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  The Caribbean felt good to be near, like a life force. Remo languished on the precipice of sleep. One of the men near the truck, Rufus, told the others he was afraid.

  “And if anything goes wrong, mon, I’m going to kill those white boys. This is the big stuff we’re dealing with. I’ll shoot those coppers too, I will. Yessir, mon. One dead copper what deals with Old Rufus.”

  Well, Rufus, if you want to shoot white men, feel free. It might even give me more sleep, thought Remo. He listened for a far-off engine and thought he deciphered it out of the gentle lapping of the waves below.

  Rufus also had advice. He told his two companions not to worry.

  “Worry about what, Rufus?”

  “Just don’t worry about what the old lady on the hill says.”

  “I did not know she said something, mon.” The voices were the sing-song clipped British of the Caribbean, the remnant of a not altogether good colonialism which was not altogether bad, either. The Caribbean seemed to be divorced from normal morality.

  “About today and the venture.”

  “You didn’t say, Rufus, about today. You didn’t say the old lady of the hill said something about today.”

  “What she said doesn’t matter.”

  Remo was sure Rufus now regretted bringing it up. No matter. All their regrets would be settled shortly. The island smelled of the rich plants. You could taste the plant oxygen in the air. Was that the plane? He didn’t want to wait all night.

  “What did she say about today, Rufus?”

  “Not to worry your mind about it, mon. It will be a bit of all right.”

  “Rufus, you tell me now, or I am getting in the truck, my truck, and going back home with my truck. I’ll leave you and your goods here on the cliff, a good day’s walk back to the city.”

  “She said all would be well, friend.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “All right, mon. I tell you the truth now and you’ll run like a baby girl.”

  “I am not a coward. Talk.”

  Nice going, Rufus, thought Remo. He hated it when he had to go after one here and another there. He liked them kept together. Keep ‘em together by pride, Rufus baby. Like the Marines.

  “Well, friend, the old lady said that should we go on today’s venture, we will meet a force from the east, kinda like what they call an Eastern god, against whom no single man can stand. Is what she said, all right.”

  There was laughter near the truck. Remo felt good.

  “Oh, Rufus. You are a bit of a joker, aren’t you. Hah, hah.”

  “I mean it, mon. She said we’re gonna see something fearsome. A mon so fast no mon can see him.”

  The other man laughed also.

  “Well, I’m glad to see you’re not scared,” came Rufus’ voice. “I’m glad to see my quid went for nothing for the reading. She came up with the black stone of death over the green stones of life, she did. You can wager that one, mon.”

  The laughter subsided. The sound got louder. The single-engine Beechcraft, on its precarious way from Mexico, would be landing soon. The pilot and its passenger had made a little mistake. They had made the kind of mistake one does not make if one intends to continue to successfully import heroin. They talked.

  Oh, the conversation was casual and it was just a tentative offer to sell. But from that tentative offer to sell came the place. Then someone else deduced the time, the little plane was seen taking off and it was all put together into a telephone call, so here was Remo Williams sunning himself, listening to the soothing, sing-song talk of the Islands.

  Here was Remo Williams, trained for nearly a decade as no Westerner had ever been trained, to do one thing better that any Westerner ever did before. To kill. With his hands. With his mind. With his body. Trained until he became something else.

  Here was a planeload of men thinking the heroin they carried would get them maybe five to ten years if they had a bad lawyer or failed to buy favor from a judge. That is, if they were caught.

  Well, there were other organizations, besides the courts, that dealt with crime. Organizations that thought maybe it was better that someone who imports heroin shouldn’t. Organizations that thought that it was better that an importer die than a child.

  All of which boiled down to upstairs telling Remo they wanted a simple heroin pop. Only with this heroin pop, you didn’t pop your skin, you popped a supplier. Remo had been making these random pops for almost a year now. In between the big assignments. Like reading stupid geology books. He had been told that was a big assignment.

  Remo watched the Beechcraft enlarge from a dot to a winged vehicle, going low over the Caribbean to decrease chances of detection. Must be a good navigator. No circling, just an approach. Remo looked at the plane to get the where and the feel of the men in it. Just staring at the white plane bobbing in the wind, an idea occurred to him; he felt immediately ashamed but intended do it anyway.

  He moved into the brush near the edge of the small clearing with the silence of a snake but the quickness of a cat. There he coiled. A small grunting toad made its way in front of his nose, then squatted, contemplating its relationship to the earth. The plane bobbed in, touched wheels, then up, then touched wheels again.

  And Remo was off, the center of his body moving forward like a line drive to center field, his feet barely touching the sun-dried grass, only skimming it, until his hands reached the tail of the plane and he was running behind the plane, hands on its tail, feet skimming the ground.

  The fumes from the engine up front whipped his face. He lowered the tail as he stayed with the bobbing, bouncing plane. Up ahead at the far end of the field, only about forty yards away now, was the truck and the three men. The pilot cut the engine and began applying the brakes. But as Remo pushed down on the tail hard, the nose of the plane bobbed up again, lifting the wheels and making the brakes useless. Then the front of the plane hit again and Remo bobbed it up again, and then just a slight push of the tail to the left, making the plane go right. It was really very easy and he guided the front of the plane into the truck, catching one man with the propeller. The other two were now attempting to aim their guns. From the inside of the cockpit, Remo heard two French voices shrieking. He imagined the pilot was being sworn at.

