When Johnny had showed up at Paul Petito's house twelve hours late and with a big swelling bruise on his head, no one had even bothered to ask what had happened to him. Such was the nature of their business. And Johnny Fungillo would have been happy to never, ever mention that skinny, dead-eyed stranger with the lightning-fast hands-if not for the damn surveillance pictures.
Johnny was new to the Scubisci Family. He couldn't risk not telling when he saw that face again.
Yet even when he and the others had set off in search of the young guy and the old Chinaman, Johnny had kept a low profile. He'd stayed in the car at Logan while the others circulated the pictures they'd gotten from the video; he'd hunkered down in the back seat after they'd learned their quarry had gotten a cab to Quincy; and he had said a silent prayer to the Madonna when the angry neighbor with the crying baby had pointed out the big ugly stone church on the corner.
Luckily, the occupants of the building weren't home. When the two men he had driven with came out to collect him from the floor of the car, Johnny had to first thank the Virgin Mary for not dropping him in the path of his antagonist again. He doubted he would have survived a third encounter.
Inside looked like a bunch of small apartment units that had never been used. Only a few of the rooms in the whole complex looked lived-in.
"Should we wait for them?" one of the Scubisci regulars had asked once the three of them had done another sweep and had turned up empty.
They were in one of the ground-floor kitchens. It looked to be the only one used in the whole building. A table that was set so close to the floor it looked as if someone had stolen the legs was pushed neatly against one of the walls.
"No way," Johnny Books insisted. He was sweating near the door. "Didja see all those fish tanks downstairs? These guys are heavy-duty weird. Can't we just-I don't know-leave them a nasty note or something?" He gave a hopeful, lopsided smile.
"That old guy was pretty fast," agreed the first man who'd spoken.
The third man in their party, Mikey Skunks, considered. Although he would never admit it, he was a little concerned about the old codger, too.
"Sweet never told us what to do 'xactly," he mused. "Maybe we just gotsta show 'em not to mess wit us no more."
Johnny felt a weight lift from his shoulders. "I'll look for a pen and paper," he enthused. He spotted some on a shelf near the phone and jumped on them.
"No," Skunks insisted as Johnny grabbed up the notebook. Skunks Falcone was examining the gas stove. "It's gotta be a stronger message."
When they finished their work ten minutes later, Johnny Fungillo was still wishing that they'd opted to leave a note. Something with a lot of very cross underlines and angry exclamation points. He was thinking this even as he ran with the others through the downstairs hall of the old church.
All three men were breathing through the tails of their untucked shirts. They passed through the main kitchen and hurried out the side door. The stove in the main kitchen hissed ominously as they ran by.
While Johnny and the other man caught their breath in the parking lot, Skunks went to the trunk of the car. He returned a minute later clutching a Coke can in his big paw. A gasoline-soaked rag hung from the open end.
The two others were climbing in the car even as Mikey Skunks was hauling back. He heaved the gasfilled can through the open door of the kitchen. When flame met hissing gas, the explosion was instantaneous. With a rumbling burst, the entire kitchen erupted in a ball of brilliant fire.
Windows exploded into the parking lot, spraying sparkling shards across their parked car. A wave of heat and flame belched through the open door even as Skunks was jumping into the front seat.
Shocks sank in protest to his weight. Another explosion sounded from deeper inside the church. More breaking windows. Up the short flight of stairs, flames curled up from the open door.
The fire ate a voracious path through the big building. When Skunks slammed his door, the entire first floor was already engulfed in flame.
"Dat's a message." Mikey Skunks nodded surely. His face was cast in weird shadows by the dancing flames.
In the back seat, Johnny Fungillo felt his stomach liquify. Even as the car backed up to turn, he was wishing they'd left a simple note.
Reflected on the back window pane of the accelerating car, lethal licking fingers of flame sought the cold second story of Castle Sinanju.
ONE MINUTE BEFORE Mikey Skunks lobbed his fatal soda can, Remo and Chiun were driving up the long road home.
"You're lucky they didn't call the cops," Remo was complaining.
In the passenger seat, Chiun's face was blandly innocent. "Is generosity now a crime?"
"It is when you try to tip the waitress with blue counterfeit bills."
"I fail to see the difference between my currency and the scraps of green you use," Chiun sniffed. "In fact, mine are superior, for as art they are worth much more than their face value. And by killing their creator, you have made them collector's items."
"You would've had a better time bartering with a six-pack of Billy Beer or an Action Comics number one, Little Father," Remo said. "Next time just leave the check to me."
The old Korean's face was a dark scowl of incomprehension. He was thinking unpleasant thoughts about what constituted art in the Western world when the first small rumble reached their car.
An explosion. Amplified to their highly tuned senses through the compressed air of the moving car's tires.
"You think the city's working on the roads this late at night?" Remo asked, puzzled.
Morose on the seat beside him, Chiun shook his bald head. "Do not ask me," he replied. "I am but a visitor to this backward land."
A succession of soft booms. All from a very specific direction. Behind the wheel, Remo began to feel the first soft knot of concern form deep in his belly.
He saw the reflection of orange flame on the snow-lined street before they'd even reached the corner.
"Oh, no," Remo said, his voice soft with shock. Beside him, the Master of Sinanju's weathered face flashed to instant horror.
"Our home!" the old man cried.
The entire first floor of the remodeled church was already ablaze. Flames threatened the second story. Remo squealed to a stop in front of the building. The Master of Sinanju shot from the front seat like a bullet from a chamber. Arms and legs pumping in furious unison, he attacked the main stairs. Remo sprang around the car, flying in his teacher's wake up the staircase.
"My possessions!" the old man cried.
The front door was closed. One sandaled foot sent it crackling into the foyer. A vicious wall of fire and impenetrable black smoke burst out into the chill night.
Remo ducked back from the flames.
The hallway beyond was completely engulfed. Walls, floor and ceiling formed a hellish path to the staircase. The stairs themselves crackled and burned.
Despite the inferno, the Master of Sinanju pulled in a deep breath.
Remo grabbed him by one bony arm.
"Are you nuts?" he yelled. "You can't go in there!"
"Unhand me!" Chiun shrieked in a voice that was not his own. The old man twisted and pulled, slipping from Remo's grip. Before the younger man could stop him, he'd bounded through the door.
Across the wall of flame, Remo could see the wizened Asian leaping from one burning stair to the next. In a heartbeat, he was gone.
Remo was about to go in after him when he heard the sound of a car door slamming out beside the building. It was followed by a squeal of tires.
Twisting from the burning doorway, Remo sprang down the stairs like a demented grasshopper. He was running before his loafers brushed the icy sidewalk.
Legs pumping in perfect, furious rhythm, he ate up the distance between front and side of the building just in time to see the car speeding across the parking lot.