Date with Death td-57 Page 7

  Karen had said that all the prisoners were young women who'd been kidnaped. They believed their families had been destroyed. That had to account for the bodies found in the mesa, Remo figured. So the rash of unexplained murders Smith was so concerned about was only the beginning.

  Remo looked through the woods up the rocky slope of the mountain. Somewhere atop that peak stood a fortress where a madman kept a harem of beautiful women, and then tortured and starved them. Whoever that man was, Remo was going to find him. As soon as the girl and the Indian were out of the way, Remo and Chiun would begin the search.

  A twig snapped. From the lightness of the sound, Remo knew a man hadn't caused it, but Karen was up like a bolt, eyes wide open, mouth gasping in fear.

  "It's all right," Remo said gently.

  She pumped her legs out of her sleeping bag, oblivious to his reassurances. "They're coming," she said.

  "No, they're not. Honest. It's just an animal or something."

  Sweat was pouring down her face. Remo knew nothing would calm her now except hard evidence. "Look. I'll prove it, okay?"

  He stalked silently into the woods. Karen listened. The young man with the thick wrists made no sound as he walked. Then a tree shuddered and there was a sudden commotion that made her feel as if her heart had just shot into her throat. A moment later, something came hurtling out of the shadows at her.

  Karen screamed.

  In a split second, Chiun was on his feet, in fighting position.

  "Wazzat?" Sam Wolfshy said, blinking and snorting.

  "A raccoon," Remo called, stepping out of the woods. "That's all it was, Karen. Just a raccoon."

  As he spoke, a frightened, black-masked creature scuttled across the clearing and darted down the footpath.

  "You have awakened me for a raccoon?" Chiun shouted.

  "I'm sorry," Remo said. "Karen was afraid—"

  "Silence!"

  "Hey, what's going on?" Sam said, rubbing his eyes. "I heard… oof." He slid bonelessly down the trunk of a tree.

  "Do you wish to speak again?" Chiun bellowed.

  Sam shook his head earnestly.

  "Then perhaps now we may get some rest." The old Oriental floated to the ground and resumed his lotus position.

  "Come on," Remo said softly. He put his arm around Karen and led her back to her sleeping bag.

  "I'm sorry," she said. "Guess I was just jumpy." A tear ran down her cheek.

  "Don't cry," Remo said. "I can't take it."

  "Oh, God: I don't even know why I'm crying. I'm just tired, I guess, and scared, and I've got to get the police, and there are over a hundred people trapped up there, and a bunch of idiots have been trying to kill me all day…." She covered her face with her hands.

  "Come on," Remo said, holding her. "That's too much for one person to handle all at once. Just try to forget about it for a minute, okay?"

  "I can't forget. I've got to…" Involuntarily she sipped a mouthful of air as Remo's fingers played on her shoulders. Their grip, was delicate and tentative at first, then grew stronger as they began to work away the tension that gripped her body. There was something soothing and comforting in the motion of his hands. Karen felt her stomach unknot. She felt a warm glow, first of contentment, then of desire.

  She wound her arms around Remo's neck. Their lips brushed together, and she felt as if a flash fire were consuming her. She murmured a few incoherent words before the animal part of her mind blocked out all the useless thoughts that kept her away from the man who was bringing her senses to life. There would be no more thinking. Her body had taken over. A spirit flying free for the first time, her desire had its way. In Remo's arms she felt as free as a bird, soaring and diving among the clouds.

  Spent, she slept in his arms. She was small, and to Remo she felt as light as a little girl.

  Then another twig snapped.

  "What was that?" Karen gasped, immediately awake.

  "Now, don't start that again." Remo held her tightly.

  "But I heard something."

  "So did I. It's probably just another raccoon."

  "Or something larger," Chiun said, rising as if he were floating off the ground.

  "Will you cut it out? She's scared enough," Remo said.

  "I will see." The old Oriental walked softly across the clearing.

  "Freeze it right there, slope."

  Remo and Chiun turned toward the source of the unfamiliar voice. When a man clad in black stepped into the clearing, Karen screamed. "It's them," she squeaked. Her hands shook violently.

