Never Say Die

Chapter 11

Once upon a time, the Master of Sinanju had compiled a list of all that he found pleasing in America. The list was short and read as follows:

It isn’t China.

It isn’t Japan.

It isn’t Vietnam.

It isn’t Thailand.

It isn’t France.

He did not mention television, though TV seemed to occupy much of his time. In fact, it would be no exaggeration to describe him as a TV addict.

Which is not to say that all of television’s offerings met with Chiun’s approval. In fact, almost none of them did. However, when Remo asked him on occasion why it was he watched so much TV, Chiun explained that he was monitoring the decline of so-called Western civilization.

That night, cooped up inside his squalid quarters at the Dogwood Inn, Chiun had found yet another example of something Remo called an infomercial. He had been watching these programs on and off lately, preferring those that dealt with psychic and astrological themes.

The one on television that night was not one of his favorites. He had seen it dozens of times. A fat man in a ridiculous wig and puffy white shirt was revealing the secrets of the universe to a bubbly ex-MTV veejay. She grinned vapidly, nodding in appreciation at every lisping observation the man made. It was truly awful.

Still, Chiun watched, for there was nothing else to do. He had already scanned the local newspaper, found nothing to amuse him in the drab reports of nearby goings-on. The county high school had elected cheerleaders. The ladies of the Hidden Valley Church had turned a profit on their bake sale, with the proceeds bound for charity. Three local teens had been arrested for defacing rural mailboxes.

All drivel.

Chiun reached out to Remo with his mind and wondered how the mission was proceeding. Obviously he was not concerned for Remo’s safety. So far, the enemies he faced on this assignment for Mad Emperor Smith had been no challenge for the next Master of Sinanju. Still, if their targets could truly raise the dead, they might have tricks in store that would take Remo by surprise.

Chiun wondered how the local newsmen would describe events unfolding at Ideal Maternity. There was a tendency among most men to cover up their own mistakes and oversights, he realized. It would be too much to expect the unadulterated truth from any branch of the American news media, but they would find it difficult to totally ignore the matter, if some version of the truth spilled out. There would certainly be corpses to explain, but that wasn’t Chiun’s concern.

He was enduring the last fifteen minutes of his infomercial when the enemy arrived. A flash of headlights first, across the flimsy curtains, as the car pulled up outside. It was too soon for Remo to return, and two doors slamming meant at least that many passengers emerging from the vehicle. Chiun counted footsteps and revised his estimate to three. Male voices were jabbering, when any skilled assassin would have held his tongue.

Chiun did not rise to greet them, leaving them to do the work. It was sufficient inconvenience that they chose to interrupt his watching television, even if it was a program he did not really enjoy.

For a moment, Chiun imagined his assailants were so stupid they would pass right by his door. They did, in fact, go several steps too far, as if proceeding toward the motel office, but then one of them barked at the others to come back.

Between them, they made noise enough to wake the dead.

The talk was bad enough, a fatal error in itself for a would-be assassin when his trade demanded stealth, but Chiun could also hear them draw their weapons, cocking pistols as they stood outside his door, for all the world to see.

Such fools.

Chiun sat and waited while they worked their courage up. The effete star of his program-length commercial was now on a boat. His MTV friend had been joined by two other shrill females. The three of them flounced around the boat and the wig- wearing seer with equal amounts of awe and insipidity.

It was truly horrible.

Even so, Chiun watched.

By the time the program ended, Chiun knew his enemies as Ernie, Jack and Dave. They were such idiots that they used names when speaking to each other, certainly too stupid to have chosen false names in advance. Chiun might have pitied them if they had not brought such dishonor on his own profession with their negligence.

They were deserving of no mercy, and would get none from the Master of Sinanju. It was not his job to teach them what they should have learned in nursery school.

He did have lessons for them, though. It was a pity they would not survive to share his boundless wisdom with their friends.

