"I'll freshen up your lunch cart," Johnny belched furiously. Big drunken hands began fumbling at his belt.
With a shriek, the woman tore off down the aisle. "Eek! Code 9, code 9!" she yelled to the other flight attendants as she ran.
It was the most dreaded distress signal in their entire chosen field, dubbed the midair "Poop Alarm."
The other flight attendants reacted like trained soldiers. Serving carts bounced and rattled as if encountering mad turbulence as they raced them from the danger zone. The entire crew of flight attendants disappeared into the galley.
A worried excitement filled the cabin. In the moment of chattering confusion, Remo slipped up to Johnny Books.
The gangster was still trying to work the buckle on his belt. His clumsy fingers were having a difficult time maneuvering the little silver clip.
"If monkey can't dress himself, monkey shouldn't wear people pants," Remo advised.
The words soaked into the liquor-swamped mind of Johnny Books Fungillo. He looked up with belligerence that quickly faded to confusion. "Hey, I know-"
A gasp. Johnny's confused expression flashed to abject terror. With a lunge, he grabbed underneath his jacket.
Remo could sense by the way he carried himself that there was a weapon there. Somehow, Johnny had smuggled it onto the plane undetected.
"No, no, no. No guns for monkey," Remo warned, quickly pinching Johnny's elbow between two delicate fingers. The big man's darting hand froze in place. "Not until monkey stops throwing feces at the nice lady."
Before Johnny could grab his gun with the other hand, Remo tapped him in the middle of his forehead. All movement stopped as the gangster froze in place.
Johnny Fungillo tried desperately to move. He could not. Sweat beads formed on his forehead as he struggled in vain. Helpless, his wide eyes flitted fearfully to Remo.
Remo wasn't even paying attention to Johnny.
Snaking a hand up under the man's jacket, he found both holster and gun. They came free with a gentle tug that trailed nylon tendrils.
The holster's soft material was strangely frictionless. Using his body to shield himself from other passengers, Remo snapped the gun into two fat halves, which he deposited in the in-flight magazine sleeve. The cloth bulged at the weight.
"How'd you get this on the plane?" Remo asked, genuinely interested.
But when he looked at Johnny, the gangster's unblinking eyes stared helplessly from his frozen face. "Oh, yeah."
His curiosity wasn't enough to bring Johnny out of it. He tugged the thug's eyelids down. They shut like dark window shades over Johnny's petrified eyes.
Remo stuffed the holster into the sagging seat pocket. He was back in his seat by the time the galley curtain slid open.
A group of flight attendants appeared with buckets and sponges. Each wore a pair of big yellow rubber gloves. Clippy clothespins held their nostrils tightly shut. They seemed surprised to find the unruly passenger still in his seat. Better yet, he appeared to be sound asleep.
Relieved that the passenger had not relieved himself, they decided to let sleeping dogs lie. On silent toes, the entire crew tiptoed back up the aisle.
They hid out in the galley, refusing all passenger entreaties for peanuts or seat-belt instructions for the rest of the blessedly silent flight to Boston.
TWO HOURS LATER, as baffled Boston paramedics were driving the comatose Johnny Fungillo across the windswept Logan tarmac, Remo's cab was dropping him off in front of the Massachusetts condo he shared with the Master of Sinanju.
The building he called home was an old remodeled church. A decade ago, when a contract negotiation demanded a house, Remo's employer had bought the entire complex, turning it over to the exclusive use of Remo and his teacher.
The building was big, homely and located in a city that was regularly featured on the local Boston news for the daily murders that took place there. It was a far cry from the tidy little home with a picket fence and a loving wife Remo had dreamed of once upon a time.
With a wistful sigh, Remo trudged up the stairs. He was pushing open the front door when he heard the sound.
It was a cry of indescribable pain. And the voice that produced it was unmistakable.
Remo felt his heart catch. "Chiun," he breathed. The shrill cry had come from far upstairs. From the foyer, Remo took the entire main staircase in two massive strides. He was already running when he hit the second-floor landing.
More screams. They were killing him. Torturing him.
Fearing not the force that could harm the Master of Sinanju, Remo flew on, his only thought to aid his teacher.
The next flight of stairs led to a closed door. Remo picked up steam as he rounded to the staircase. He took all the steps in one leap, twisting in air and slamming against the door with the heels of both feet.
The door assembly splintered into a million wooden shards. Daggers of pine ripped across the bell-tower meditation room, impaling themselves in walls and crashing through windows.
Remo soared into the room in the wake of the door remnants. Eyes alert, every muscle tensed, hands raised to ward off whatever danger might be lurking there.
But rather than an unknown enemy, Remo found himself peering into a pair of shocked, familiar eyes. The hazel orbs were set into a delicate face of bone that had been lovingly wrapped in a thin veneer of parchment skin. As Remo swept into the room, a mummified mouth formed a startled O.
Chiun, Reigning Master of the House of Sinanju, raised his wattled neck from out of the collar of his kimono like an angry snapping turtle. Seated in a lotus position on the floor of his meditation room, Chiun appeared completely unharmed. His spine was erect in his red silk kimono, his bony hands folded delicately to his knees. In the room, there was no sign of either torturer or torturer's tools.
"Remo, what is the meaning of this?" the ancient Korean demanded, incomprehension pinching his singsong voice.
Breathless, Remo relaxed his muscles. "What the hell is going on in here?" he snapped, exhaling tension.
"I asked you first," Chiun accused. "Why have you crashed in here like a demented bovine?"
"I heard screaming," Remo insisted.
"Do not be ridiculous," Chiun huffed, waving a dismissive hand. "I warn you, Remo, if you are going mad again, I refuse to allow it. I have put up with quite enough of that already."
Face stern, the Master of Sinanju rose with silent fluidity from the floor. He clucked as he inspected the fan-shaped debris field.
"Let's get this straight," Remo stressed, coming up beside the old man. "I am not crazy, I have never been crazy and I definitely heard you screaming."
"I will have Emperor Smith prepare a padded room at Fortress Folcroft for you," Chiun droned. "If you are having another nervous breakdown, you may discuss your childhood bed-wetting with one of his quacks rather than vent your anger on my doors."
Harold Smith was their employer. Folcroft Sanitarium was the private mental health institution he ran, which also doubled as home to the secret organization CURE.
"Hah-hah. They're my doors, too," Remo said. Chiun gave him a withering look. A hand lined with ropy veins appeared from the folds of his kimono. With a tapered fingernail, he picked at a large wooden chunk that still clung to the archway. The hinge it was connected to was torn and twisted. When the Master of Sinanju looked back at his pupil, his accusing eyes were hooded.
"I thought you were being tortured," Remo explained, scowling at the old man's silent admonishment. It sounded ridiculous to even say such a thing. Chiun obviously agreed.
"Oh, Remo," he said sadly, the harsh light flickering from his eyes. It was replaced with knowing sympathy.
Remo raised a warning finger. "Don't start," he threatened. "I'm as sane as you are. I'm saner than you are. I'm the freaking poster child for mental stability."