"Safer than you." The voice inside the rags had changed in an instant to one of grating mockery, and in that same instant, a hand flashed out from the folds of filthy cloth. Remo caught the glint of metal as the switchblade sang, arcing, toward him.
Stunned, his reflexes performed the tasks his mind was too confused to follow. He drew back, feeling the whistle of the knife's wake against the skin on his throat. At the same time, one foot jutted upward to shatter the attacker's knife hand. As an extension of the same movement, his left arm swung around to meet the man's neck. It was a killing blow, as all of Remo's automatic moves were, and he watched the head bob once, almost delicately, before the eyes rolled white and the man slid to the floor. It was finished in milli-seconds.
Remo stood, waiting. The room was not empty; he had no need to turn around to know that others were behind him. For Remo, space was a palpable thing. Just as fish can sense the occupancy of their waters, so Remo knew that the silent room had three other people in it, and that those three had not come empty-handed. But there was no real movement from them, nothing but the usual sloppy motions of breathing and shifting weight that most human beings performed without even knowing it, so Remo waited. When they attacked, as he was sure they would, he would be ready. For the moment, though, he wanted to see the man he had killed.
He was young. The sparse beard on his chin was probably in its first growth. Out of the denim jacket he wore, covered with emblems and chrome studs, spilled several packs of matches. The jacket, indeed the whole room, smelled faintly of kerosene.
"Some fun, huh, kid?" Remo said absently to the corpse.
"Watch it. We got a gun," came the inevitable boast from behind him.
Remo turned slowly. He was relieved to see that the others were older than the dead boy. The one holding the pistol, their apparent leader, stepped forward, grinning and wielding the gun with the bravado of an amateur. He was ugly and muscular, and the grime on his face looked as if it had arrived there thirty years before and rested undisturbed since then. The gun in his hand was an old .22 Beretta, well used and discarded by its original owner, from the looks of it.
"We heard you nosing up there on the roof," he said, the arrogant smile baring an incomplete set of bad teeth. "You think you're Mr. Good Citizen or something?"
"Well, something anyway," Remo said.
"I got news for you, Mr. Good Citizen. This fire's ours."
"No kidding. I never would have guessed."
"This here fire's for the oppressed," put in one of the others stolidly.
"Yeah. Nobody should live in slums like this," said the third.
Outside, the fire engines and ambulances pulled to a halt, their sirens winding down to a low cry as the injured tenants screamed in relief and impatience. "You've done good," Remo said. "Now everybody can live on the street."
"Big deal," the leader said. "These buildings should have burned years ago. We just did those slobs down there a favor." His scowl turned into a grim smile. "Plus we got our rocks off. Right, boys?"
"Right," the two behind him agreed.
Smoke was pouring in from a crack in the far side of the ceiling, well away from the hole Remo had made when he entered. "Uh, listen, fellas..." he began.
"You listen, shithead!" the leader shouted.
Remo rolled his eyes. "Take your time, pal. But you might want to know that the roof's going to give." His eyes wandered back to the spot in the ceiling behind the men, where the smoke was jetting out in a thin black stream.
The leader smiled. "That's an old trick. There's nothing burning back there."
"I said the roof was going to give. The burning'll come after."
"How do you know?" asked one of the others.
"I can feel the vibrations from the beams," Remo said.
"Very funny. What do you take me for, a fool?"
Remo shrugged. "I wouldn't take you to a public trough."
"Shut up!" the leader yelled, his eyes glowing. "Now you listen and you listen good." He spoke with a whispered intensity. "Those cops down there are going to want somebody to pin this on. And it ain't going to be us, get it?"
"Heaven forbid," Remo said. "Then you wouldn't be free to start another fire down the street."
"You're catching on."
"The roof's going to give," Remo reminded him.
"Look, jerk, that roof crap didn't work before, and it's not going to work now, see?"
"Just trying to be Mr. Good Citizen."
"Well, you're going to get your chance, right, boys?"
"Yeah," one of the men said in a nasal twang as he stuffed his index finger into one nostril. "A chance to keep us out of jail." The three laughed uproariously.
"Here's what you do. First, we go up on the roof—"
"The roof won't be here in another thirty seconds," Remo said.
"The next roof, stupid. I got a can of kerosene all ready for you."
"Use it yourself," Remo said. "It's wonderful for cutting through grease and grime."
"Then Junior's going to kill you."
Junior swung a baseball bat from behind his back, grinning delightedly.
"Then we stick the can of kerosene in your hands and push you off. One dead arsonist for the pigs."
"Oh," Remo said. "I thought you wanted me to do something hard."
"Get over there," the leader said, shoving Remo toward the hole in the ceiling. "I'm going first. Then you, smart mouth, and don't try any funny stuff, 'cause Junior'll be right behind you."
"Junior's never going to make it," Remo said.
"The roof?"
Remo nodded.
"We'll take our chances," the leader said disgustedly, climbing out onto the roof.
Three seconds later the first section of the roof collapsed.
The leader scrambled clumsily to the edge as the screams of the trapped men died beneath the falling timber. He remained there for a moment, frozen, trying to decide whether to check on the others or run. He opted for running.
"They're all dead anyway," he muttered as he pulled himself across the gap of sky between one building and the next. The firemen below would be too busy battling the flames to chase after him. He could crawl down the fire escape and lose himself in the crowd of displaced tenants on the sidewalks. No one would catch on. And the bodies on the top floor would tell the story about who set the fires.