And because Remo was interested in Hubert Millis only as a lead to the gunman who called himself Remo Williams, he had doubled back and headed for a showdown with the man who had stolen his name.
The sniperscope checked perfectly. He could see Hubert Millis through it and the gunman laughed aloud because for all his effort in erecting defenses, Millis had overlooked the possibility of a sniper's nest outside his building complex.
Millis was in frantic conversation with an underling and there appeared to be some kind of disturbance at the gate, the gunman saw. No matter. It would be over in a very few minutes.
Crouched on the roof, the gunman locked the telescope sight and from an open briefcase, extracted the add-ons that transformed his Beretta Olympic into a working rifle.
He screwed the collapsible shoulder stock into the nut built into the pistol's butt, extended it, and tested the feel. Good.
Next he fitted a mounting, like a silencer, over the barrel. It received the rifle barrel smoothly. Finally he exchanged the ammunition clip for an extra-long sixteen-round version that stuck out from below the butt.
When he was done, he carefully went back over the job, making sure that everything was fitted together perfectly. Then he hefted the weapon to his shoulder and peered into the light-gathering scope.
He saw the front door of the American Auto corporate headquarters.
He raised the rifle so his scope saw the sky, then slowly lowered it until he was zeroed in on the highest floor. Millis was still there, talking to a younger man who looked like a cop on vacation. Perfect.
The gunman took a deep breath, then began the slow controlled pressure on the trigger to ensure a smooth first shot. Only one would be necessary and he sighted carefully at Hubert Millis' chest.
Then the gun barrel kicked up and knocked him backward. He found himself sitting down, his finely crafted weapon sliding to a stop a few feet away. What had happened? He had not even fired.
The gunman got to his feet and scooped up his weapon. It appeared undamaged. No. Wait. There was a nick along the gun barrel and then he noticed a rock lying on the gravel roof. It had not been there a moment before. He was sure of it. He picked it up. It was not a rock but a shard of brick, exactly the color of the walls of the building he stood upon.
Someone had thrown it. But who? How? There was no one else on the roof and no other roof in throwing distance. Besides, he had felt the gun barrel being knocked upward. That meant the shard had come from below.
But that was impossible. He was twenty stories above the ground.
He looked over the parapet anyway.
He saw a man. An impossible man. The man was climbing the sheer face of the building, somehow holding on to the cracks between the bricks. And he wasn't just crawling, he was moving fast.
As he watched, the gunman saw the climbing man's face grow more distinct. It was looking up at him and he recognized the face of the man he'd noticed at the Dynacar demonstration, the one who had run toward the old Chinaman when the shooting started.
What was he doing here?
The gunman decided it didn't matter. He drew a bead on the white face of the climbing man and fired.
The man stopped climbing and scuttled sideways like a jumping spider. The bullet missed and the gunman fired again. This time, the man jumped the other way. It was more of a hop and the gunman actually saw him float in midair for only the length of time it took for his eye to register the phenomenon. Then the man was perched and climbing again.
The gunman took his time, lining him up in the scope. This time the man stopped, whacked a fragment of brick from the building face with the side of his hand, and flipped it casually. The fragment hit the gunman in the shoulder. It was only a small fragment, hardly larger than a pebble, but it struck with enough force to knock him back twelve feet and tumble him onto his back.
He was getting to his feet when the man came over the edge of the roof.
"Well, well, well. If it isn't Mr. Environment," Remo said. "I've been looking all over for you. The Sierra Club wants to give you an award."
The gunman looked for his Beretta. It was too far away and he had no backup weapon. He never carried one; he had never needed one before.
Remo came at him and the gunman felt himself lifted to his feet so fast the blood rushed from his head. When his vision cleared, he was looking into familiar eyes; they were the eyes of cold death.
"Well, give me my award and let me get out of here," the gunman said. He grinned and raised his hands in a gesture of empty-handed surrender.
"Age before beauty," Remo said. "You start. What's your name? Your real name?"
"Williams. Remo Williams," the gunman said.
"I don't think that answer's truly responsive," Remo said. The gunman found himself flat on his back on the roof again, a searing pain in his right shoulder.
Remo was smiling down at him. "It only gets worse, pal. Your name?"
The gunman shook his head. "It's Remo Williams," he said. "Check my wallet. My ID."
Remo ripped open the back of the man's pocket and extracted his billfold. There was a driver's license, a Social Security card, three credit cards, and an organ-donor card.
They all said "Remo Williams." Remo ripped up the organ-donor card. "You won't need this last one, I don't think," he said. "Your organs aren't going to draw much interest in the medical market."
"I don't know why you don't believe me," the man said. "I'm Remo Williams. Why's that so hard to believe?"
"Because that's my name," Remo said.
The gunman shrugged and tried to smile past the pain in his right shoulder.
"Who knows? Maybe we're related. I'm from Newark," he said. "Not Ohio. New Jersey."
Remo suddenly felt dazed. His own voice said softly, "That's where I'm from too."
"Maybe we are related," the gunman said. He got to his feet; the shoulder pain had gone and he glanced toward his gun.
Remo said, "I'm an orphan. At least I thought I was an orphan. "
"I had a son once," the gunman said, still eyeing his weapon. He edged a step closer to it. "But my wife and I separated and I never saw him again. You'd be about the right age."
Remo shook his head. "No. No. Not after all these years," he said. "It doesn't happen that way."
"No, sure," the gunman said. "Just a coincidence. We just happen to be two of the forty or fifty thousand guys named Remo Williams who come from Newark, New Jersey." He took two small steps sideways toward his gun. He noticed that the younger man seemed not to be seeing anything; there was a dumb uncomprehending expression in his dark troubled eyes.
"I can't believe this," Remo said. "Chiun told me to stay away from you. He must have known."
"I guess he did," the gunman said. Chiun must be the tricky Oriental who kept getting in the way. "But nothing's thicker than blood. We're together now. Son." He casually retrieved his weapon; the younger man seemed not to notice. His face was an expressionless mask.
"Smith must have known too. They both knew. They both tried to keep me from meeting you. From knowing the truth."
"I bet," the gunman said sympathetically. "They both knew, but you can't keep family apart, son. You're with me now and I have some work to do. Then we can get out of here. "
Remo's vision cleared suddenly. "You're a professional hit man," he said.
"A job's a job," the gunman said.
"It's my job too, sort of," Remo said.
"Must run in the family, son," the gunman said. "But just watch. I'll show you how the old man does it."
The gunman walked to the edge of the roof and hoisted his weapon to his shoulder. Maybe he could finish this up quickly, he thought.
"I can't let you do that," Remo said.