  The soldier was big, bigger than Remo, with powerful shoulders and a broad, craggy face. The Uzi submachine gun he was holding was pointed directly at Chiun.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Remo saw seven more men fan out around the campsite. They were dressed in black as well, each one carrying a snub-nosed Uzi. They moved well, as if accustomed to the mechanics of ambush. Silently they formed a wide circle around the four civilians, sealing off all exits.

  Remo glanced over at Wolfshy. The Indian groaned once in his sleep, turned, and opened his eyes groggily. "Hey, what—"

  One of the soldiers thrust his weapon toward Wolfshy's face. Wolfshy sprang backward on his elbows with a yelp.

  "Take it easy, Sam," Remo said quietly. He didn't move a muscle. "What do you want?" he asked the soldiers.

  "The girl. Hand her over."

  "You— you can't do that," Wolfshy stammered.

  "Shut up, jerk. If I want any shit, I'll squeeze your head." He raised the Uzi into firing position. "The girl. Now. Otherwise the old gook gets it between the eyes."

  "She is not yours to take," Chiun said.

  "Oh, no?" The team leader's eyes shone with amused malice in the moonlight. "Just watch me."

  He began to squeeze the trigger. Then, suddenly, the weapon was no longer in his hands. The frail-looking old man was beside him. The soldier felt his body being lifted in the air. A moment later, a wave of pain engulfed him, and then there was nothing. His lifeless body slid down the granite wall against which it had been crushed.

  The other soldiers were still for a moment, unable to believe what they'd just seen. But they were well trained, and their reflexes were fast. The soldier nearest Wolfshy spun to fire at the Indian's head.

  Remo saw the beginning of the movement as soon as the soldier's feet started to turn. He leaped diagonally toward him, feet first, and landed square in the man's chest. The weapon clattered against the trunk of a tree as a bright spurt of blood shot from his mouth.

  In the same motion, Remo grabbed Sam Wolfshy and tossed him into the air, out of the line of fire. The startled Indian grasped a large branch and scurried to safety near the trunk.

  Another of the soldiers came after the girl. He had her by her hair when a thin, yellowed hand with long fingernails slashed across his face. He shouted in pain, his hands covering the bloody blankness that used to be his eyes. With another razor blow from Chiun's delicate hands, the man was dead.

  The others ran. They knew the woods, but Remo was faster than they were, and his vision was better. Within seconds he'd broken the back of one of the men and smashed the skulls of two more. He heard a sound and, turning, saw Chiun behind him, delivering a knifelike chop to the last soldier. The blow was so perfectly executed that its movement seemed effortless and slow. Chiun's hand, extended in a plane from the billowing sleeve of his robe, glided like a piece of metal toward the soldier's throat. When it struck, there was a snap of neck bones and the quick bounce of the man's head. And then, as if the old hands were knives slicing through paper, the head fell cleanly off the body in a spray of blood and rolled down the mountainside. The rest of the body twitched once and then came to rest on a carpet of pine needles.

  When it was all over, the old Oriental put his hands back into his sleeves. He kicked the soldier's fallen Uzi and sent it clattering down the rocky slope. A burst of gunfire shattered the silence a moment later.

  "Shoddy merchandise," the Korean sa
id.

  Remo hunkered down and examined one of the bodies. "Army-issue clothing dyed black," he said. "And they moved like soldiers, too."

  "Perhaps your government has changed the color of its military uniforms," Chiun offered. "I never did think they were appropriate. That green," he made a gesture of dismissal, "so close to the hue of monkey excrement. Black is better for warrior's garb."

  "Maybe," Remo said, "but I don't think these guys are from any branch of our service. Veterans, maybe. Probably mercs. The leader talked like an American."

  Karen stepped up behind Remo and rested her hand on his shoulder. He could feel her shaking.

  "Don't look at this," he said. He led her back to the clearing. "Are you all right?"

  She nodded. "But I have to go. I've got to get to the police."

  "Okay," Remo said. "Sam'll take you in the jeep." He looked around. "Sam?"