  He would save the contents of the plane for last. Remo skipped behind the right wing of the plane. A young man in white shirt and trousers lay on the ground aiming a carbine at his groin. Remo bounded around the wingtip in a smooth motion, then came down on the man from behind, driving a thumb through the man’s eye and into his brain.

  Another man in whites dropped his rifle and stared disbelieving. He did this for only a fraction of a second since one cannot disbelieve for very long when one undergoes a frontal lobotomy, performed with the driving shards of one’s own skull, propelled by a short, unseeable, knuckle blow to the head. The propeller had done less damage.

  Remo snapped open the cockpit door above him and was in the cockpit in one motion. One man was still yelling in French at the pilot. Both carried light submachine guns strapped to their laps. Their guns stayed strapped to their laps, which was more than their heads did to their necks.

  “Welcome, our French friends, bringing joy for needles,” Remo said. The passenger, who was nearer to Remo, had a well-manicured Van Dyke. It was distinguished and gray. Then it was red. The deep perceptive gray eyes became red also. They were where the man used to do his seeing, before Remo loosened his spinal column at the neck.

  Remo saw the pilot’s eyes widen as he watched the slashing hands butcher his passenger’s face.

  “It’s right behind the seat. You can have all of it. I will fly you anywhere Monsieur. Anywhere.”

  “You’re only saying that because you love me,” Remo said and gave the pilot’s head a healthy little snap. So much for the plane. Then back outside to where the man lay in pain from the propeller goring.

  His hair was graying and Remo could see he was facing death with nobility, a strength that could
only make a man think of royalty.

  He could barely speak. But he gasped, “You are the one the old lady predicted, are you not?”

  Reno shrugged. “Maybe next time, if you pay for advice, you’ll take it.”

  “You are the one.”

  “And you must be Rufus. I was listening to you.”

  “No. I am not Rufus, mon. Rufus is dead.”

  “Oh, gee, fella, I’m sorry. I didn’t want you to think I thought you all looked alike. I mean I’m not insensitive.”

  “I am beyond pain.”

  “Okay,” said Remo, cheerily. “So long.” And he finished him with a simple blow to the temple.

  Then he set fire to the plane and almost got knocked on his duff when the gasoline exploded. He hadn’t really felt like searching for the heroin so why not burn it? It would go.

  Despite everything, he was annoyed with himself. The business with the plane was foolish. It had not been the simplest point of attack; and as Chiun, his trainer, had told him many times:

  “You will always be a white man. You play games.”

  Remo thought about that on the run back to the hotel. He needed a good run, not having had a really good workout for over a week.

  About the Authors

  WARREN MURPHY was born in Jersey City, New Jersey. He worked in journalism, editing, and politics. After many of his political colleagues were arrested, Murphy took it as a sign that he needed to find a new career and The Destroyer series was born. Murphy has five children Deirdre, Megan, Brian, Ardath, and Devin, and a few grandchildren. He has been an adjunct professor at Moravian College, Bethlehem, PA, and has also run workshops and lectured at many other schools and universities. His hobbies are golf, mathematics, opera, and investing. He has served on the board of the Mystery Writers of America and has been a member of the Private Eye Writers of America, the International Association of Crime Writers, the American Crime Writers League, and the Screenwriters Guild.

  RICHARD BEN SAPIR was a New York native who worked as an editor and in public relations, before creating The Destroyer series with Warren Murphy. Before his untimely death in 1987, Sapir had also penned a number of thriller and historical mainstream novels, best known of which were The Far Arena, Quest and The Body, the last of which was made recently into a film. The New York Times book review section called him “a brilliant professional.”

  Also by Warren Murphy

  The Destroyer Series (#1-25)

  Created, The Destroyer

  Death Check

  Chinese Puzzle

  Mafia Fix

  Dr. Quake

  Death Therapy

  Union Bust

  Summit Chase

  Murder's Shield

  Terror Squad

  Kill or Cure

  Slave Safari

  Acid Rock

  Judgment Day

  Murder Ward

  Oil Slick

  Last War Dance

  Funny Money

  Holy Terror

  Assassin’s Playoff

  Deadly Seeds

  Brain Drain

  Child’s Play

  King’s Curse

  Sweet Dreams

  The Trace Series

  Trace

  And 47 Miles of Rope

  When Elephants Forget

  Pigs Get Fat

  Once a Mutt

  Too Old a Cat

  Getting up with Fleas

  Copyright

  This digital edition of Mafia Fix (v1.0) was published in 2012 by Gere Donovan Press.

  If you downloaded this book from a filesharing network, either individually or as part of a larger torrent, the author has received no compensation. Please consider purchasing a legitimate copy—they are reasonably priced, and available from all major outlets. And if you enjoy it, leave a positive review. Your author thanks you.

  © 2012 by Warren Murphy

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons—living or dead—events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Errata

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