In his country mansion in Colorado, Hutch Pummel was in an uncharacteristically poor mood. He was not so naïve as to believe setbacks could not happen — during his long life, he had suffered many.
“But this was such an absolute cock-up,” he fumed. He paced back and forth at the head of the ridiculously long table. Cheryl Sparks kept silent, afraid to be noticed, lest she become a target of Pummel’s wrath. Kirk Ehrlichman sat at attention, having rushed to the mansion first, not daring to risk being absent.
“This would never have happened if I’d —” Hal Bluntman was cut off quickly by a hard glance from Pummel. Then his gaze softened.
“No,” he said. “This is none of your fault. This was the Janos brothers’ play. And when I see those failures again — and believe me, I will — I am going to…”
“I believe you.”
Everyone turned to face the entrance of the great meeting room. The doors were closed, though nobody had heard them shut.
A man stood in front of them. He was of a slender build, with deep-set eyes, and he wore a tight black t-shirt and matching chinos.
“Who the devil are you?” Pummel asked. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter.” He walked to an electronic box at the head of the table and pressed a button. “Henry? We have an intruder.” He waited a second, then pressed it again. “Henry?”
“Henry couldn’t make it,” the man said, walking up the side of the room. “But I’m here. I’m Remo, by the way. And you’ve been a very bad boy.”
Hutch Pummel drew himself up to his full stature. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Remo grinned. “Sure you do,” he said. “And I’m not even talking about your little over-the-top assassination plot you staged in Arlington. Nice plan, by the way. No evidence of it being anything more than a freak accident. As a pro, I’ve got to tip my hat to you. It really was inspired.” He paused for a moment before he continued. “No, I’m here about all of it.” He swept his arms out, indicating the room in general. “The whole long game — overthrowing the United States. That’s not something I can allow.”
“Oh, really,” Pummel said with a forced laugh. “And just what makes you think I want to overthrow the government? I’m a respected businessman. I’m a billionaire, for Christ’s sake. Why would I want to give up all my power to lead this pitiful country?”
The man in black shook his head. “‘Pitiful?’ See, that just tells me you don’t get it,” Remo said. “It’s not pitiful. It’s beautiful. Everyone can do just about anything they want. We have freedoms. We have rights.”
Kirk Ehrlichman snorted derisively. “Rights!” he said.
Remo looked down at Ehrlichman. “Yeah,” he said. “Rights. For instance, I have the right to swing my fist…”
“I know that old canard,” Ehrlichman said. “You have the right to swing your fist, but that right ends at the tip of my —”
Kirk Ehrlichman cried out in pain as Remo’s fist crunched into the middle of his face, his nostrils exploding with blood. Contessa Schilling screeched as the spray graffitied a crimson pattern across her six hundred dollar blouse.
“Hey!” Ehrlichman cried out. “You can’d do dad!”
“You see,” Remo addressed the rest of the room. “I’m the exception that protects the rule.”
Pummel gave Remo an appraising look. “What agency are you with, son?” he asked. “Whatever they’re paying you, I can triple it. A man with your skills could go far.”
“I don’t work for anyone you’ve heard of,” Remo said.
“So, not FBI?” Pummel asked, grinning. “Not law enforcement of any kind? My friend, you’ve made so many mistakes I don’t have time to even list them all. You’ve violated our due process. You wouldn’t dare go to news agencies, or you’d expose yourself, and your agency.” He walked straight up to Remo until the two men stood inches apart. “Just exactly what was the plan here, Remo?” he asked. “You have all this so-called information on us, and nothing you can do with it. So tell me, Remo. Tell me what happens next.”
Remo returned a grim smile. His dead eyes glinted under his brow.
“I do.”
· · ·
Fifteen minutes later, Remo sat on the side of a green hill, watching the smoke curl skyward from the collapsing remains of Pummel’s country mansion. First responders would have come to Pummel’s aid in minutes if he had called them.
He had not. He could not.
Nobody could.
They were all dead.
And Remo felt good.
· · ·
In his office at Folcroft Sanitarium, Dr. Harold W. Smith entered the last bits of information into the CURE computer. The blinking red icon stopped blinking, faded to white, and then shrank from the screen, becoming yet another file in the archives.
It was an audacious plan, Smith thought. Almost as audacious as the plan a long-ago President had put into motion when he conceived CURE. And the after-effects of it would plague the country for months to come, if not years. Maybe even forever.
Smith shuddered. They had come dangerously close to sparking a new civil war, and the American people still had deep philosophical divides. Future clashes, even bloodshed, were still extremely likely.
Smith sighed, then abruptly stood up, took his coat and hat from their place on their hooks, and closed his office door, turning the lights off behind him. He felt the weight of time upon him, and wanted nothing more than to be at home, and at peace.
He hoped the country would at least last the night.