"Over the top. We used to play on the roof."
"Then we'll go that way."
Remo knew that he and Chiun could have gone right through the front door without being seen, but they couldn't do that with Walter around. This way, all of them could enter the warehouse unnoticed.
"What's the best way to get up there?"
"The next building. Come on."
Walter took them up the steps to the roof of the building next door and then seemed disappointed.
"What's wrong?" Remo asked.
"Well, there used to be this big wooden beam that went from this roof to the roof of the warehouse." He looked around. 'It's not here."
There were at least ten feet separating the two rooftops. Walter said, "We'll never get over there now."
"Of course we will," Chiun said. "There is a plank on the other roof that you can use to get across."
"Yes, but it's on the other roof," Walter said. As he spoke, he turned to face Chiun and did not see Remo easily leap to the roof of the warehouse. Nor did he see Remo pick up the plank and leap back with it. When he turned, the plank was there, in place, bridging the gap between rooftops.
"How did you do that?" he asked, staring at Remo in awe.
"That doesn't matter. Come on, let's get across."
"Uh—"
"What's the matter?"
"This plank is about half the width of that old beam."
"That doesn't matter," Remo said. "Chiun will take you across."
With that, Remo walked across the plank as if it were the width of a city block.
"I can't—" Walter started to say, but Chiun cut him off.
"You can," the old man said. "Come, I'll go with you."
Chiun got up on the plank and put his hand out to the boy. Walter took the hand and stepped up onto the plank.
"Don't look down, right?" he asked.
"Look at the plank," Chiun said. "How wide is it?"
"About six inches."
"Keep your eyes on it. Watch it grow. How wide is it now?" Chiun asked.
Walter Sterling stared in wonderment as the plank appeared to widen. "It's at least eight— no, nine inches wide now."
"You tell me when it's wide enough for you to walk on," Chiun said, "and we'll go."
Walter kept watching the plank, and it seemed to keep widening— to twelve inches, fifteen inches, a foot and a half…
"All right," he said, "let's go. We can't keep Remo waiting forever."
With Chiun walking ahead of him, Walter negotiated the length of the plank flawlessly, until he was standing on the roof of the warehouse.
"Sorry it took us so long," he said to Remo.
"What are you talking about?" Remo asked. "You came over right after I did. Come on, let's get moving."
"This way," Walter said, and led them to a large, heavy metal door. "It's locked."
"Stand back," Remo said.
"That door is inches thick," Walter said to Chiun. "We'll never get it open."
"Let's go," Remo said.
Walter turned to look at him and found that the door was already open. "How did you do that?"
Before Remo could answer, Chiun said, "You will have to learn to stop asking that question."
"Let's go down," Remo said.
Inside the stairway it was pitch black, as it now was outside as well.
"How are we going to see—" Walter began, but Chiun nudged him into silence.
The stairwell let out onto a catwalk, one of many crisscrossing the upper portion of the warehouse.
"Do you see them?" Remo asked.
"See who?" Walter asked.
"Of course I see them," Chiun said.
"See who?" Walter whispered.
"Five," Remo said, "all up here."
"Who?"
"Quiet!" Chiun hissed. "I will take the two nearest," he said to Remo, "you the other three."
They both looked down at the floor below and saw nothing.
"Whoever arranged the meeting hasn't shown up yet. We can get this done before he does," Remo said.
"What do I do?" Walter asked.
"Put your hand out in front of your face," Chiun said. Walter did so. "What do you see?'
"Nothing."
"Does that answer your question?" Remo asked.
Walter dropped his hand, and Chiun said, "Do not move until we get back."
"All right."
They were there, and then suddenly they weren't. Remo and Chiun simply blended into the darkness and were gone.
* * *
Soundlessly, Remo moved up behind the first man and pressed his finger into his back. "Don't make a sound," he said over the man's shoulder.
"Wha—" Jim Burger said.
"Take it easy."
"Okay, okay, just don't shoot, huh, buddy?"
"Shoot? What are you talking about?" Remo asked, jabbing his finger harder against the man's back. "It's just my finger."
"Hey, buddy, don't try to con me, all right?" the man said. "I know steel when I feel it."
"What are you doing here?"
"Waiting."
"Who are you supposed to kill?"
"Huh? Kill? What are you—"
"Don't try to con me, buddy," Remo said, jabbing the man hard. "You're not here to talk."
"Look, pal, I'm not alone."
"I know that. After I take care of you, I'll take care of your friends."
"You won't shoot," the man said with a sudden surge of confidence. "The others would be all over you if you did."
"You're right, I won't shoot," Remo said, "but you're going to be just as dead."
Remo forced his finger forward through the fabric of the man's clothing, where it pierced his skin like the blade of a knife. The man grunted and then slumped back against Remo, who lowered him to the floor of the catwalk.
He eliminated the other two men in similar fashion, leaving all three so that their blood seeped through the grilled floor of the catwalk and dropped down to the warehouse floor below.
When Remo returned to where they had left Walter Sterling, Chiun was already waiting, shaking his head.