On second thought, Chiun reckoned it unlikely that such fools had any friends. The world would miss them not at all.

It was supposed to be an easy touch-and-go, the way it was described to Ernie Becker. Two guys at the Dogwood Inn, who had been asking questions out of turn. He was supposed to brace them, find out what they wanted, who they worked for and eliminate the problem.

Simple.

Getting stuck with Jack and Dave was something else, though. Becker didn’t mind them normally, when all he had to do was sit around and shoot the shit, throw back some beers and talk about how tough they were—that kind of thing. They were all right for breaking legs, collecting debts, a minor rubout now and then, okay. No sweat.

He had some doubts, though, when it came to matching Jack and Dave against professionals.

Of course, he didn’t know these jokers at the Dogwood Inn from Adam. They could both be stumblebums for all he knew, real losers, but he didn’t walk in taking anything for granted.

That was how you got your ass shot off.

Another prime example—how they’d almost bitched it, running off to find the motel manager instead of simply going in and getting down to business. It was downright unprofessional, a show of ignorance and weakness, wasting time and energy.

Their orders were specific. On the telephone that evening, Garrick Tilton had allowed no room for argument or improvising. Grab the nosy bastards, squeeze them dry and dump them somewhere inconspicuous, so it wouldn’t reflect on Tilton’s moneymen.

The motel manager had called it in apparently, and he had given up the number of the room. It was miraculous what bribes could do in terms of nailing down security. A few bucks here and there at key positions in some pissant little town, and you had spies prepared to give their mother up if she got out of line. It wasn’t Ernie Becker’s place to ask what Tilton was protecting here in Dogshit, Indiana, and he didn’t care. As long as he was working, getting paid to do what he loved best, then everything was cool.

He pulled his .45—a knockoff of the old Colt classic manufactured by the Springfield Armory— and thumbed the hammer back, then waited while his two companions drew their automatics, jacking shells into the firing chambers.

Ready.

Becker figured there were two ways they could do it: either knock and hope for a polite response, or walk right in and take their chances. He had been told the Dogwood Inn was empty at the moment, all except for his targets and the managers—a man-and-wife team who were smart enough, presumably, to keep their heads down and remain invisible until the smoke cleared.

As they pulled in off the highway, Becker wondered why there were no vehicles in evidence. The old sedan down by the office didn’t count; he figured it belonged to the proprietors. He almost decided to hide somewhere and wait awhile, but there were lights in number 17, all flickery like television on the blinds, and Becker reckoned someone must be home.

He had another brainstorm, standing on the sidewalk with the pistol in his hand. Suppose one of the snoops was out, and he returned to find a strange car parked outside his door. There went surprise, and it could ruin everything.

“Hang on a second,” he told his colleagues.

“What’s the matter?” Jack demanded, looking nervous in the semidarkness.

Becker took the car keys from his pocket, handing them to Dave. “Go stash the car around in back,” he said.

“What for?”

“Because I said so, dammit! Jesus, do I have to get an argument from you on every fucking thing?”

“Hey, man, relax!”

“Just move the car, all right?”

“I’m going! Shit, man.”

As Becker stood and waited, he felt Jack watching him like he was something just descended from a UFO. To hell with explanations, he decided. If the two of them weren’t smart enough to figure out the simple things without a damn diagram, he didn’t have the time to wise them up.

Five nervous minutes later, Dave came strolling back like he had nowhere to go and all night to get there. Becker felt like decking him, but resisted with an effort as his so-called helper joined them.

“What took you so long?” he demanded.

“Had to take a leak,” Dave said, and shrugged like it was nothing, hauling out his piece.

Becker gritted his teeth. “Okay,” he said at last. “On three.”

And started counting.

“One.”

“You mean we go on three, or after three?” Dave asked.

Becker clenched his teeth, ignored the stupid bastard.

“Two.”

“’Cause I don’t wanna fuck it up, you know, and—”

“Three!”

