassau. They had found the boat floating at anchor at the pirate's dock and made their getaway before the first rescue craft could get to the scene.

"You made the evening news on CNN," Smith said. "You were successful, I assume."

"It went all right," Remo allowed. He had not watched the news and did not plan to, but his curiosity was piqued. "Who's cleaning up?"

"Authorities from Martinique have claimed the jurisdiction," Dr. Smith replied, "although their provenance is far from certain. As it happens, they're cooperating with our friends from DEA."

"Your friends," Remo corrected him.

"Carlos Ramirez and his bevy of Colombians were quite a bonus, Remo."

"Should I recognize the name?"

"He's low profile-or, he was-but I'm informed that he ranked third among the DEA's 'most wanted' fugitives from Columbia."

"Do I get a bonus?"

Smith cleared his throat. "In any case, aside from shutting down the pirates, you apparently took out the leadership and first-string soldiers of a leading cocaine ring in Cartagena."

"Well, I had some help," Remo reminded him. "Of course, and that's another bonus. To the media, it looks like Kidd and this Ramirez person had some kind of private feud in progress, and they wiped each other out."

"That's pretty close to the truth."

"It's convenient." Dr. Smith was on the verge of sounding happy.

"Don't get all exuberant on me, Smitty. I don't know if I can take it. Did they find Ethan Humphrey?"

"Yes, the professor was found in the forest, buried up to his neck in the sand," said Dr. Smith.

"Wonder how that happened."

"The ants got at him and he nearly died-"

"Aw."

"But they choppered him to the mainland, and he was treated in time. They think he'll pull through.

"Aw."

"The man is an accessory to murder, hijacking, assorted other felonies. Police in the Dominican Republic want to have a talk with him and see if he can finger any more associates in Puerta Plata," Smith explained.

"Well, I wish them luck."

"There's still the matter of Stacy Armitage," said Dr. Smith. "Her father is concerned, as you may well imagine."

"Right. It's getting closer to election time."

"Remo-"

"She's fine. I'll have her on a plane this afternoon."

"Fine."

The connection was severed.

"Thanks. You take care, too. Bye-bye now," Remo said sarcastically and pressed some buttons. The display on the phone was supposed to go dark. Instead it said, "Menu Options: 1) Program Caller ID. 2) Program Quick-Dial Numbers. 3) Activate GPS."

Remo pressed more buttons. The little green display wouldn't turn off. In fact, it was still glowing green when the phone sank beneath the waves a hundred yards off the port bow.

Stacy, on the beach chair, lifted her sunglasses to watch it disappear, then haughtily allowed them to drop back in place.

"I hate phones," Remo explained.

"You hate a lot of things," she observed without rancor.

"I do like your bikini top."

"I'm not wearing the top." She grinned.

"You saucy wench, that's what I like about it."

"Eeee!" The wail came from the bridge of the Melody, where, above them, Chiun was busily inventorying his long-lost treasure chests and, when he had time, keeping the craft on course to Nassau.

"What's the matter with the old fart?" Stacy asked.

Remo smiled. He really liked it when Stacy called Chiun "the old fart."

"Tell the young harlot this!" Chiun cried out, and the rest of his instructions were too softly spoken for Stacy to hear.

"Well, what did he say?"

Remo grimaced. "It's not very nice."

"So clean it up enough that my delicate sensibilities will not be offended."

"Uh," Remo said. "Well, in a nutshell, he said if he has to listen to any more of our, uh, sexually charged banter that he'll be forced to kill us both or himself."

"I see," Stacy said, expression unchanged behind her sunglasses.

"And could we please just go belowdecks and commence quote rutting unquote so that he is not forced to endure any more of said sexually charged banter."

"I see." She sipped her bottle of water and stood, and a second later she was doing the same thing with the bikini bottom as she was with the top-not wearing it.

"He's not going to spy on us, is he?" she asked.

"Naw," answered Remo. "The old fart won't leave his gold."

"For your insolence, I am not giving you a share!" Chiun squeaked from the bridge.

"Big surprise," Remo said. He took the hand of the beautiful, naked senator's daughter and led her inside the Melody.