"Sloppy technique," he said.
"What happened?" Walter asked.
"I thought it would be a nice touch," Remo said.
"Like the dripping of three faucets," Chiun said. "The sound is offensive to me."
"You have no imagination, Chiun."
Chiun was about to answer when there was a faint sound below. Only he and Remo heard it.
"What did you—" Walter started, but both Remo and Chiun silenced him, and the boy lapsed into an exasperated silence he swore not to break.
They all listened intently, and finally Walter realized what had happened. Someone had entered the warehouse by more conventional means than they had— the front entrance.
Remo and Chiun decided to let the man stew awhile.
Wagner entered the warehouse confidently, certain that all five of his men had him in their sights to protect him. He wondered if the black dealer had arrived yet.
He knew the warehouse pretty well, and he knew where the main switches were. He found them and threw the switch for the lights for the lower half of the warehouse. The upper portion was still swathed in darkness, which was fine by him. That would make it easy for his men to remain unseen.
Checking his watch, he saw that it was ten minutes past the time of the meeting. Where was that black bastard, anyway?
He started to wander around the floor, wondering what Moorcock would think about filling this place with drugs. How much would a warehouse full of H be worth, anyway? Billions?
As he was walking, he suddenly slipped on something slick and almost fell. Cursing, he looked down at his shoe and found something red staining the bottom. He looked behind him and saw that he had stepped into a puddle of blood. As he watched, another drop fell, and then another and another. He could actually hear them. Suddenly, he became aware of similar sounds coming from other areas. He found two other pudd
les of blood, also leaking from the catwalk.
"What the hell—"
"Effective, don't you think?" a voice behind him asked.
He turned so quickly that he stepped into a blood puddle and fell on his behind. From the floor he stared up at the man looking down at him— a white man with dark hair.
"Who the hell are you? Where'd you come from?"
"I came from up there," Remo said, pointing up. "And I think you already know who I am."
"Y-you're the guy—"
"Right, I'm the guy."
"Where's the… the black guy? The dealer? Where's Danny the Man?"
"Speaking from past experience, he's probably home making some little lovely earn her candy."
"What— I was supposed to meet him here."
"Alone, right?"
"Of course."
"Then you don't know anything about the five dead men on the catwalk?"
"Five men on the catwalk?" Wagner said. "I told some of them— wait a minute. Five dead men up on the catwalk?"
"Either that, or they've got really bad bloody noses," Remo said, looking down at the widening puddle of blood.
"Uh," Wagner said, getting slowly to his feet, "uh, no, I don't know anything about—"
"All right, let's forget about the dead men," Remo said.
"Good. I'll just be going—"
"You came here to meet someone, my friend," Remo said, "and that someone is me."
"You?"
"Yeah, we've got some things to talk about."
"Like what?"
"Like drugs."
"I don't know nothing about drugs."
"And I don't know anything about putting out a newspaper," Remo said, "but I used to sell them when I was a kid."
"Look, pal," Wagner said. "I'm leaving, and there's nothing you can do to stop me."
"Wanna bet?"
Wagner suddenly remembered that he had a .38 under his left arm and pulled it out. "Move out of my way," he said.
"Sorry."
"You're going to be even sorrier," Wagner said, and he pulled the trigger.
The gun went off with a deafening blast, but the man was still standing there.
He couldn't have missed.
"Try it again," the man suggested.
Wagner pulled the trigger again, and the only thing that happened was that the man was suddenly closer to him instead of falling down dead.
"That's impossible."
"I'd like to let you keep trying until you get it right, but we really don't have time for that," Remo said. He closed the distance between himself and the man, took the gun away, and twisted it like a pretzel.
"Here," he said, giving it back. "Let's talk."
"What do you want to know?"
"I want you to confirm a suspicion I have that Lorenzo Moorcock is the man behind this whole kiddie drug system. Am I right?"
"This could get me killed."
"Would you like to go up on the catwalk?"
"No!"
"I'm sure your friends would love to have you join them."
"That's okay," Wagner said, wishing that the damned nigger had shown up instead of this dude.
"Then tell me about Moorcock."
"He set up the whole operation. He used his political contacts to get it started."
"Where do the drugs come from?"
"Iran."
"Why Iran?"
"Well, he had plenty of Iranian supporters when he was in politics. The Iranians feel they're contributing to the downfall of the United States by supplying Moorcock with the drugs."
"But the drugs are brought in by Mexicans, isn't that so?"
"Yeah, but see, the Iranians fly to Mexico City, where they turn the stuff over to some Mexican diplomats, then the diplomats fly here to Detroit to see how cars are made."
"But they also stop at the Church of Modern-day Beliefs."
"Right, and they drop the stuff off there."
Wagner seemed to be warming to his subject. He was really quite impressed with Moorcock's operation. And if talking about it would keep him alive, it was fine with him.
"Where is the stuff processed?"
"We step on it right there, in the basement. We got a regular factory down there."
"And then it's doled out to the kids to sell on the streets, right?"
"Yeah, right."
"Kids like Billy Martin and Walter Sterling?"
