"Come on," Remo said. "Political power. What's his platform? Bullets, not bullshit?"
"When he makes the Men of the Shield a pack of nationwide vigilantes… when he has every cop in America signed up… every police buff, every nit-nat flag waver, every right-wing racist, when he's got them all under the banner of that clenched fist, then he's got political power."
"He'll never see that day," Remo said.
"Will you stop him?"
"I'll stop him."
His eyes were locked on O'Toole who still stood just inside the doorway, talking softly with Remo. The police commissioner nodded, then said, "One thing."
"Name it."
"Can you make it look like the mob did it? If anyone ever learns about killer cops, it could destroy law enforcement in this country."
"I'll try," Remo said.
"For some reason, I trust you," O'Toole said. Remo moved slightly, instinctively, as O'Toole's hand went to his jacket pocket. He raised his hand. "Just a paper," he said, pulling out an envelope. "It's all in there. I'd rather go out as a cop killed by the enemies of the law, but if you need it, use it. It's in my handwriting. There'll be no argument about its authenticity."
He walked to the bar and poured himself a drink. "It started so simply," he said, draining the glass of Scotch. "Just getting the men who got my daughter. It was so simple at the start."
"It always is," Remo said. "It always starts simple. All tragedies do."
And then, because there was nothing else to say, Remo killed O'Toole in his living room, killed him gently and quickly, and carefully placed his body on the living room rug.
He sat back down in a chair and in the dying light opened the envelope O'Toole had given him. It was filled with ten sheets of paper, typed single spaced, and it gave names and places and dates. It told how he and McGurk had planned the national assassination squads; how they had recruited men around the country from among their personal friends in police work; it told of Congressman Duffy's death; of McGurk's plan to form the Men of the Shield; of McGurk's growing political lust and how it finally became apparent to O'Toole that McGurk figured himself to be the man on the white horse that America traditionally looked for. And it told how O'Toole had tried to stop it but had lost control.
Each page was signed and the cover sheet was written by hand. As he read it, Remo realized why O'Toole had faced death so calmly. The note was a suicide note; he had planned to take his own life.
Remo read the note twice, feeling through the words O'Toole's anguish and pain. When he finished the second time, his eyes were wet.
O'Toole had lived like a shit, Remo thought. But he had died like a man. And that was more than most men got. It was something.
It was a better death than McGurk would have. In another forty-five minutes, McGurk would be meeting with his cadre of killer cops. Well, they would just have to stay out of it. Remo hoped they would.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Remo moved quickly. With luck, he could get to the gym on Twentieth Street before the meeting started. Finish McGurk. End the Men of the Shield before they ever had a chance to start.
His preoccupation overwhelmed his senses and then he realized he was not alone.
They had moved in behind Remo as he left O'Toole's house and one called: "Bednick." Remo turned. There were three of them. Obviously policemen in plain clothes. They wore their occupation like banners.
He was in trouble. He knew they would not have moved in behind him unless they had people cutting off his exit at the gate. He glanced over his shoulder. There were three more. Each carried a weapon, professionally, held back close to the hip. Six cops sent to kill him. He had been played for a sucker by McGurk, and had fallen into the trap.
"Bednick?" one of the men near the house said again.
"Who wants to know?" Remo said. He moved closer to the house, hoping to draw the three men behind him up closer, close enough to work by hand.
"We want to know," the cop said. "The Men of the Shield."
"Sorry, pal, I gave at the office," Remo said.
He took another step forward and heard the shuffling behind him as the line moved up closer to him.
"McGurk said you had to die."
"McGurk. You know he's using you?"
The cop laughed.
"And we're wasting you," he said. Then he was pulling back the hammer on his pistol. He raised his hand to eye level, drew dead aim on Remo, and then he was falling to the ground, as out of the night, with a chilling shriek, came Chiun, dropping down onto the men from above. He landed among the three men and Remo took advantage of the moment of shock to move backwards into the bodies of the three behind him. He worked left and right, and behind him he could hear the terrible sound of Chiun's blows, like whip cracks, and he knew he could save none of those men. But there was one still alive near Remo. He gasped as Remo. leaned on his throat. His gun had fallen from his hand and lay out of reach.
"Quick," Remo said. "Were you supposed to report back to McGurk?"
"Yeah."
"To tell him you got me?"
"Yeah."
"How?"
"Phone him at his office. Let the phone ring two times and then hang up."
"Thanks, pal," Remo said. "You won't believe it but together, you and me, we're going to save the police profession in this country."
"You're right, Bednick, I don't believe it."
"That's the biz, sweetheart," Remo said, and then put him to sleep forever.
He stood up and looked at Chiun who stood silently, porcelain delicate, among the bodies strewn around the walkway.
"Taking inventory?" Remo asked.
"Yes. Eight idiots gone. Remaining: the Master of Sinanju and one more idiot. You."
"No more, Chiun. Come on, we've got an appointment."
As they walked down the drive, Remo asked, "You saw them coming and you climbed the roof, right?"
Chiun snarled at him. "Do you think the Master of Sinanju climbs roofs like a chimney sweep? I sensed their presence. And I entered among them and I swooped to the right and I swooped to the left; like the wind on fire I moved among them, and when the Master was done, he was alone with death. He had brought death out of the night sky onto the evil men."
"In other words, you jumped on them from the roof."
"From the roof," Chiun agreed.
Later, in the car, Remo told Chiun that he had been right. "But I'm over it now. No more good guy, bad guy for me."
"I am happy that you have found the remnants of your reason. Doctor Smith sent a message to you."
"Oh?"
"Yes. He said America is worth a life."
"When'd he call?"
"I don't remember," Chiun said. "I am not your Kelly girl."
Remo chuckled. "Thanks for not telling me until I was ready."
"Nonsense," Chiun said. "I merely forgot."
CHAPTER TWENTY
The telephone rang once on the desk of Inspector William McGurk. Instinctively, his hand reached for it, but he checked himself and waited. The phone rang again. He waited. The phone rang no more.
McGurk smiled. All the loose ends were coming into place. No more O'Toole to worry about. No more Remo Bednick to stand between him and Janet. He was glad he had gotten rid of the girl. She was on a plane now to Miami, supposedly at her father's request. It would be better for her to be spared some of the close-up tragedy.
Outside his office, McGurk could hear the policemen milling around and he glanced at his watch. Eight p.m. Almost time to begin. His meeting would have to be over in time for the 9:30 press conference. But that meeting was for the press and the public. This one was private. For the police who made up McGurk's army.
McGurk picked up the sheets of paper on his desk. Carefully typed sheets. The speech he had been working on for so long. But he would not deliver it tonight. He had important news that took precedence over any formal speech. Well, he'd get some of it in anyway.