So when Chiun told him to relax, he was afraid. But he listened.

Now he made his way up the fence, the fringe-ends of the electric current in contact with his skin. His

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breathing was controlled and deep, his balance auto­matically adjusting with each small move. The current was the force that kept him aloft. Using it, never break­ing contact, he slid slowly up the fence, moving his arms in slow circles to generate the friction that pro­pelled him upward. At the top of the fence he broke suddenly, pulling his legs backward and over his head and somersaulting over the top.

The compound he was in was an acre or more of snow-covered gravel and frozen mud set in the far reaches of Staten island. Rotting wooden crates, rusted cans, and soggy sheets of old newspapers lit­tered the ground. At the rear of the compound stood a large, dirty cinderblock warehouse, six stories tall with a loading dock at the right end. A truck was parked at the loading dock. As Remo neared, he saw three burly men packing crates into the truck.

"Hi, guys," he said, thrusting his hand into a crate on the dock. He pulled out a five-pound bag of white powder encased in plastic. "Just as I thought," he said.

"Huh?" One of the dock workers pulled out a Browning .9mm automatic. "Who are you, mister?"

"I'm with the Heroin Control Board," Remo said through pursed lips. "I'm afraid this won't do. Sloppy packaging. No brand names. Not even a yellow plastic measuring spoon, like the coffee boys give out. No, this just isn't up to par. Sorry, boys." He yanked open the plastic bag and dumped its contents into the wind.

"Hey, that stuff's worth half a million dollars," the man with the Browning said.

"Do it right, or don't do it, that's our motto," Remo said.

"Move out of the way, fellas," the man holding the gun said two seconds before he fired. He was one sec-