“…and the shortage of fossil fuels has seriously hurt the West’s economy…” Remo snapped it off. The intended place was a place of dead animals. But where?
And then it came, spurred by the radio broadcast. Fossil fuels. Of course. The place of dead animals was an oil field. Remo dropped the note and ran downstairs. Moments later he was in a taxicab.
The driver looked at Remo’s face, drawn tight with anger and fear for Chiun, then looked at the spot on the dashboard where his meter had been until it was removed by an aged Oriental several hours before.
“Do not tell me, sir. You wish to go to our oil fields, correct?”
“Drive,” Remo said.
· · ·
If he could have climbed higher he would have, but he could not, and so now Nuihc hung from the very top of the oil derrick, looking down in fear at Chiun, who stood eighty-five feet below him, his arms folded across his chest.
“The most timid squirrel always seeks the most high branch,” Chiun said.
“Be gone,” called Nuihc. “We are members of the House. We have no quarrel.”
“I go,” said Chiun. “Yet, hear this. The white man, Remo, is the true heir of Sinanju. Count yourself lucky that he did not come today to meet your challenge. He would not have treated you so kindly.”
Nuihc clung to the top of the derrick. The old man would go; Nuihc need only wait. He would live to fight another day.
He watched Chiun slowly unfold his arms below.
Then Chiun drew back his right hand and smashed it against the complex of valves, pipes, and gears at the base of the derrick.
Nuihc heard before he saw. A hiss and then a deep throated rumble. And then far below him, he saw the first bubble of slick black oil slip from the piping Chiun had ruptured, and then it turned into a frothy plume and it was growing stronger and louder, and it surged suddenly into the air, and then it was on him, and the oil choked him and coated him, and its pressure grew greater and greater as the gusher buffeted him, and then his oil-coated hands could hold no longer and he felt them slip, and then he was being carried away from the derrick, high into the sky atop the black chimney of oil.
Chiun looked up from below and saw Nuihc’s body carried high into the sky by the eruption of oil. It seemed to bounce atop the black stream for a few moments, before it was flung out into the air, far off into the sand, and the tons of oil arched softly and began to pour down on Nuihc’s body.
Chiun watched a moment, then folded his arms again and walked away from the derrick, across the now oil-filled sand arena toward the thin black road that led back to Dapoli.
Remo saw the frail black-clad figure walking slowly along the road, and ordered the cab driver to stop. The cabdriver recognized his fare from before and groaned, but he quickly braked the aged car.
Remo pushed open the back door.
“Chiun,” he called anxiously. “Are you all right?”
Chiun looked up at him blandly. “I sleep well. I am well fed. I exercise daily. Why would I not be all right?” He slid past Remo into the backseat and Remo got in behind him, slamming the door.
“Back to town,” he told the driver, then turned to look at Chiun. The old man’s eyes were closed and a look of peace was on his face.
“Did you have any trouble?” asked Remo.
“Why should I have had any trouble?” asked Chiun, his eyes still closed.
By the time they reached Dapoli he was snoring.
About the Authors
WARREN MURPHY was born in Jersey City, where he worked in journalism and politics until launching the Destroyer series with Richard Sapir in 1971. A screenwriter (Lethal Weapon II, The Eiger Sanction) as well as a novelist, Murphy’s work has won a dozen national awards, including multiple Edgars and Shamuses. He has lectured at many colleges and universities, and is currently offering writing lessons at his website, warrenmurphy.com. A Korean War veteran, some of Murphy’s hobbies include golf, mathematics, opera, and investing. He has served on the board of the Mystery Writers of America, and has been a member of the Screenwriters Guild, the Private Eye Writers of America, the International Association of Crime Writers, and the American Crime Writers League. He has five children: Deirdre, Megan, Brian, Ardath, and Devin.
RICHARD BEN SAPIR was a New York native who worked as an editor and in public relations before creating the Destroyer series with Warren Murphy. Before his untimely death in 1987, Sapir had also penned a number of thriller and historical mainstream novels, best known of which were The Far Arena, Quest and The Body, the last of which was made into a film. The book review section of the New York Times called him “a brilliant professional.”
Also by Warren Murphy
The Destroyer Series (#1-25)
Created, The Destroyer
Death Check
Chinese Puzzle
Mafia Fix
Dr. Quake
Death Therapy
Union Bust
Summit Chase
Murder’s Shield
Terror Squad
Kill or Cure
Slave Safari
Acid Rock
Judgment Day
Murder Ward
Oil Slick
Last War Dance
Funny Money
Holy Terror
Assassin’s Playoff
Deadly Seeds
Brain Drain
Child’s Play
King’s Curse
Sweet Dreams
The Trace Series
Trace
And 47 Miles of Rope
When Elephants Forget
Pigs Get Fat
Once a Mutt
Too Old a Cat
Getting up with Fleas
Copyright
This digital edition of Oil Slick (v1.0) was published in 2013 by Gere Donovan Press.
If you downloaded this book from a filesharing network, either individually or as part of a larger torrent, the author has received no compensation. Please consider purchasing a legitimate copy—they are reasonably priced, and available from all major outlets. Your author thanks you.
Copyright © 2012 by Warren Murphy
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons—living or dead—events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Errata
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