The car spun at the next intersection and came back around, trailing acrid rubber smoke. This time the gun muzzles protruded from the opposite side. They stuttered, breaking more windows and chewing up a doghouse dormer along the roofline.
"Damn it," Remo said, stepping off the curb. The car was tearing toward him, the driver's eyes wide as saucers. Remo crouched, released his coiled leg muscles and spun up into the air.
The car slithered under him. Remo reached out, snagged the chrome windshield trim with one hand and let his body become one with the machine's hurtling speed.
Like a human suction cup, Remo lay flat against the roof when the sedan took the corner onto Hancock, tires complaining, straightening out for the dead run toward nearby Boston. And he wasn't unnoticed.
Gun muzzles started angling up from the open windows to nail him. Remo stayed flat. Two wild shots passed over his dark hair. Through an ear pressed to the roof, he could hear the snap and snarl of excited voices. He didn't recognize the language, but it sure wasn't English.
With casual kicks he thwarted the aiming guns. He didn't need to understand their language to know they were cursing him in their frustration.
As the car whipped around the approach to the Neponset River Bridge, Remo decided everyone needed a bath except him.
Pulling forward, he slapped the windshield with one palm. It starred, spiderwebbed and became as opaque as frost. The car began weaving. The passengers tried to nail him again. One opened the door and pulled himself half out of the interior. Someone held on to his waist to keep him from falling.
Remo knocked him out with a snap-kick to the temple.
The gunman's limp form was hauled in, but not before the impact of his wobbly-necked skull on the moving road painted a new dividing line with the greater portion of his brains.
At that point the gunmen had had enough. They braked the car and all four doors opened. Remo batted back every head that popped out, dropped to the ground and cold-welded every door shut by a hard, sudden application of his bare hands to the locks.
Then he went to work on the roof. It was hard metal, but under Remo's jackhammer hands it began to cave in and flatten. At that point the gunmen started feeling the roof bang the tops of their skulls and realized that getting the doors open was more important than they had thought.
But it was too late. Remo had the roofline down to the level of their shoulders, and exiting the vehicle became a lost opportunity.
There was a brief burst of gunfire. A few ugly holes appeared here and there, but mostly the bullets ricocheted, producing interior screams.
Someone yelled what sounded like "Fang Tung!" And a distinct slap of reproach came.
By then, Remo was feeling around the battered roof to home in on any sensation of warmth. When he sensed a head, he brought his fist down until the coconut-cracking sound told him he hadn't missed. He did this four times.
When all was still inside, Remo bent and took hold of the chassis with both hands. He heaved upward.
The sedan rolled onto its side and landed on the walkway of the bridge. A simple push set it to leaning against the concrete buttress.
It was a simple matter after that to work it up on the buttress until it was poised precariously, and the exertion of Remo's pinky finger tipped it into the water, where everyone could enjoy a final bath. Except Remo.
The police were pulling up as Remo walked away, trying to look casual and hoping no one had grabbed his fish.
Chiun met Remo at the door, whose glass now lay broken on the walk. But Chiun was dancing.
"This is terrible," Remo said, surveying the damage.
"It is wonderful," Chiun squeaked, clapping joyous hands together.
"What's so wonderful about a drive-by shooting?"
"It means we are feared."
Remo blinked. "You think those guys were out to nail us?"
"No. They obviously sought the life of the Master of Sinanju. They do not know or care about you."
"Thanks a bunch. What I meant was, what the heck was that all about?"
"The word has gone out to every keep and castle, Casbah and redoubt. Sinanju seeks a new emperor. Many are the nations that covet my services, few are they who can afford these services. Those who cannot bid know they will not sleep safely in their bedchambers should their enemies succeed in securing Sinanju for their own. We are feared, Remo. Just as in the old days." The old Korean grabbed Remo's thick wrist eagerly. "Quickly! Did you see their faces?"
"No. But they won't be coming back."
"Why not?"
"I turned them into sardines."
Chiun looked aghast. His hands clapped together in concern. "The fish! My bass was not injured?"
Remo lifted the white-wrapped packet. "Not a scratch. And it's not bass. I got salmon."
"I will accept salmon if the eyes are not evil."
"Check it out. Meanwhile, we gotta do something about those windows. Half our glass is shot out."
"A small price to pay for the compliment rendered."
"At least they won't be back."
"Never fear," Chiun said happily. "There will be more just like those. This is a joyous day, for Sinanju has not been forgotten. We are feared, therefore we are coveted. More, we are needed."
An hour later repairmen were finishing tacking the temporary plastic covers over the windows, and Remo was explaining for the millionth time to the Quincy police that it was a random drive-by shooting and not targeted at them specifically.
"We don't have drive-by shootings in this city," an officer said. "Random or not."
"Look, there's just the two of us living here. Only my—" Remo groped for a plausible word.
"Master," Chiun called from the other room.
"Master?" said the cop.
"He's a martial-arts instructor. He's teaching me stuff."
"Can you break a board with your hand?"
"He has not progressed that far," Chiun called out. "Only in breaking windows with his thick head." And the Master of Sinanju cackled loudly at his own jest.
"So it had nothing to do with us," Remo finished. "Okay?"
The cop put away his notebook. "Until the bodies are identified, that'll have to be it. But we'll be in touch."
"Thanks," said Remo, showing the officer out.
When he returned to the kitchen, Chiun was patting his papery lips with a linen cloth.
"How was the salmon?" asked Remo.
"Acceptable."
Remo looked at the low taboret that served as a table. The entire salmon skeleton lay on a silver platter, picked clean.
"Where's mine?"
"Consumed."
"You ate my fish!"
"You were otherwise occupied. I knew you would not wish to eat it cold. Rather than see it go to waste, I finished the unfortunate salmon."
"What about me?"
Chiun's eyes twinkled. "There is rice aplenty. Eat your fill."
"Cold rice."
"Steamed rice can be steamed back to life. You will suffer no hunger pangs this night, for you are fed by the bounty that is Sinanju."
As he dumped the rice back into the steamer and added water, Remo said, "What happens if more killers blow into town?"
"They will fail, of course, striking fear into their masters. It will be excellent advertising."
"I don't mean that. How many times can this place be hit before the police figure out we're not just ordinary citizens?"
"It does not matter, for tonight we depart."
"For where?" Remo asked.
"Rome."
"Rome?"
"Rome was the America of its time. We have had an intriguing communication from Rome."
"Italy has had something like fifty governments since World War II. They're broke, unstable and I don't speak the language."