Summit Chase Read online

  Nemeroff tried to see into the darkness, but could not.

  Then the room was filled with the awful roar of a jackhammer, but as quickly as it started, it stopped. Then it started again, and there was a scream.

  “Did you get him?” Nemeroff called.

  “No Baron, he missed. My turn now.” It was the voice of the American.

  The dark room was illuminated briefly by the flashes of gunfire. In the stroboscopic pulses of light. Nemeroff watched an eerie tableau of death. The American held the jackhammer under his arm. Nemeroff’s men fired at him. But he was never there. More shots. And then fewer. In the flashes of light, he saw that men were falling, screaming, struggling as they were impaled on the jackhammer like bugs.

  Nemeroff fled.

  He ran along the tunnel toward the sunlight. He jumped up out of the trench and broke in a dead run for the field, where his pilot had already begun to warm up the helicopter’s engines.

  In the treasury room, Remo dropped the jackhammer. There was no one left.

  Through the dark, his cat’s eyes looked toward Maggie, who still sat motionless, atop the pallet of gold.

  “Maggie. You all right?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m going after Nemeroff.” He headed toward the sunlight. Maggie got to her feet and followed him, trailing at her side the .45 caliber automatic she still had not fired.

  Nemeroff was already in the helicopter and it was lifting from the ground when Remo came out into the sunlight. He heard Maggie stumble behind him and turned to help her.

  Behind him, the helicopter rose, and then swooped toward them. Remo pulled Maggie up onto the street next to the sewer trench, then turned. Overhead, roaring at them came the helicopter.

  Dammit, he thought, Smith’ll bust my balls if I let him get away.

  Then shots came from the helicopter, plinking the pavement around Remo, and he heard one thump softly next to him. As he turned, Maggie fell onto the roadway. Blood poured from a wound in her chest. The .45 dropped from her hand.

  The helicopter hovered overhead, thirty feet off the ground, and shots rained from it, showering the ground with lead, as Nemeroff fired at Remo.

  Remo ignored him and looked at Maggie. She smiled once and died.

  He picked up the .45, wheeled and fired. He missed. Nemeroff, seeing the weapon in Remo’s hands, remembering his marksmanship told his pilot to fly off.

  The bird hovered, then its motor changed pitch, as it began to pull away.

  Chiun came around the corner of the palace. He saw Remo, holding the .45 with both hands at arm’s length, squeezing a shot at the helicopter which was moving away.

  It was out of .45 range now.

  Chiun ran up and took the pistol from Remo’s hands.

  “The Jesus nut,” Remo shouted. “It holds the rotor blades on. Got to get it.”

  Chiun shook his head sadly. “You will never learn,” he said. “The target that lives is the target that gives itself to the marksman.”

  Almost casually, he aimed the automatic in the direction of the fleeing helicopter. He extended his right arm, holding the .45 and gently the barrel of the gun transcribed a circle in air, and then a smaller circle, and yet a smaller circle.

  “Shoot, for Christ’s sake. They’ll be in Paris,” Remo said. The helicopter was two-hundred yards away now, hopelessly out of range.

  And still Chiun’s arm rotated the .45 in ever-tightening concentric circles, zoning in, and then he squeezed the trigger. Once.

  He dropped the gun, turned his back on the helicopter, and knelt alongside the girl.

  He had missed. He must have missed. The range was too far; the target too small. Then, as Remo watched, the helicopter pitched forward, and then it dropped, plummeting, like a rock, and there was a flash of light, and a split-second later an explosion as the aircraft crashed into the rocky soil of Scambia.

  Chiun stood up. “She is dead, my son,” he said.

  “I know,” Remo said. “You got the pilot.”

  “I know,” Chiun said. “Did you doubt I would?”

  “Not for a moment,” Remo said. “Let’s go. Smith owes us a vacation. I need to rest.”

  “You need to practice the back elbow thrust,” Chiun said.

  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 Summit Chase (v 1.0) was published in 2013 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. Your author thanks you.

  Copyright © 2013 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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