“Downstairs,” he said.
Up close, it was a simple move. Assume you couldn’t stop the first shot, dodge the bullet as you closed to striking range, disarm the goon and finish it at leisure. Remo hesitated long enough to glance downstairs—and saw two more Hardy doppelgangers. They were even dressed alike, in denim jeans and jackets, though their shirts were different colors: red and green.
Both men had pistols aimed at Remo’s face.
That complicated matters somewhat, but it was only a matter of strategy. If they simply wanted Remo dead, he guessed, all three would probably have come upstairs and opened fire the moment that he showed himself. If they were taking prisoners, it meant whoever sent them must have questions. That, in turn, gave Remo time and space to plan his move.
If they were any good at all, they wouldn’t try to shoot him on the stairs, where any rounds that missed or passed completely through his body would endanger friendly troops. A cross fire in cramped quarters was the worst way to prepare a trap, and they would know that going in.
For now, it was best to play along and assume they knew what they were doing.
“I’m going,” Remo told the nearest of the triplets. “Don’t get nervous.”
“Shut your face and move it!”
“Yassuh, boss.”
He started down the stairs, heard the assassin behind him, hanging back a little so that Remo could not turn and try to grab his weapon. Down below, the other two goons were backing up and separating, to triangulate their fire if anything went wrong.
From Remo’s point of view, it couldn’t hurt to shake them up a little. If they got rattled in the process, it could only help his cause.
“I don’t know what the trouble is,” he said to no one in particular, “but maybe one of you could introduce me to the man in charge. I’ve got this cousin with a problem, see, and I—”
“Shut up!” one of the ground-floor goons commanded.
“What I heard in town, a certain Dr. Radcliff was the man to see, but I can talk to someone else, if he’s tied up.”
“Shut up!” the other one downstairs growled, taking one step forward as he spoke, for emphasis.
“Okay, no problem.”
Remo reached the bottom of the staircase, heard the first man coming down behind him, while the others held their ground. They had him boxed, now, but the cross-fire problem had not been resolved. He still did not believe they meant to kill him outright, while they had a chance to question him. Their sponsor would be desperate for answers by this time, when everything appeared to be unraveling.
“Who sent you here?” the man behind him asked.
Remo half turned to face him as he answered. “Like I said, my cousin—”
“Cut the shit! We want the truth.”
“Okay, you got me, pal. She’s not my cousin. Are you happy now? I don’t know what you people charge to handle the delivery and adoption, but I’ve got some money put away. You don’t need guns, for Christ’s sake! It’s a business deal.”
“Who sent you?” the first man repeated, stepping closer, till his gun was almost touching Remo’s chest.
It was the break he had been waiting for.
The timing had to be precise, but Remo had it covered. Reach out with the left hand for his adversary’s wrist and clasp it tightly, while his right palm pushed the automatic’s muzzle out of line. The gun was a Baretta, double-action, with the hammer down, but Remo kept his enemy from firing with a sharp twist of the captive hand and arm.
The goon cried out in pain and furious surprise, but he had been disarmed by that time. Remo swung him like a weightless dummy, lifting him completely off his feet, boots slamming hard into the ribs of the second assassin.
The third man saw it coming, squeezed off two quick shots in self-defense. The hollowpoints struck Remo’s human shield, mushroomed on impact, ripping into lungs and liver while his body was still airborne, flying.
Remo let him go, saw the surprise and anger fade to nothing as he died. Momentum slammed him into the gunman, and they went down together in a heap, the dead man’s weight encumbering his sidekick.
The second thug was down on one knee, groping for the pistol he had dropped, about to reach it when a shadow fell across his face, and he glanced up to find Death watching him with dark, impassive eyes.
“Did Radcliff send you?”
“Fuck yourself!”
“Wrong answer,” Remo said, and kicked him hard enough to dislocate his left shoulder, flip him over on his back, the fallen pistol hopelessly beyond his reach.
A backward glance showed the third gunner about to wriggle out from underneath the body of his comrade. He had also lost his weapon, but he wasted no time looking for it, rather grabbing for a knife sheathed on his belt. The blade was six or seven inches long and double edged, black tinted, with a long groove down the center that allowed a straight-on puncture wound to bleed without obstruction, even if the knife was not withdrawn.
It was a killer’s weapon, forged for one specific purpose, but a blade’s utility is measured by the man who wields it. This man, under other circumstances, would have been a deadly adversary, but he didn’t understand whom he was facing. With a snarl of anger, throwing caution to the wind, he came at Remo, leading with the blade, and thereby sealed his fate.
Remo sidestepped the thrust, allowed the blade to pass him by, and struck out with a vicious backhand to the assassin’s ribs. He heard bones crack and felt the ribs implode, curved lances shearing into lung, spleen, diaphragm. A strangled cry of pain erupted from the hit man’s throat, immediately followed by a rush of blood as bright as poster paint. The man collapsed, not dead but dying, slumped on hands and knees, the knife forgotten now as he surrendered to the waves of mortal pain. His arms were trembling, barely able to support him. Remo crouched beside him, tangled fingers in his hair and gave the head a twist, examining the too-familiar face.
“Who sent you?” Remo asked.
“Fu-fuck you!”
He broke the doppelganger’s neck and shoved the body over on its side. The sole survivor of the hit-team was watching him and clutching at his injured shoulder, looking for a way out of the trap as Remo turned to face him.
“You’re a little short of help right now,” he said. “Why don’t you make it easy on yourself?”
“No, thanks.”
“I don’t mind doing it the hard way,” Remo told him, “but it seems like such a waste.”
“You don’t scare me,” the doppelganger said. “I’m not afraid of dying.”
“Death’s no threat,” said Remo. “It’s the quick way out.”
“Do what, you want,” the wounded hit man sneered. “You’re dead already, but you’re just too dumb to know it.”
“Suit yourself.”
He was advancing on the prostrate form when the gunner jack-knifed, brought one knee to his chest and drew a stubby derringer from its concealment in an ankle holster. Remo was prepared to dodge the bullets, knowing that the small gun only held two shots, but he misjudged his captive’s plan. Instead of trying for a kill from six or seven paces, the hit man reversed the derringer, shoved it into his mouth and fired. Despite its size, the little gun was loud—perhaps a .44. The power of a bullet fired into the skull at skin-touch range puffed out the dead man’s cheeks. His eyes bulged in their sockets, streaked with crimson, and his head slammed back against the floor. The bullet did not exit, telling Remo that it must have been another deadly hollow-point.
“Well, that just beats all,” Remo complained.
In other circumstances, Remo would have tidied up the battleground, but he would leave it to the cops this time, in case some trace of evidence remained to haunt the owners of Ideal Maternity. He could imagine local uniforms, attempting to dissect the triplet act and getting nowhere fast, besieged by federal agents once they put it on the wire.