"You going somewhere?" he asked the Master of Sinanju eagerly. "You want me to help pack?"
At that MacCleary laughed long and hard. He was still laughing when he left their quarters.
"That was a bad laugh, wasn't it?" Remo said warily.
MacCleary had arranged for two plane tickets. Chiun and Remo's flight was direct from New York to Texas. A car was waiting for them at the airport just where MacCleary said it would be. Remo found the keys in the visor.
MacCleary had given Remo a map before they'd left Folcroft. He followed the highway and side streets dutifully, eventually coming to a stop beside a high chain-link fence. By the time he shut off the headlights, night had fallen.
In recent weeks Remo had taken to wearing black chinos and a matching T-shirt. His simplified wardrobe seemed to suit him, plus allowed for better freedom of movement during the endless tedium of Chiun's exercises.
In the car Chiun gave Remo an old glass canning jar of some horrible-smelling black substance. When he took one whiff of the junk, Remo's face fouled.
"If this is your idea of a picnic, I'd rather have a bowl of your famous Fish Head and Rice Surprise."
"It is to help mask your glow-in-the-dark whiteness."
Remo looked at the jar again. He looked back at Chiun.
"Umm..." he said very, very slowly.
Chiun exhaled angrily. "You don't eat it, nitwit. Rub it on your skin."
"Oh," Remo nodded, relieved. "Much better idea."
Remo set about blackening his face and bare arms.
"What's the gig?" he asked the Master of Sinanju as he finished darkening his light skin. "We finally doing a hit?"
Chiun sat with him in the front seat. Even in the weak dome light, his yellow silk kimono shimmered brilliantly.
"I am performing a service to my emperor," Chiun replied. "Don't forget your neck."
"That's a hit, right?" Remo asked as he dutifully darkened the back of his neck. "I mean, that's what we do."
Chiun's chin rose high from the collar of his kimono, making him look for all the world like an insulted turtle.
"We?" he demanded. "We? There is a me and there is a you. Where, Remo, have you gotten the impression that there is a 'we' in anything either the 'me' or the 'you' does?"
"Don't get your knickers in a twist," Remo grumbled. "I just meant 'we' in the sense that we're both assassins."
At this the Master of Sinanju stifled a laugh. "You, an assassin? You?" Tears of mirth filled his eyes. "The only thing you have assassinated, other than that herd of unfortunate beef cattle that surrendered life to fill your worthless cow-gobbling gullet, is my patience."
Wiping his eyes, Chiun popped the car door. In a silent crinkle of yellow silk, he slipped out onto the dirt road.
"Wait," Remo called, "aren't you going to camouflage?" He held out the canning jar of smelly black goop.
Chiun's good humor evaporated. With a withering look, the old man turned and began marching up the road.
"Maybe they can electroshock those mood swings out of you back at that loony bin," Remo muttered. He capped the jar and ran to catch Chiun.
They had driven past a main gate a few miles back. If this was a typical Texas ranch, Remo decided Texas ranches were better guarded than most military installations. There were sentries all around the front. There was no way they'd be able to get in the front door.
He assumed they were supposed to be on the other side of the fence. They had walked a few dozen yards when Chiun stopped abruptly. Hands slipping from his voluminous kimono sleeves, the old man surveyed the high fence.
"Okay, how do we get from point A to point B?" Remo asked as he looked through the chain link. He'd barely asked the question before he felt a tug at his arm. Before he knew what was happening, he was hurtling through the air. Up and over, he cleared the high fence. The ground on the far side raced up to meet him.
Remo was sure he'd break his neck. But the instant he should have hit cold Texas prairie, a pair of sure hands snapped his falling body from the air. In a flash he found himself standing once more on solid ground.
Beside him stood the Master of Sinanju. Chiun put a shushing finger to his wrinkled lips.
Remo couldn't believe it. He shot a look through the fence to where he and Chiun had been standing a moment before. There was no one there. The old geezer couldn't be twins. Somehow he'd thrown Remo over the fence and got to the other side himself in time to catch him.
"How the hell' d you do that?"
"Silence, oaf," Chiun hissed. "Stay close. And try not to trip over those clumsy slabs of mutton you call feet."
Remo wanted to say more, but the moment he opened his mouth a flashlight suddenly clicked on a few dozen yards away. An amber beam raked the area near where Remo and the Master of Sinanju stood. Boot heels scuffed earth.
Remo held his breath.
He assumed the best course of action would be to stay put. Chiun apparently thought otherwise.
A strong hand latched Remo's forearm. Dragging him like a wayward child, the Master of Sinanju steered a beeline across the field, away from the searching flashlight beam.
Soon the dark shadow of a mansion rose up from the ground before them.
The path they took wasn't the one Remo would have picked. Everything in his experience told him that they should opt for caution, sneaking around the perimeter, dashing from shed to fence post-anything that would provide cover on their stealthy approach to the mansion.
Remo thought there were too many foot patrols and dogs for this to be a typical Texas ranch. But who knew? Maybe all Texas ranches were like this one. After all, Remo wasn't exactly a world traveler. His stint in the Marines had taken him to Parris Island, South Carolina, for boot camp. Afterward was his tour in Vietnam. Oh, and once there was a day trip when the nuns took his class to the Statue of Liberty, where Remo had gotten in dutch with Sister Mary Antonine for spitting out of Lady Liberty's crown. Other than that, Remo had never really strayed far from Newark. Nothing in his life experience thus far indicated that this wasn't a typical Texas ranch. Still, it didn't feel right.
He was thinking that maybe he should mention his concerns to the Master of Sinanju when the old man suddenly stopped dead. Remo nearly plowed into him.
"Keep your stupid observations to yourself," the old man whispered.
He continued on.
Remo resisted the urge to crack wise. By now they were too deep in enemy territory for him to piss off Chiun.
He was amazed at how easy this was to Chiun. The Master of Sinanju should have been a walking bull's-eye in yellow silk. But the old man seemed to have an instinct for being exactly where no one was looking in the precise moment they weren't looking there.
There was a moment of anxiety when Remo realized that if he chose to-the Master of Sinanju could vanish from his sight, too, leaving Remo alone to deal with all the guards and the dogs and the fences.
At the house, they crossed a slate patio and slipped through a set of thick glass doors.
With Chiun in the lead they headed through a formal dining room and into a main foyer. They paused, clinging to shadow as another patrol passed by. Unlike the men outside, this guard wore a black suit and tie. Once the man was gone, Chiun and Remo moved to the main staircase.
They headed up, side by side.
The Master of Sinanju seemed to have a clear sense where to go. Down an upstairs hallway, he found a closed bedroom door and slipped inside. Remo followed.
Two figures slept beneath a mound of covers. The sound of heavy snoring rose from the tangle of blankets.
A wall socket night-light cast V-shaped shadows up the wall near the bedside. In the light Remo caught a glimpse of the slumbering woman.
She looked vaguely familiar. He couldn't imagine where he could know her from. Trying to place the woman's face, he followed Chiun around to the other side of the bed.