  "Will somebody get me down?" a quavering voice requested from above. Remo looked up and saw Wolfshy waving at him from the branch of the ponderosa pine where Remo had deposited him.

  Remo made a half-turn and a second later Wolfshy felt himself floating to the ground.

  "Say, where did you guys learn that stuff? That's some incredible shit."

  Chiun glared at him. "It is Sinanju."

  "Far, far out," Wolfshy said admiringly. "How long does it take to learn something like that? I've seen those ads in the backs of magazines. You know, the Quick Way to Killing Power… Thirty Days to a Better Build, things like that. You just mail in the coupon—"

  "It takes a lifetime," Remo said.

  "Longer, if you're white," Chiun added.

  "Well, I'm red. I bet I could pick that up in a couple of weeks. I was watching. It's all in the wrist, isn't it? If I just—"

  "If you just shut up, you can take Karen into Santa Fe," Remo said.

  "Uh-uh, no way," Wolfshy said. "She'll be safe going down the mountain. You guys might need me."

  "Highly unlikely," Chiun said.

  "Well, what about just now?"

  "Just now with the soldiers?" Remo asked. "You were in a tree, remember?"

  "I was distracting them. Besides, you hired a guide, right?"

  "Yes," Chiun said dryly. "Unfortunately, we got you."

  "Sam's right," Karen said. "There aren't going to be any soldiers between here and the city. But I'll need the jeep."

  "Whoa," Wolfshy said. "Nobody said anything about loaning my jeep. Neither a borrower nor a lender be. Anyway, that northeast trail's going to be rough on the engine."

  Remo sighed. "The route into Santa Fe runs due south." He reached into Wolfshy's jacket, extracted the keys, and tossed them over to Karen. "I think you'll be better off without him anyway."

  Karen caught the keys and smiled. "One thing," Remo said. "When you get to the police, don't mention us, okay? Just tell them you escaped and then stole the jeep from an empty campsite. Sam can pick it up later."

  "Okay." She kissed him softly. "Thanks for everything. Thank you all."

  When she was gone, Chiun sat back on the ground, his eyes half-closed. "Now perhaps an old man may sleep."

  "I'm with you," Remo said. "I'm beat."

  "That is unfortunate. Because someone has to clean up that mess you made."

  "I made? I didn't guillotine anybody."

  "Naturally. Your technique is not adequate for precision work. But even such as you may be useful in your way. Clear away this disgusting refuse. These bodies are a blight on the landscape."

  "Who are you, Ranger Rick?"

  "And take that talkative person with you. Keep him silent if you can."

  Wolfshy followed Remo to the first body, but since the sight of blood made him sick, the Indian was of little use.

  "You're really worthless," Remo said as Wolfshy lay quivering on the ground after a bout of retching.

  "That's what my uncle says. That's what just about everybody says about me."

  "Well, just about everybody's right." He hoisted the body onto his shoulders and lugged it down the slope, where he left it in a shallow arroyo.

  If it's not trunks, it's bodies, Remo thought bitterly. It seemed he spent the better part of his life carrying something heavy from one place to another.

  The whir of a helicopter sounded in the distance. Alarmed, he strained through the darkness to make out its lights. The chopper seemed to be making a loop around the side of the mountain, but it wasn't coming as far down as their campsite. He relaxed. Then it hasn't spotted Karen. It was probably searching for the band of soldiers that had ambushed them.

  The drone receded, grew louder, faded again. Whoever's running the operation at the top of the mountain, Remo thought as he lugged the bodies to the arroyo, he's got his own private army.

  The sound droned on. Remo felt his palms moisten. He didn't like the sound of helicopters. Or gunfire. Or children screaming. They reminded him of the war, and more than all the other hurts of his life, he wanted to forget that one.

  But he couldn't. Every time he heard a chopper, he remembered.

  ?CHAPTER SEVEN

  Mostly he remembered the bodies.

  It happened on some jungle hill on the outskirts of some jungle village in Nam. Remo's platoon had run out of rations and were foraging for food, feasting on exotic plumed birds and prehistoric-looking greens. They'd held the Hill for more than six months. It looked like time to get out.

  Again.