He gave the door a solid kick, no serious resistance from the cheap pot-metal lock. Across the threshold with his pistol leading, Ernie Becker swept the room and stood there blinking, while the others blundered into him and almost knocked him down. “Back off! And check the toilet!”

There was no one in the bathroom; just a little old man sitting on the floor and watching television, like he didn’t notice three armed men had just kicked in his door. A gook, at that, if things weren’t weird enough already. Maybe, deaf, the way he sat there, staring at the tube, oblivious to Becker and his boys.

“You never said he was a Jap,” Dave muttered.

“Shit,” Jack said, “he’s older than my grandma.”

Ernie Becker felt himself relaxing just a little, even as he wondered what the hell was going on. There was an outside chance that Tilton had been led astray by his informants, but that wasn’t Becker’s problem. He did what he was paid to do, and if he had to come back later, maybe punish someone for misleading Tilton in the first place— well, that simply meant he got paid twice.

And what was wrong with that?

One ancient Jap who hadn’t even faced them yet…but where was number two? Forget it. They could wrap the old fart up before his buddy came back with their take-out meal, whatever, and it would be easier that way.

First, though, he had to try and talk to the old man. And that meant getting his attention.

Ernie stepped between the old Jap and the television set that had him captivated, reaching backward with his free hand, switching off the sound.

“Hey, Pops,” he said, “we need to talk.”

The psychic infomercial had faded into another of the insipid programs. In this one, a woman with factory-molded teeth and a stomach flatter than a crepe extolled the virtues of a thirty-cent piece of plastic that was supposed to be the next exercise breakthrough. It was shaped like a potato chip and cost eighty dollars, plus tax. Terrible. Still, it was better than the various insipid comedies or bland newsmagazines stacked up as competition on the other channels.

Chiun would suffer the idiot woman and her stupid device with his usual good grace…if only the barbarians would let him watch in peace.

It was an insult when they broke his door instead of knocking—though in truth, it would be difficult, to make the room look worse than it already did. The motel manager would clearly not attempt to bill Chiun for the damages, unless he had grown tired of life in Dogwood and was anxious to pursue another incarnation. Either way, it was a trifling matter to the Master of Sinanju.

There was a question of respect, though, which he could not, in good conscience, overlook. Barbarians didn’t offend him, in their proper place—a social station that included drudge work in the fields and mines—but Chiun didn’t appreciate them being forced upon him otherwise. The loathsome situation was exacerbated by the ignorance and rudeness of the three inept killers.

“You never said he was a Jap,” one of them told the others.

“Shit,” a second one replied, “he’s older than my grandma.”

Chiun considered whether he should kill them swiftly and be done with it, or make them suffer for their insults. Three barbarians were hardly worth his time, but there was still a principle to be upheld.

The Master of Sinanju did not suffer insults lightly.

He was meditating on the problem—quick and clean, or slow and painful—when the seeming leader of the three stepped in to block his view of the old TV and turned the sound off on the set.

“Hey, Pops,” the stranger said, “we need to talk.”

Chiun examined him the way a butcher might regard a cow or hog, deciding where the first cut should be made. He didn’t speak, returned the killer’s gaze without a hint of trepidation.

“You speak English, man?” the door-breaker asked.

Chiun nodded, still not speaking. As a mental exercise, he found the thug’s carotid artery and spent a moment counting heartbeats. This one did not want his friends to know he was afraid.

“Say something, then,” the young barbarian demanded.

Chiun obliged him. “You should step aside,” he said, “and turn the sound back on.”

The man blinked, incredulous. “I don’t believe this shit,” he told his friends, and forced a smile to make himself appear at ease. He turned back to Chiun. “You got more problems than a fucking TV show, old man.”

“It is poor quality, of course,” Chiun allowed, “but better than Roseanne.”

One of the others giggled nervously, a woman’s sound. Chiun had his position marked, without the need of facing him.

The young barbarian was glaring at him now. “Forget about Roseanne, all right?”

