"You told me that we were married in a former life. How many wives in former lives have you had, anyway?"
"That was a different past life. That was during the French Revolution. But Princess Sinanchu and I ruled Atlantis together. Don't you see how much higher that is, karma-wise?"
"No, I don't, and how do you know this stuff, anyway?"
"It's kismet. You got to trust me."
"I did trust you, you temporal two-timer!"
"Baby, just get a grip on yourself. Go inside and do some Yoga breathing exercises like I taught you."
"Then what?"
"You can pack."
"Pack!"
"You can take your time. Just be gone by noon. Okay? Don't make this hard on yourself."
"What about our past life together? Doesn't that mean anything?"
"I forgot to tell you that we got divorced in that life. I didn't want to mention it before because, sentimental me, I thought we could work it out in this one. But now that Princess Sinanchu has found me, I know that it was never meant to be. But take comfort in the true knowledge that we've improved each other's journey through life in these few months together."
"You mean I've improved yours, you ... you bastard!" Glinda turned on her heel and stalked through the open door. She slammed it after her, cracking the glass.
"And, Glinda, baby, on your way out, could you cancel today's appointments?"
Chapter 2
His name was Remo, and he was collecting heads.
It was not as difficult as it sounded. True, the heads that he was collecting were firmly attached to the necks of their owners, and the necks held to muscular torsos by strong tendon and nerves. And the nerves were in turn connected to nervous hands and itchy trigger fingers that rested on the firing levers of a collection of vicious weapons ranging from stubby Uzi machine guns to rocket-propelled grenade launchers. But for Remo Williams, slipping around the perimeter of the self-sufficient solar-powered log cabin deep in the Wisconsin woods, harvesting heads was as easy as picking blackberries, but not nearly as much fun.
For one thing, you could eat blackberries. Remo had no such intentions today.
Remo carried two of the heads by their hair. His fingers felt greasy from an assortment of hair oils. The oils were clogging his pores and their petroleum poisons were leaching into his system. He switched hands and wiped the free one on his black chinos. He had to hold the heads off to one side so the dripping blood didn't spatter on his shoes.
Blackberries didn't drip blood either. That was another downside.
One of the upsides was that people didn't have thorns. But they did have weapons.
Remo saw another guard, a shotgun sagging in the crook of one arm, pause by a thicket to light a cigar. He had virile black hair that gleamed like an oil slick and Remo's cruel face got a disgusted look on it. At this rate, he'd soon have both hands full. It was an unpleasant thought.
Crouching, Remo set his trophies on the ground. He noticed that one eye of one of them had popped open. He shut it.
Then he waited while the cigar smoker drifted in his direction.
It was a clear cloudless day. Yet the guard did not see Remo, even though Remo crouched three inches in front of him. He did not see Remo because Remo was trained not to be seen. And the guard was only trained to watch the skies for helicopters.
When he was hired to protect the life of the man in the log cabin, the guard was told that he would be assigned to the middle ring. The outer ring, he was informed, was posted to take care of ground threats. No vehicle or ground force could get past the outer ring, he was assured. But the outer ring might not neutralize a helicopter on the first try. That was his job. He asked about the inner ring, and was told never to step beyond his defense perimeter without checking with The Man by radio.
So he smoked and watched the skies, less concerned about helicopters than getting skin cancer from standing out in the open like this six days a week.
Like many people, he worried about the wrong things. While his eyes were on the broiling sun, he did not hear Remo Williams rise up from the thicket like a ghost from its grave. Nor did he sense the open hand that swept out for his skull.
He felt the other hand on his opposite side only because Remo wanted him to. Remo needed to steady the man's torso-otherwise there would be a mess. He wanted the head intact, not exploded.
"Wha-?" the man started to say. Actually, he barely got the W out. He reacted to the unexpected touch on his right, and with his attention properly diverted, the other hand slapped his head clean off his neck.
Pop!