  Only every time the food ran out, choppers would fly in from Malaya or Sumatra with more. And with the choppers would come a fresh influx of sniper fire on the camp.

  It was useless. Remo knew it, and so did everybody else in the outfit. Maybe in the whole army. You can't hold a hill with seventy men when you're surrounded by an inexhaustible supply of enemy firearms.

  Still, they held it, for weeks, months. And while the men were being picked off one by one, the choppers kept flying in with more food for the ones who were still alive.

  The choppers never brought in replacement troops. The only men that flew into that hellhole were occasional CIA agents, looking for God knew what. They came with their sunglasses and fancy handguns and stayed awhile and didn't talk to anybody. Then the CIA men would leave on the next food chopper.

  Sometimes the enlisted men would ask the CIA experts when they were getting off the Hill, but the intelligence men either didn't know or wouldn't talk. They didn't have much to do with the army and didn't interfere.

  Even with the bodies.

  They were the CO's idea.

  They started appearing after the first month on the Hill. The men were washed out by then, filthy and isolated and scared to go to sleep at night. The only thing that sustained them was the type of black humor peculiar to men who faced death too often to take it seriously anymore.

  All but the CO. He was a major, and he thrived on the Hill. Every morning he was up before the rest of the platoon, dressed and shaved and whistling. He slept like a rock and woke up ready to kill. The major was at his best during an attack, especially when he could fight hand to hand. More than once, Remo had seen him throw back his head in laughter while he strangled a Viet Cong invader with his bare hands.

  As time went by, while the other men were quietly descending to subhuman level, the major only got cleaner and brighter and more eager. He loved the action on the Hill. It sent a shiver down everyone's back when they realized that he was never going to pull them out, and that the reason was because he loved it.

  Then the bodies came. One sweltering summer morning Remo and the others got up to find the mutilated bodies of six dead VC strung on a wire on the edge of camp. They were tied by their wrists. Their open eyes and gaping wounds were already black with crawling flies.

  "A little reminder to the enemy, boys," the major said with a grin, as his troops stared with astonishment. "We're going to surround the camp with their carcasses. That'll teach 'em to fuck with the U.S. Army." With a brief, confident nod, he strode away, as if he had just presented the m
en with a gift.

  There was a CIA man on the Hill then. He'd come a couple of days before. His name was MacCleary, and he looked different from the other intelligence officers who'd been in camp. For one thing, he wasn't the weasel-thin government-issue spy. MacCleary was big, bordering on fat. For another, he had a hook instead of a right hand. MacCleary looked as if he could get mean if he wanted to, but like the others, he seemed determined to mind his own business. Even when he saw the bodies crucified on the wire that hot August morning, he said nothing.

  Later that day, Remo approached him. "Get us out of here," he said quietly. "The CO's nuts."

  MacCleary spit on his hook and polished it on his trousers. "I know. I can't." He walked away.

  Everyday, more bodies were added while the old ones rotted off the wire. Occasionally, a bird would carry a fallen hand a few yards before dropping it, so that the camp was littered with gray, maggot-ridden hands and fingers.

  At first, the only bodies strung up were VC who'd tried an attack on the Hill. But when they shied away, the major would send out expeditions to bring back more. Little by little, the camp was surrounded by a curtain of corpses that melted and rotted in the unrelenting sun. The smell of death was everywhere, and no one got used to it. When the circle of bodies around the Hill was complete, the major ordered a second wire to be put up.

  And all the time he smiled and shaved and whistled.

  It was another hot, fetid morning when Remo saw the first arrivals on the second wire. And heard them.

  They were not dead.

  Two Vietnamese civilians were hanging, like the corpses, by their wrists. One was an old man with white hair. He was stripped naked. The other was a boy no more than nine or ten years old. He had a bullet wound in his side. The old man moaned softly. The boy, near death, only opened and closed his mouth in short gasps.

  "What do you think, Private?" It was the major, cleaner than Remo had ever seen him.

  Without a word, Remo cut down the old man and the boy. He held the boy in his arms. The child didn't weigh fifty pounds.

  "These people need a doctor," Remo said.