"Yeah, them and others."
"By 'others', you mean kids whose fathers work in automobile factories?"
"Just some of them. We don't need too many."
"What's their end of it?"
"That's the beautiful part," Wagner said. "They hide the stuff in the fender wells of the cars, and then somebody at the other end picks it up. It works like a charm."
"So what went wrong?"
"Wrong?"
"Why did Billy Martin kill his parents?"
"That was the kid's own doing," Wagner said. "He said his father was starting to get nervous about the drug money and was gonna talk to the cops."
"So why'd he kill his mother too?"
Wagner shrugged and said, "Maybe she woke up at the wrong time, or maybe the old man confided in her. Hell, maybe the kid just wanted to use the opportunity to get rid of both of them at one time."
"And then what happened to him?"
"Well, when he got caught, we figured he'd talk his head off to help himself, so Moorcock gave the order to have him killed."
"After he was bailed out."
"Right. I had one of my boys call that lawyer and make the arrangements to get him out, and then a few of the boys took care of him."
"Who blew up my car?"
Wagner fidgeted on that one. "Well, I went to the rental office and got your name and your hotel and then sent in one of the men to plant the explosive."
"One of the men up on the catwalk?"
Wagner looked up nervously and said, "Yeah, a guy named Jim Burger."
"Good," Remo said. "I'd hate to leave that little bit of business unfinished."
"Can I go now?"
"No, not just yet, my friend. Shipping the drugs in the cars couldn't be going on at the plant without somebody in authority being in on it. Who is it?"
Wagner frowned and said, "All we needed was the foreman on the assembly line, and we bought him dirt cheap. They don't pay their workers all that much."
"Boffa."
"Right."
"Then he must have killed Louis Sterling."
"Right again."
A cool customer, that foreman, Remo thought. He must have just killed Sterling and then calmly shown Remo where the body was.
"And that's it?" Remo asked. "That's all you can tell me?"
"What else do you want to know?"
"Who makes the pickups at the other end of the car shipments?" Remo asked.
"That I don't know," Wagner said. "I only know the Detroit end of the business. Moorcock is the only one who knows the whole operation."
"Is that so?"
The cold look in the man's dark eyes sent a chill through Wagner's body, and he knew that he'd just signed his own death warrant unless he could talk his way out of it. "Of course, I could always find out for you," he said quickly. "I could go back to the church and—"
"Forget it, pal."
"No, really, I wouldn't mind—" Wagner stammered, but he could see that it was too late.
"I think it's time for you to join your friends."
"Up on the catwalk?"
"No," Remo said, reaching out for the man's throat. "In hell."
Chiun took Walter Sterling out the way they had come and met Remo in front of the warehouse.
"What about all those men?" Walter asked.
"They won't be coming out," Remo said.
"You killed them all?"
"They would have tried to kill us," Chiun said. "Do not feel sorry for them."
"What are we gonna do now? Go to the police?"
"Not yet," Remo said. "W
e're going to pay a visit to Mr. Moorcock, and then tomorrow we'll go to the plant and take care of the man who killed your father."
"You know who killed my father?"
"I do."
"Tell me."
"I'll show you… tomorrow, Walter."
They grabbed a cab and took it back to the hotel, where they put Walter Sterling to sleep on the couch.
"Want to go to church?" Remo asked.
"I have a suggestion," Chiun said.
"Let me have it if it's clean."
"Let us wait until morning before we go to the church."
"But that would give Moorcock time to get his shipment to the National Motors factory."
"Correct. We will take care of the factory under the church and then call the police to meet us at National Motors. By the time they arrive, we will have taken care of that too, and we will also have drugs to prove that we stopped a drug shipment."
"I like that," Remo said.
"It will be your job to stay in touch with Detective Palmer."
"Palmer? What for?"
Chiun made a face. "Someone must clean up," he said.
"Hasn't Donald returned yet?" Moorcock asked the man who was standing by the basement door.
"No, sir."
"Has he called?"
"No, sir."
"Donald is supposed to take the shipment over to Boffa at the plant in the morning."
"I can do that, sir. Or one of the others."
"It's Donald's job," Moorcock said with a worried frown. "Something's gone wrong with his meeting with that black dealer. Did he say where the meeting was to take place?"
The other man looked confused because he assumed that Moorcock would know that, and said, "Uh, no, sir, he didn't tell me."
"I suppose I should have paid more attention…. All right, Samuel, I guess if Donald doesn't return, you will have to make the trip to the plant."
"Yes, sir, I will."
"And if Donald doesn't return by tomorrow, I think that some of our men will have to pay a visit to Danny Lincoln and find out why. If he has betrayed us, someone will have to make him pay."
"I'd be happy to do it," the man said.
"And if tragedy has befallen Donald, I will need a good man to take his place."
"Yes, sir!"
"Perhaps you would be able to help me find one, Samuel. We will discuss it," Moorcock said, and then started upstairs.
If Samuel hadn't known from personal experience that the minister had no sense of humor, he would have thought that Moorcock was putting him on.
He wished he were.
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