“It is my pleasure,” Chiun conceded.

“So, where’s your buddy?”

“Who?”

“You’ve got somebody staying with you. Where is he?”

“Gone,” said Chiun.

“Gone where, old man?”

Chiun offered the suggestion of a shrug, his shoulders barely moving. “Who can say?”

“You’d better say. We haven’t got all night.”

“Then you should not waste precious time with foolish questions.”

“What?” The young man turned to his companions. “You believe the fucking nerve on this old Nip?”

“I can’t believe it,” one replied. “Fuckin’ nerve,” the other echoed, without conviction.

The young man aimed his pistol at Chiun, its muzzle hovering six inches from the Master’s face. “You know what this is, Grandpa?” he demanded.

“I believe it is a boom device.”

“Bet your skinny ass it is! You gonna make me use it?”

“No man is compelled to prove himself at the expense of reason,” Chiun replied.

“Say what?”

“Do what you have to do,” Chiun translated.

“You heard him, Ernie,” one of the companions chimed in from the sidelines. “Fuck ’im up.”

“He’s makin’ fun of you,” the other said.

“That right? You making fun of me, old man?”

“I am not Mother Nature,” Chiun informed him, reasonably. “I am not responsible for your deficiencies.”

Another high-pitched giggle from the shortest of the three. Chiun wondered if the young man was retarded or just easily amused.

“You gonna take that shit?” the other asked.

“Fuck no!” the one called Ernie answered, stepping closer, drawing back his arm to strike Chiun with the gun.

It would have been a challenge for the quickest eye to follow Chiun as he reached out to grab the young man’s genitals, his razor-sharp nails incising and separating a critical area. That brought the young man to his knees and instantly negated any risk of future generations being sullied by his evident genetic defects. By the time the gunman found his voice to scream, the rigid fingers of Chiun’s left hand had crushed his larynx, canceling the sound and cutting off his flow of precious oxygen. He would be dead in seconds flat, but Chiun didn’t wait to observe the process.

He had other work to do.

The two survivors gaped at him in shock as Chiun leaped from the floor and closed the gap between them to convenient striking distance. Both men raised their guns and fired at once, but hastily. In truth, a fleeting pause to aim would not have saved their lives, but reckless haste made Chiun’s work that much easier.

His movements hardly visible to the eye as he ducked and twisted slightly to his left, the bullets whining past like insects, shattering an ugly lamp and drilling through the wall behind him. Wasted effort. He was on the giggler in a flash, the Master’s hands a blur as he struck two, three, four blows in the time required to blink an eyelid. Bones snapped with the sound of green twigs breaking underfoot, and Chiun’s unworthy adversary toppled over backward, dead before his body hit the threadbare carpet.

That left one, and he was breaking for the door as Chiun stepped up to intercept him. It was child’s play, stretching out a foot to trip the clumsy killer, watching as he vaulted forward, skull colliding with the wooden door frame.

He was barely conscious when the Master picked him up one-handed, holding him at arm’s length like a half-drowned cat. The application of a bony fingertip revived him, and he was gasping at the sudden pain.

“Who sent you here?” Chiun inquired.

“Hey, man, I just go where I’m told, okay?”

Another probe, and this time it produced a breathless scream.

“Hey, Jesus! I don’t know who let the contract out, awright? We got a call from Ernie, he says let’s go roust these guys outa the Dogwood Inn. That’s all I know, I swear to God.”

“Who told him to come here?”

“Aw, shit…the manager, I think. That’s what he said. Why don’t you let me go, huh? I won’t tell a soul, I promise.”

“I believe you,” Chiun replied, and snapped his neck.

The narrow bathtub had not been designed for three, but it would serve for now. Reluctantly Chiun switched the television off and straightened his kimono. There was one more small job to complete before he could attempt to find another worthy program.

Humming to himself, he went to find the owners of the Dogwood Inn.