Before he could complete his turn, the locked front door exploded off its hinges and came toward him like a flying wall.
Remo stopped it with a hand, braced by a stiff arm. The impact forced him back a half-step, and while the energy was pushing at his stiffened arm bones, he redirected it back toward its source.
To an observer, it looked as if the door had attached itself to Remo's palm as if by static electricity: It hung on his hand for measurable seconds, then rebounded with no apparent force applied. In fact, Remo's hand had suddenly pushed it back.
The door flew back the way it had come. It met the stiff fingers of the black-masked chauffeur's right hand.
The door split as if precut and the halves slammed away. One struck on a corner and bounced like an eccentric wagon wheel.
Remo was already in the air. One foot snapped out in a flying kick.
His opponent copied the action.
The heels of their shoes collided like irresistible force meeting immovable object. They bounced off one another, neither man having gained an inch.
Remo hit the floor, recovering. His eyes sought the third man in the room. He caught a momentary glimpse of a tall figure in a long purple gown in the spare room. He wore a Russian-style fur cap. It wasn't Chiun after all!
There was no time to see more. The chauffeur was circling toward him, body crouched, gloved hands weaving cryptic designs in the air.
"Chiun!" Remo called. "Where are you?"
Remo's voice bounced off the walls. There was no answer.
And then the domino-masked chauffeur made his move.
It was a high leap, executed with a blood-chilling scream.
Remo knew the scream was a device to paralyze him. He laughed. In Sinanju, one attacked in professional silence, not like a banshee.
Remo aimed a fist at the descending crotch. Let the little guy do all the work, he thought.
But the wiry chauffeur reacted to the sudden fist. His gloved hands grabbed a dangling ceiling light, arresting his plunge.
One foot slashed out at Remo's head. He parried it with his waiting fist and danced out of the way of a follow-up kick. The guy had incredible kicking skill. Not Sinanju, but powerful. It was as if his legs were driven by automatic pistons.
Remo looked for an opening. He got one ankle and simply yanked. The ceiling cracked. The light tore free like a molar coming out of a petrified gum.
Remo stepped back and let the man fall with the plaster debris. He taunted him with a laugh, which was a thousand times more unnerving than any high-pitched battle cry.
Off in one corner, the hissing voice said, "He is good."
Remo heard this in the moment the chauffeur took to untangle himself from the ceiling light. It made him pause. He should have taken the chauffeur out then and there, but he wanted to see who was at Chiun's trunks.
Remo turned to the sound of the voice, and in that half-turn, the black-masked chauffeur came at him, low and fast.
Remo backpedaled three steps to give himself kicking room. He miscalculated by a single step. He hit the wall with his back. He cursed.
A foot slashed up for his solar plexus. Remo braced for the impact by stiffening his abdominal muscles, simultaneously bringing his arms down protectively.
The foot never made contact. In midair, the chauffeur had turned like a spring-wound dervish and launched a piledriver punch at Remo.
He brought his hands up and out, fending off the hammering fist. The chauffeur landed and sent an open-hand blow suddenly knifing for Remo's temple.
Remo moved to counter it.
In that moment, the other hand struck his abdomen once-hard and deep, fingers stiff. Remo felt the thrust clear back to his spinal column. The air blew out of his lungs and Remo doubled over, clutching himself, his face naked and defenseless.
In the split second before the grinning face of the masked chauffeur floated before Remo's going-gray vision and a black fist started to travel in his direction, Remo searched the room with his eyes. He caught an imperfect glimpse of a tall purple-silk-clad figure moving closer. For a moment, Remo thought it was the Master of Sinanju.
But he stood watching the tableau with absolutely no emotion on his sere-parchment countenance.
The blow knocked Remo's head back into the plaster wall. The top of his skull went in clear to his nose, and his body went lax, as if all the strength had gone from it.
Then slowly his head began to pull free of the hole, carried by the deadweight of his limp muscles, until he came loose. Remo made a clumsy pile of arms and legs on the bare floor.
The worst of it was that Remo was not unconscious. His eyes were closed, but he heard every sound in the room.
Most of all, he heard the arid voice of the purple figure as he left through the front door.
He was saying, "To think, Sagwa, all that training squandered on a barbarian lofan."
The chauffeur laughed grimly. The door shut after them.
Remo felt himself starting to lose consciousness. He fought it. Waves of darkness seemed to wash over his brain, but he reached into his inmost essence to hold on to consciousness.
It was a struggle. He wanted to surrender to the sweet peace that tried to claim him.
Remo refused. Deep within him, a fire began to burn and a voice from some inner reservoir intoned, "I am created Shiva, the Destroyer; Death, the shatterer of worlds."
For a moment Remo wavered between surrender and consciousness. His eyes burned with a smoldering light. The fire flickered. It was brief. His face warped into a mask of hellish agony.
Then he gathered himself together. He climbed to his feet. Every joint ached.
But when he stood erect, the burning-ember gleam in his eyes subsided, and he was Remo again.
He stumbled to the spare room. Shock was like a kick to his stomach when he saw that Chiun's steamer trunks were gone-all except an empty spare in need of repair. Remo plunged for the door, one arm across his bruised stomach.
Outside, he saw the limousine leave the curb like a silent black shark fleeing a coral reef.
Remo pelted for his Buick. He squeezed in behind the wheel, inserted the ignition key, and got the car started.
He roared after the limousine. It screeched around a corner. Remo slid into the turn right behind it. His maneuvering was ragged. He almost sideswiped a fireplug.
Coming out of the turn, he found himself on a long narrow street.
"You're good, pal," he said, gritty-voiced, "but not that good."
He floored the Buick, gaining on the limo's rear deck. On its jet-black bumper was a sticker: BRUCE LEE LIVES.
"You're dreaming, pal. When I get through with you, you're going to join him."
As Remo closed in, a silvery nozzle extruded from the limo trunk. Remo prepared himself for the expected jet of vapor. It squirted something dark and viscous instead.
Remo saw the spreading patch of oil splatter on the snow, and with a wrench of the wheel he sent the Buick up on the sidewalk.
His right-rear tire hit a patch of the gunk and he had to wrestle to keep the car straight. Every exertion made his stomach muscles cramp. He grimaced and fought to stay behind the wheel. His head began to pound.
The limo took a side street and then a street off that.
Remo did his best to keep up. The snow made it tough. Whereas before, he could use it to his advantage, literally skiing the car, now he was too badly injured to be the absolute master of every turn.
He slipped around corners, once swapping ends and finding his car suddenly pointing the opposite way in a drift.
Remo wrestled the wheel around and resumed the chase. This time he took it more slowly. The rattlesnake tracks were going to lead him, and he began to get a sense of where they were going.
They took a ramp onto Route 95, and Remo followed suit.
On the highway, he began to catch up. Remo stayed in the left lane to avoid any more oil slicks. Whoever had designed the car had built it to thwart pursuit.