Remo backpedaled with the head in his hands, knowing that exposed necks usually spurted like fountains. This one was no exception. The body collapsed and fed the flowers with its most precious fluid.
It was that easy. And now Remo had three heads. Number four was a short guy. He carried two Uzis, one in each fist, like he expected to use them at any second. The short ones were like that, Remo thought. In all his years in the game of violence, as a Marine, as a cop, and now as an assassin, there was one constant. Short guys were always trigger-happy. There should be a height requirement for gun ownership. Anyone under five-foot-seven could not own a pistol or rifle. They were psychologically unfit.
For that reason, Remo took an extra precaution with the short one. He sneaked up behind him and yanked his arms back. They broke at the shoulder. As the Uzis fell onto the grass, Remo slapped this way and that and the head bounced into his arms.
Four heads now. Upstairs said there would be six guards in all. Six would be a good, convincing number. At least he hoped that Pedro Ramirez, AKA The Man, and the owner of the log cabin, would be convinced after he eliminated all six guards. It would be nice, although not mandatory, if Remo didn't also have to eliminate Pedro Ramirez.
Pedro Ramirez was convinced something was wrong. He sat in the den of his cabin, the sun roof showering him in golden sunshine, thinking that this was better than Miami. But anything was better than Miami, where rivals would whack you while you sunned yourself on your own frigging porch. Whatever the problem, it was fixable.
He grabbed the mike of the portable radio set. The guards were under orders to check in at three-minute intervals in rotation. That way Pedro knew within three minutes, tops, if he had a security problem. Usually sooner, because the perimeter was staked with concealed video cameras. They fed the banks of screens that were duplicated on every inner wall of the cabin. That way, no matter which wall Pedro Ramirez faced, he had his eye on things.
"Santander, come in," he barked into the microphone. He was as brown as an old shoe. Not unusual. Most people who grew up in Peru were richly colored. Most people who grew up in Peru grew up dirt poor and were buried in Peru. Pedro Ramirez might have been buried in Peru, except for the magic coca leaf. It had made him rich. And its derivative, crack, had made him powerful.
He was so powerful that although the authorities of virtually every American and European nation had issued warrants for his arrest, and business rivals had contracts on his brawn skin, he was still able to set up housekeeping in the heart of the nation that most wanted him.
"Santander! Bandrillo! Paeo! Sangre de Cristo, someone answer. "
Pedro shot a glance at the video screen. There was no sign of trouble, no unusual movement. Was that good or not? He decided not. At least one of his guards should have strolled on camera by now.
"Pablo! Zenjora!" he yelled. "Madre de Dios!" Over the radio he heard a peculiar sound.
His brown forehead wrinkled. He could not place the sound. It was not a gunshot. It did not possess that popping firecracker quality that denies its deadliness. This was not an explosive sound. It was more ... meaty.
Remo Williams picked up the sixth and final head. He had to kneel to do it, and catch a loop of hair with his pinky. The other fingers of both hands were occupied with other loops of hair.
It was awkward, carrying three heads in each hand so that they did not bleed all over him, but for what Remo wanted to do, it would be worth it. Especially with the cigarette lighter he had taken off the body of the late cigar-smoking guard.
Remo ghosted past a video camera concealed in a hollow of a dead oak. Even if Upstairs had not briefed him about the camera's location, Remo would have spotted it. It was so obvious. The entire thirty-acre area surrounding the solar-powered log cabin was immaculately groomed. A dead oak tree in the middle meant that it had a purpose other than being a former tree.
Remo stopped at the edge of what Upstairs had, in the briefing, called the inner ring. Remo dropped to one knee and pulled a water-soluble folded map from a back pocket. It showed the location of every buried antipersonnel mine in the inner ring.
The trouble was, Upstairs had forgotten to draw compass points on the map.
"Damn Smith!" Remo muttered, turning the map every which way. He tried to align the map with the dead oak tree. When he thought he had it, he tucked the map into his back pocket and gathered up the six heads. The hairtonic smell was getting to him.