"That's right."

"Because it was un-American."

"Right. Right."

"And you are a loyal American."

"I am."

"And you don't care one bit about making a few extra million dollars."

"Right. I don't."

"Come on, Hefferling," Remo said reproachfully.

"It's the truth."

"That's your defense? That's supposed to stop me from killing you?"

Hefferling stared at him. Slowly his face relaxed into a smile.

"I get it. This is a joke, isn't it? You were paid to do this, right? Kind of like a pie in the face. Paid for it, right?"

Remo shrugged. "Actually, I was. But, see, that's the work I do."

"What is? Pies? Threats?"

"No," Remo said, and because it no longer made any difference, he told Hefferling the truth. How a young Newark policeman named Remo Williams had been framed for a murder he didn't commit, was sent to an electric chair that didn't work, and was revived and recruited to work for a secret crime-fighting organization named CURE. And he told him, too, how Remo Williams had learned the secrets of Sinanju, an ancient Korean house of assassins, and hi learning them had become something more than just a man. Something special.

23

When Remo was done, he looked at Hefferling's face but saw only confusion there. Nobody ever understood.

"Anyway, Hefferling, upstairs tells me what is what here. I don't even use gas. But they tell me you have five tankers of oil tied up in Puerto Rico somewhere and you're waiting for prices to go up and then you're going to sell the oil in America. Meanwhile, people are waiting in gas lines. This is what upstairs tells me and they tell me I should do something about it."

"Like what?" asked Hefferling.

"Like kill you."

"Wait now," Hefferling pleaded in panic. "I've got more to tell you. A lot more. Wait."

"Tell it to the angels, Hubert." Remo leaned forward, tapped once with his knuckles and Hefferling sat back in his chair. Remo picked up the man's right hand, and dropped it onto the table with a thud. A dead thud.