The continual shooting outside, though slackened to some slight degree, reminded Chelsea that she might be called on to defend herself at any moment. Stopping by the kitchen, she spent several moments checking out the cutlery. She was about to choose a cleaver, but it seemed too heavy, too obscenely brutal, and she finally opted for a twelve-inch chef’s knife.
Chelsea held the knife in front of her as she departed from the kitchen and continued with her search. It would be little use against a gun, she realized, but if she managed to surprise an enemy…
It startled her to realize that she was actually considering the means of stabbing someone, snuffing out another human life by force, but then she thought about her father once again, and knew she would do anything required to help him, save him. But she had to find him first. She thought of calling out, then stopped herself, afraid of drawing the attention of her father’s unknown enemies. Far better, for the moment, if she searched in silence, kept a low profile and drew no more attention to herself.
Where should she start?
Her father’s office. He wouldn’t be there, of course, but it was something. There might even be a clue of some kind, something to direct her.
She was wasting time.
Without another moment’s hesitation, Chelsea Radcliff hurried off along the corridor.
He owed the break to sluggish adversaries, spread thin on the grounds. They should have had the treeline covered right away, but Remo made it to the building in a rush, feet barely touching down as he took off across the close-cropped grass. Mere seconds after he was wedged into the doorway, thinking what his next move ought to be, he heard the shooter coming. No attempt to mask his progress, taking it for granted that a gun would handle any problems he encountered on the way. The guy was dumb enough to back in, checking out the lawn. He almost: jumped out of his skin when Remo spoke to him.
“Surprise!”
The shooter was not one of Radcliff’s clones, but he was quick once he got motivated. Pivoting on one heel, snarling like an animal, he swung a pistol into line with Remo’s face—or would have if the gun had still been in his hand.
Disarming him was no great challenge, just a grab and twist, then Remo had the automatic in his hand, the shooter so surprised that he still crooked his index finger, trying to squeeze a nonexistent trigger. “Shit!”
“You got that right,” said Remo, striking out with his fingers in a deadly jab that left the shooter without a heartbeat. The dead man’s eyes crossed as he tried to focus, then he slumped over backward, sprawling on the flagstone walk.
Remo decided not to force the door just yet, moved on in search of other prey. He circled to his right, or south. Before he reached the corner, he heard voices, two of them, and recognized the deeper one as Quentin Radcliff’s.
“This is a mistake,” said someone he had never met. “I’m not cut out for this.”
“Shut up, for God’s sake, Warren!” Radcliff ordered. “You’ve been hunting, surely.”
“Not since I was ten years old.”
“Same principle,” said Radcliff. “You can think of this as self-defense, if that will help. Remember not to jerk the trigger when you fire.”
“That’s good advice,” said Remo, coming into view around the corner, as if strolling in the shadow of the bogus orphanage was a routine event.
“My God!” the stranger blurted as he raised a pistol gripped in shaky hands. Not quick enough. The floater strike sailed past his weapon, found his face and ended it. The straw man vaulted backward, struck the wall with force enough to tear his scalp and leave a bloody smear behind him as he slithered to the ground.
And that left Dr. Quentin Radcliff, standing frozen, with his pistol pressed against his thigh.
“The newsman,” Radcliff said.
“Not quite.”
“I gathered that. Who are you?”
“I’m from quality control,” Remo announced, keeping one eye on the gun. “Your little monsters didn’t pass.”
“I don’t expect you’d understand,” said Radcliff.
“On the contrary.”
“You’re not a scientist.”
“Well, that makes two of us.”
“You can’t kill me,” the doctor said.
“I must have missed that rule.”
“But my discovery! Think of it! Who’ll take over my research?”
“With any luck,” said Remo, “no one will.”
“You’d throw it all away?”
“I’d flush it down the toilet, if I thought they’d fit.”
The doctor winced at that. “But what about…the others?”
Remo followed Radcliff’s glance in the direction of the building, wondering how many clones-in-progress they would find inside.
“That isn’t up to me,” he said.
“I can’t—”
“How many are there?” Remo asked him, interrupting.
“What? Oh, twelve, thirteen, I think.” Radcliff’s precision memory was failing under stress. “The youngest one is only seven. Will you kill him, too?”
“And what about the women from Ideal Maternity?” asked Remo, pointedly ignoring Radcliff’s question.
“Safe,” the doctor said. “I have an old house south of here, near Irvington. Althea’s with them. She’s in charge.”
“Not anymore.”
“I can’t just let you ruin all my work. I won’t!”
“So, take your—”
“No!”
The shriek, a woman’s voice, came from behind him. Remo cursed himself for letting Radcliff so distract him that another enemy could come so close, unnoticed.
Remo spun, found Chelsea coming at him with some kind of kitchen knife poised overhead, the long blade flashing with reflected sunlight. Everything about her posture and technique was wrong. A punchy boxer could have blocked the swing and decked her.
Remo caught her arm as it descended, used the least force he could manage in a rush and heard the small bones in her wrist give way. Then she was airborne, gasping through a forward somersault and landing on her back with force enough to drive the air out of her lungs.
He threw the knife away and turned back toward her father. “Your turn.”
Dr. Radcliff did his best, all things considered. If he’d had another year or so to practice, maybe Radcliff could have pulled it off.
Or maybe not.
The gun was rising past his hip when Remo stepped in close and drove the stiffened fingers of his right hand under Radcliff’s sternum, rupturing his heart. His eyes blinked once, behind the spectacles, and then he sagged, a mounted specimen with all the stuffing leaking out.
The final parting had been, overdue, thought Remo. This one had been soul-dead for at least three decades.
Remo recognized Chiun’s footsteps by the fact they made no sound. One moment he was standing in the bright Kentucky sunshine with a pair of corpses at his feet; the next moment a flicker at the corner of his eye told him the Master of Sinanju had arrived.
“You’re not sitting moping in a hotel room. Little Father.”
“Do not remind me. There were two clowns watching on the north end of the building.”
“Clones,” said Remo.
“I speak perfect English,” Chirm informed him. “These were clowns. They tried to kill the Master of Sinanju with their puny weapons! Fools!” he spit in disgust.
“Too bad I missed it,” Remo said.
Chiun glanced at Radcliff. “Is this the evil one?”
“He’ll do until the real thing comes along.”
“Where are the rest?” asked Chiun.
“Inside. I was about to go and have a look.”
“I will accompany you,” Chiun announced imperiously.
“I wish you would.”
Together Remo and the Master of Sinanju found the nearest door and went inside to meet the children of a nightmare come to life.