Remo looked back at the screens. The message was clear to his sensitive eyes. Timed to pulse with the hypnotic flashes of light. Remo, kill Chiun.
The original concern that he'd had back at the Harlem police station had been borne out. Either due to age or years of television viewing, Chiun's eyes weren't focused enough to make out the subliminal commands.
"Trust me, it's there," Remo insisted. "And you don't wanna know what it says. Now let's get out of here before-" His voice grew small. "Oh, crap."
"What is wrong?" asked the Master of Sinanju, peeved. He followed Remo's gaze to the televisions.
"Chiun, don't!" Remo shouted, jumping forward. But it was too late. Before Remo could stop him, the old Korean had turned his attention back to the screens.
The hypnotic colors continued to pulse on all the televisions. Buried within the colors was a new command. Chiun, kill Remo.
The room grew very still. With agonizing slowness, Remo turned his worried gaze to the Master of Sinanju. An odd blankness had settled on the old man's wrinkled face.
Chiun stared at the screens, mesmerized. His almond-shaped eyes were unblinking. He didn't move so much as a millimeter. Even his tufts of yellowing-white hair seemed to still in the eddies of recirculated office air.
Very, very slowly, Remo took a half step back. "Chiun?" he asked cautiously.
With a terrible quiet suffusing his entire being, the Master of Sinanju turned to his pupil. The instant their eyes locked, the old man's arms became twin blurs. Fingernails honed to razor-sharp talons flew in slashing strokes at Remo's exposed throat.
Before the nails could slice soft flesh, Remo dropped backward. As Chiun's nails clicked viciously at empty air, Remo's back was brushing the floor.
Palms flattened against the carpet. Up and over. Spinning in air like a coiled spring, Remo flipped away from Chiun, landing on his feet near the bank of TV screens.
Chiun sprang after him. Hands clenched in knots of furious bone lashed out, left, right, left.
TV screens blew apart one after another.
Remo danced just ahead of each blow. Glass screens exploded glittering dust shards into the office. The bank of TVs ended in a tight corner. Remo flipped and rolled, back against the wall.
Chiun twirled through settling glass. Beneath the blank veneer, his eyes held a frenzied glint.
Calves tensing, his sandals left the floor.
The old man flew at Remo again, in flight a furious cry rising up from the depths of his belly. Crushing heels made a beeline for Remo's exposed chest.
The instant before the heels could crack his sternum to pulpy shards, Remo dropped.
The Master of Sinanju's momentum threw the old man into the wall. Paneling splintered and flew apart. The impact shattered sandstone from the building's outer wall. Pebbled shards fell like hard rain to Sixth Avenue.
Remo was up from his crouch before the first stone hit the street. As Chiun twisted and dropped back to his feet, Remo was already springing forward. "Sorry, Little Father," Remo whispered.
A darting thumb found the paralyzing spot on Chiun's forehead. There was first shock, then a glimmer of fury in the Master of Sinanju's eyes. And then all emotion washed away and his wrinkled eyelids fluttered shut.
With a silent sigh, the life slipped from the Reigning Master of Sinanju.
Remo caught the old man as he fell, settling his frail frame delicately to the carpeting. When he was certain his teacher was safe, Remo collapsed to a sitting position.
First Smith, now Chiun.
Remo tried to find comfort in the fact that if they were like the previous hypnosis victims, both men would eventually snap out of it. The knowledge offered little consolation.
Beneath Chiun's brocade robe, the Master of Sinanju's fragile chest rose and fell with each breath. Remo watched him for a lingering moment. So peaceful. So helpless. Without a sound, Remo climbed to his feet.
The center row of TV screens in the wall unit had been smashed by Chiun's punishing blows. The rest still worked.
The message and pulsing lights were gone from all the screens. In their place was a new subliminal caption.
The bright red question marks ran from one side of the screen to the other, hopping over to the next television.
Stepping away from his teacher's prone body, Remo approached the screens.
Hands became angry blurs. Balled fists slammed each of the remaining screens in turn. He smashed each and every one, working his way methodically down the line.
He made it to the last one.
The line of red question marks still marched like querying soldiers across the pixeled screen.
"I find out who you are, I'm gonna cancel you," Remo announced to the television.
The final screen exploded in a glittering hiss of pulverized glass.
Chapter 21
Robbie MacGulry's limo screeched to a stop on the tarmac at JFK. He didn't wait for his driver to open the door. Jumping from the car, he tripped up the steps of his waiting jet.
Friend had called once during the limousine ride from the Vox building. He had assured the Vox CEO a clear runway for hasty departure. He was true to his word. Engines screaming, the jet was airborne in minutes.
Hands clutching the arms of his seat, MacGulry tried to will his rapidly beating heart to slow.
This was all Friend's fault. He was the one who had inspired this panic in MacGulry-a man for whom fear was the worst four-letter word.
It was infuriating. Here was this faceless thing. A voice on a phone whom he would never, could never meet. And not only was he giving the great Robbie MacGulry orders, he was forcing the Australian media giant to flee for his life.
The plane hadn't finished its ascent when the phone rang. MacGulry grabbed it up.
"I have potentially good news, Robbie," Friend's smooth voice announced.
"What happened back there?" MacGulry asked.
"I attempted to use the subliminal signal to get the Caucasian to attack the Asian."
"Wait a minute, you used the signal?" MacGulry asked. He had been under the impression that his people alone had access to the cryptosubliminal technology-
"Yes," Friend replied. "You shouldn't be surprised. As you yourself now realize, I not only have access to your computer system, I live in it from time to time, Robbie."
MacGulry exhaled wearily. "What happened? Did the white kill the wog? I sure as hell hope so, because that deal you had me cut with him is gonna cost Vox a fortune."
"The first attempt failed," Friend said. "A shame, really. I thought that with Chiun dead Remo might be more apt to join my cause. However, when that didn't work, I tried the reverse. The Asian didn't have the same resistant abilities as the other. He succumbed."
Robbie was suddenly interested. "Did he beat the white?" he asked.
"No. Remo knocked him out. However, I used the most potent color pulses. The posthypnotic suggestion is planted deep. When he awakens, it is very likely he will attack the Caucasian again."
"Good," MacGulry said. "That'll keep them busy."
"It's better even than that," Friend said. "The third individual, Harold, was a rogue element. I calculated as low the odds that the message your people sent out would reach him. However, given Remo's comments during his meeting with Chiun, there is now a one hundred percent certainty that Harold has fallen under the influence of the subliminal signal, as well. In addition to that, he now has a last name. Smith. I've already commenced a search for him."
"How long will that take?"
"Not long. Remo said he was in a hospital bed. I'm having trouble finding a Harold Smith who was recently admitted to a hospital in the southern New York area. Once I find him, I'll have him killed. Without their leader, Remo and Chiun will likely cease interfering with my business affairs."